Mental Health Notes - News, Education and Advocacy

In My Experience: Surviving Major Depression: Part Two

by Alicia Sparks, Mental Health Notes on September 16th, 2008

Today’s post is the second in a series written specifically for Mental Health Notes by Vancouver blogger Airdrie Miller. It chronicles her personal experiences with anxiety and depression, and how she handles the delicate balance of work, rest, and play.

Baking a lot of cookies is not a cure for clinical depression.

My life was going along well, I thought. It was September of 2003, and I was very busy. I worked full time, my husband worked part time, and we were raising two young daughters with the help of our parents, who took turns providing daycare.

I felt like something was not quite right with my life, and I wondered what it might be. I began to worry a little more than usual. I had a lump in my throat that would not go away. But other than that, I was fine.

Then one day at work I had what can best be described as an hour-long panic attack. It was the most frightening experience of my life; usually my panic attacks lasted only a minute or two, and I had not had one for two years.

This was different. It was as if I was metamorphosing into a tearful, terrified, scared and weakened shell of my former self. And it happened fast. (Think of the Incredible Hulk, but in reverse.)

I went home from work that day, shaking, and out of the blue told my husband that I could never go back to my workplace. It was like something had snapped, and I had no reserves to draw upon. I was broken. I was crazy.

Thankfully my employer did not accept my immediate resignation, and my union contacted me and counseled me to apply for a medical leave. I am forever grateful to my supervisor at the time, who gave me the number of the Employee Assistance Program, and a few kind words telling me to take as much time as I needed to get better. I did not tell anyone else at work what was wrong. I vanished.

I once again called on the psychiatrist who had helped me with my post-partum depression, and returned to therapy. For three months I attended weekly therapy sessions, but refused to take antidepressant medication. I thought that the medication would change my personality. And I was afraid of the side effects.

My husband started a new, full-time job. I baked a lot of cookies, cleaned my house from floor to ceiling and hoped I would be able to get better all by myself. I remember replacing all the 60W bulbs in my kitchen with 100W bulbs. My illness made it so I perceived everything dimmer.

As Christmas approached my anxious tearful mood sank into a very deep, dark depression. Even as that got worse, my psychiatrist was being treated for a back problem and was regularly unavailable. I visited my family doctor, who prescribed me some antidepressants, and I finally started taking them. But it was too late.

I hit my rock bottom one night during the Christmas holidays. The details of this time are far too personal to discuss here. The thoughts that occurred to me in my darkest hour are worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had. I experienced what they call “psychotic features.” Sounds bad—it was.

My husband drove me to the ER, and before morning I had a bed in the psychiatric ward: voluntary commitment.

My two weeks in the hospital were not at all how I had imagined hospitalization would be. I started new medications and began to sleep more. I was getting the help I so desperately needed—the sense of relief alone lifted my mood. I made friends, laughed a little, and most importantly I expanded my support network to include another psychiatrist, and a hospital-based counselor. My husband and children visited, and we played cards.

Shortly after I was discharged I enrolled in an outpatient program for people healing from mental illness. The program, which was held in the basement of the psychiatric ward at my hospital, was 40 hours per week and completely funded by the provincial government. I was involved in intense group therapy, exercise, social time and vocational therapy. The program lasted three months, and can best be described as “Depression University.”

It wasn’t easy work getting better; always two steps forward, one step back. But I did heal.

I’ll never forget the day in the Spring of 2004. I had been crying after a group therapy session. The group went for a walk outside afterward. When I blew my nose, I could smell the flowers again. I had not realized how dulled my senses had been. The sun warmed my face. I could feel again.

In Part Three: Returning to work after a major depression, some tips to make it easier.

© Airdrie Miller

Image: SXC

Airdrie Miller teaches high school mathematics in Vancouver, BC. She also co-hosts and produces a podcast called Lip Gloss and Laptops. She has two beautiful daughters and a bloggable husband. Check him out at penmachine.com.

Share This

POSTED IN: Mental Health Notes