What's Behind the Box?

So far, I have had no side effects. My energy level is below where I would like it to be, and I still feel kind of zonked, but I can do things without too much effort to get myself out of bed.

I have been sleeping semi-regularly, about midnight to nine or ten AM. Not bad for me.I can wake up somewhat easily.

I have done a lot, but feel like I haven’t at the end of the day. That feeling kind of sucks. I want it to go away.

I see my psychiatrist on Tuesday for an update. We’ll see how it goes and if he wants to bump me up any.

I need to say upfront that I do not want to play the victim, nor go digging for sympathy.

A few years ago at a freshly-gained age of 16, I went to a family doctor about issues I was having with being an adolescent and the stress of working at a fast food restaurant. We talked for about 15 minutes before she told me I have depression and perhaps anger management issues, gave me a prescription for Luvox, and sent me on my merry little way to be on the first medication treatment – antidepressant or otherwise – of my entire life.

My mom has dealt with depression for her entire life and has had treatment for the last 30 years, so I was very fortunate to have her guidance. Unfortunately, medication is different for everybody, and as it turns out, we were dealing with something completely different.

Within the week, I was off of Luvox and wondering what the hell was wrong with the doctor. I later learned one of the boys involved in the Columbine catastrophe was treated with Luvox, which has since been through the ringer of the public eye and thoroughly contraindicated for treating teenagers with depression. Both its effectiveness and danger has been debated time and again.

We scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist and I bide my time for the three months until November, when I could finally get in. Over a 30 minute conversation (with half the judgment, it seems), he determined I was not depressed, but rather bipolar – rapid-cycling type I, to be exact – and placed me on an atypical anti-psychotic and SSRI cocktail I have become all too familiar with since: Abilify and Prozac.

I began seeing him once every week. Thursdays, I would sit through school awaiting my visit to the doctor’s office. His wife and receptionist would tell me my weight and blood pressure, he would ask for feedback on how the meds were working and occasionally place me on a new drug, and then the clock would reset as I walked out the door and into the next week.

It has been three years, almost to the date, since the cycle began. Typical for a bipolar, I would be on medication, feel better for a month, then get off of them. The logic remains fuzzy: I didn’t feel like I was fixed and I knew I would flip eventually. It was like some sick subconscious sabotage, where I decided I wasn’t worth saving and felt I needed to be crazy like nature had intended. Trouble is, I wasn’t artistic to make up for it. I was a nerd with bad grades – a writer with no motivation nor inspiration. And I hated myself.

The cycle didn’t stop when I moved to Albuquerque to live with my new boyfriend; it merely paused for a while. At the time, one emotionally traumatizing problem after another came to pass, leaving me with no time nor energy to feel depressed – or anything else, for that matter.

I started college later in the year 2008, hoping the change of education would lead to a change in life. Not so. I initiated then ended a break-up, with just enough time to move into a new place with too many roommates in between. I stopped going to class or doing anything else productive. I returned to see a new psychiatrist in November, two years after it started.

We have moved back to live with my parents since. When I was hit with depression again earlier this year, I decided I wanted to try to defeat it without medication. I succeeded with therapy and have wonderful grades now, after returning to school. But the cold hand of depression slapped me across the face again early this month, as I had told my therapist I was worried would happen. I neither know nor care if this is the curse of self-fulfilling prophecy or just human physiology tied closely to the elements, but I do know that this time, it’s different. I won’t be defeating depression by talking about myself for an hour every couple weeks. I need help. I scheduled an appointment a few weeks ago. I got the flu shortly after and still maintain my appreciation of the ability to eat solid food, but that only goes so far. I write this 30 minutes before I leave to return to the familiar, cold yet comforting system of medication.

And I’m scared. I’m afraid of myself and what I will be deciding to do over the next couple months. I’m terrified of what happens to people on long-term anti-psychotic treatment, but I’m also terrified that if I don’t face those consequences, it will be because I’m unable to live with myself long enough to see. I don’t want to be bipolar anymore, but it seems the only way of ridding myself of the craziness is by admitting that it will always be with me and relying on the crutch everybody, including me, insists I need. What happens to me when I decide I don’t want to kill myself, but I don’t want to live, either?