Cheer up Love, it might never happen

I haven't needed to take antidepressants for the last six months. Until May of this year, I'd been on them for 18 months.

I've flitted back and forth about when I'd write about this (I starting writing this post a few weeks ago). But the more I come to terms with the fact that I had a mental illness, the easier I find it to talk about. Some of you know about my illness, most of you don't. Or maybe I wasn't as good at hiding it as I thought. I'm much more open about it than I used to be. It doesn't consume my life like it used to. But the stigma around depression (and indeed any mental illness) means that people will judge me for this post. People will look at me differently. The difference is that now, that doesn't scare me.

I can see where my depression started. There's a definite point where I can see where things began going downhill. I wish at the time I'd known how serious it was, how bad it was going to get, how much I was doing to make the situation worse. There's a turning point in my first year as a freelancer where I started to feel totally and utterly out of control of everything in my life. I couldn't breathe sometimes because I was so scared that my life would fall apart. I was so out of my depth. There was a bit more to it, of course, I've long had issues with not being in control of my life. But I can see the day. And I can see the day I should have demanded help instead of being OK with what the doctor told me.

Instead, after having my first panic attack (scary as fuck), I was diagnosed with a panic disorder and put on beta blockers. They actually helped. but they didn't get to the root of the problem. It was six more months before I finally went on antidepressants. It should have been sooner. But I was just grateful someone had diagnosed me with something and at the time, that was enough. The day it finally happened, I'd stayed at my then boyfriend's flat. Got ready for work, even put my coat and my shoes on and was looking forward to the day.

I still have no idea why I crawled back into bed that day.

I didn't get undressed. I didn't even take my shoes off. It was still a massive shock when the doctor told me that I had depression. But an obvious one, if that makes sense. Like there was this thing that had been staring me in the face for months, and in that second it finally hit me. Really fucking hard.

I was actually lucky, to an extent, that my medication didn't entirely screw me up. By not entirely, I mean I rarely had any kind of emotion for a year. I couldn't feel anything. There is no other way to describe it, and there's no way to explain it. I was coping. I was on a small dose, of a not scary drug and it was better than most medications that I've read about. Some just turn you into a zombie and you're incapable of not very much at all. I had days like that. Weeks, sometimes. But I pretty much carried on with life, without actually living it. Without telling people what was going on. Trust me, doing that with any kind of employment is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I threw myself into my work because if I didn't, I was scared that one day I'd just stop. That's a very real possibility if you have depression. But I had to force emotion a lot of the time. I put myself in pretty extreme circumstances to so I could feel something. You get to a stage where you'd rather feel the worst you can, instead of completely apathetic about everything. Actually, it's not the really bad things that floor you. I thrived on those, which now when I look back is where things could have really got out of control. I could be totally wiped out by the smallest thing. And I made them into big things. Just for something to happen. I pushed myself as far as I could emotionally, just to get something to happen inside me. I can understand why people self harm if they're depressed. Thankfully, I never have, and I've never been suicidal either. Like I say, to some extent I'm lucky.

The everyday stuff was horrendous. The panic attacks caused agoraphobia, which wasn't too severe in comparison to some, but it completely knocked my confidence. I stopped being an outgoing person, which is something that will shock a lot of you reading if you've met me. I just wouldn't go out if I didn't have to. Once I did, everything was often fine, but I would do everything I possibly I could to stay in. It's difficult to explain to your friends that you can't come to their birthday party because you're too scared to leave your house. Even though you can't explain why. I'm still trying to explain that part of my illness to friends. I could be surrounded by my best friends and still be desperate to go home and lock the door. I very rarely ever have panic attacks now, but I do still feel like they're going to happen occasionally which can actually be a lot worse. Sometimes you'd just rather get them over with. Otherwise, that feeling can last for days.

When I was diagnosed, I honestly thought that cheering up would be enough. Wanting to be happy. It wasn't, of course. It took me a while to realise that I wasn't unhappy. Sometimes depression is just chemicals in your head being fucked up. Sometimes it's trying to live life and getting lost on the way. Sometimes it's a little bit of both. But I don't think it's always about being unhappy.

That was the scariest thing of all. I actually was happy. For the most part life was OK. Freelancing got better (thank GOD), I liked my life. I still do. It hasn't changed all that much. It's got better, but my life wasn't the issue. People link depression with all sorts of negative stuff, but it happens. To normal people. All the time. I just couldn't work out what the issue was. That's why I went on the medication. Because I couldn't help myself out of this. I'd tried. It took me a year to come off the mirtazapine, and I wanted to rush to say I was finally better. But the better I got, the more perspective I had. I realised I had to take my time. I had to take time in writing this post as well. I knew that when I was ready, this post would be easier to write. Not easy, though.

So what now? After coping with terrifying medication withdrawals (so bad I thought I'd done the wrong thing, that I'd never get better and I actually couldn't get out of bed for a week, I've never been so scared in my life), and not feeling like absolute nothing for the last six months, there's... well there's just me, really. A more grounded version of the person I was two years ago, before I got sick. Different, though. I saw an old friend last week, and we'd not seen each since travelling to Berlin together last year. He said I was lighter. He's right. It's nice to like me again. It's nice to want to do something, kick some ass, see the world.

It's nice to live.

I'm terrified that when I have a bad day, that it'll start up again, but I don't think fear will ever go completely. I can't live my life being scared of that. I think that's one of the reasons I wanted to write this post. Trying to address things instead of hiding from them. And because I'm proud that I'm well enough to write it.

I'm drawing a line under it all. In three weeks, I'm 28 and I really do have my whole life ahead of me, with amazing friends and people who have stuck by me through the worst times imaginable over the last two years. My life is kinda cool. Actually, it's pretty damn amazing. Sometimes I'm going to fuck it up, and it's possible that I might get sick again. But if it happens, I'll deal with it. Possibly not always with grace or dignity. But however I can.

In the meantime, I'll get on with enjoying my life, and trying to be the very best version of myself. Whoever she might be. I don't think I've met her yet.

Flickr image from Amanda M Hatfield's photostream.