Coming to Terms Date Wednesday, April 24, 2024 - 09:37 AM PST Topic Experiences Passive Suicidal Ideologies. That’s what the doctor called it. I had gotten to a point where although I did not want to go through the act of killing myself, I would rather have been dead than have to keep going back to my job every day. I realize I’m not the first person to ever be depressed (and I do mean clinically, thus sayeth a practicing Psychiatrist). I think I may be the first in my family to be diagnosed as such. This is definitely the first time I’ve ever been depressed. Even before being clinically diagnosed with depression, I used to hate the way people threw around the term. No matter how angsty my teen years were, I knew I wasn’t depressed—and neither were most of my friends. The first time I met anyone with clinical depression was in college. I found out then just how many people were on anti-depressant medication(s). I never thought much of it until last January when my doctor suggested I go on Prozac. That very day, I picked up my prescription forty minutes after my appointment—all done in time for lunch—but I didn’t take any pills that day. Suddenly, I was about to become one of “those people.” But who were they? Although I had known people on medication for depression, I had never made any negative judgments about their predicaments. And yet, with it happening to me, it became something bad—another skeleton for my closet. I took my first pill the next day. A friend—close for the amount of time we’ve known each other—had recently attempted suicide. We worked in the same place. I visited him while he was in the hospital. He wasn’t in a padded room, but he was in a ward. He had to check out a pen from the front desk to be able to write in his journal. They wouldn’t let him have the teddy bear I brought to him because it was considered an “unsafe” item. Hell of a place. Talking to him about what both of us were going through felt pretty good. Being able to laugh about it felt better, if a little strange. I began to think it wasn’t so bad after all, getting help. It certainly saved Charlie’s life. He was obviously so much happier with himself and the direction in which his life was now headed. It makes me wonder when he won’t be depressed anymore, when I won’t be depressed anymore. I sometimes worry that if things are better now that I’m off the ship, maybe I wasn’t really that bad off in the first place; maybe I could have made it those last few weeks and gone on to an awesome two-year shore duty instead of being on a temporary shore duty in limbo, waiting to find out if I’m being medically retired from the Navy or not. I should be happy; this is probably my early out… but instead I just doubt myself. Does the fact that I can even have these thoughts give weight to the ideas presented therein? Despite what any of this may sound like, I don’t want a pity party. I just want a little understanding of what’s going on with me. I’ve always been a fairly well adjusted person; it’s a little hard not to be—particularly now. It’s hard, but not surprising. When things were at their worst about five months ago, I remember ranting about being strong and responsible and mature for other people in my life, and wondering who was ever going to do those things for me. Just for once… I usually do insane amounts of research about anything medical that has to do with me. I probably knew more about my IUD than the doctor who gave it to me. I’m the kind of person who actually reads the entire insert that comes with tampons and birth control pills. While I did do some research on self-mutilation, I have avoided typing the words, clinical depression, into Google. Though I haven’t even looked, I’m fairly certain there’s more information on depression than I care to try to sift through. Not as a matter of research, I watched the film but neglected to read the book, Prozac Nation. I don’t remember if she actually said it or not, but I seem to recall the sentiment that while she was on Prozac, the main character still felt like herself, but not quite. I’m not sure there’s any better way to describe it, really. I’m still me, but I’m not exactly myself lately. It hasn’t started yet, but I’m supposed to go to some sort of group therapy. Dialectic Behavior Therapy, I think it’s called. It has more to do with the self-mutilatory behavior than with the depression. I’m actually a little anxious for it to start. Although things are a million times better now that I’m out of that toxic environment, I still feel like there are things I need to talk about. I’m not entirely sure what those things are; I just know I need to talk. I suppose this article is a product of that need. About ten sentences into this thing, I titled it. I think there was some sort of direction I meant to take it in after that, but I’m not sure I really have come to terms with my situation. I’ve accepted some things, but it still feels like a far cry from coming to terms with it all. Despite the relatively small size of my measly 20mg, Prozac is a hard pill for me to swallow. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=808