I believe in medications. I take a combination of antidepressants, which keep me functional and happy. When I finally reached the right combination and dosage, I felt like I had been returned to myself - a weight had been lifted, a fog had cleared, I had been released from prison.
The process of getting to the right combination and dosage was painful, and in a lot of ways, worse than the pain of being depressed. When I started taking a low dosage of antidepressants I could suddenly feel how miserable I was. The protective numbness was ripped away, but the pain had not been alleviated. I was horribly unhappy, in physical pain, angry, and without hope. Sometimes I felt like the depression was an electrical current jerking through my body. And I had promised I wouldn't make another suicide attempt, so I just had to grit my teeth and get through it. As I acclimated to the meds, the pain and anger began to subside, but I still felt unhappy and hopeless.
One of the unfortunate symptoms of clinical depression is a reluctance to get better. So I fought my therapist on upping the dosage, or adding other medications. But she kept insisting it wasn't good enough, that I wasn't happy enough, so I would concede - just to show her it wasn't going to get better. She was always right and I was always wrong. It kept getting better, and then it plateued. Which is when I fianlly gave in and talked to my psychiatrist about adding a complimentary med. The first one we tried was a complete disaster and led to the worst month of my life.
When I added the second medication I began sleeping 14 - 16 hours a day. I couldn't keep a thought in my head for longer than a minute. I would just walk away from what I was doing, or forget I was having a conversation while I was talking. After discussing it with my psychiatrist, I stopped the medication, and then fell even further down the hole. 36 hours after my last dosage I felt like a veil had been lowered. I began having incesant suicidal thoughts. I saw blood running down my arm and had a very hard time not running a blade over my wrists. I had gone to spend the weekend with a friend to help celebrate her and her daughter's birthdays. I had to take her aside at her party and tell her what was happening. She offered to take me to the hospital. I probably should have accepted, but instead I said no, and left a message for my psychiatrist. I white knuckled it through the rest of the day with constant thoughts of suicide. It was horrible. After I went home, I took some Ambien and went to bed. It was about 5:30pm, but I'd had all I could take.
I shoulf clarify that these thoughts of suicide were completely different from when I had planned my suicide attempt. These thoughts felt mechanical - like they were coming from somrthing other than me. I had never wanted or planned to slit my wrists, and yet I had this constant image of bloody, open wrists baraging my brain. And this continued for days!!!!!!!! I was on enough of the first medication that I was able to recognize that these thoughts were a symptom of my disease, and not my actual desire. Knowing this didn't make it better, but it gave me the strength to hold on until I could get on another medication.
I started taking another medication within a couple of days, but it was one that takes about a week to kick in. I did my best to go on with my life, but it was exhausting. I wanted to lie down and die. I'd be at the store with this mantra running through my head: do not lie down on the floor, they will call an ambulence, do not lie down on the floor. I was terrified that I would lose control of my impulses and slit my wrist. My friends knew I was having a hard time, but I don't think I was totally honest about how close I was to the edge.
The second drug kicked in and suddenly it was over. With the first medication I had a gradual easing of symptoms, with the second it happened all at once. A switch was flipped in my head. It still took me a few weeks for my body to adjust. I had tremors that gradually went away.
Prescribing psychotropic meds is as much art as science. The way I react to the meds I tried is different from others who've tried the same meds. Another friend is still on the med I reacted to so badly and it works really well for her. My therapist is the one who insisted that I keep upping my dosage of the first med, and the one who suggested the complimentary med that ultimately worked well for me. My psychiatrist mostly seemed to agree with whatever she suggested.
I often wish that, like a diabetic does with blood sugar, I could measure my brain chemistry everyday and adjust my dosages accordingly. The meds make my life livable and allow me to be me. Which also means that my problems have not gone away. The meds can be dangerous, so it's important to have someone you trust who knows the medications well. For me it was my therapist (who is not a physician and cannot prescribe).
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