The year after my daughter Kayt was born felt like three years. I guess that’s when my depression began. I often said I would’ve rather given birth a second time than gone through that first year with an infant. After a lifetime of receiving praise and recognition at work and school, the transition to an unnoticed 24/7 job was rather like being plucked from the heart of New York City and dropped in backwoods Alabama. Nothing worked the way it had before.
Kayt was perfect. Even the nurses in the birthing ward said she was one of the cutest babies they’d ever seen. I liked many aspects of caring for her, but I didn’t like being tired all the time, and I didn’t like having little control over how I spent my days. As months and years passed, my resentment grew. I was angry that I didn’t get to rest. Rest always felt like a liability because it could be interrupted at any time by someone else’s urgent needs.
Depression runs in my family—both sides—but I understood little about depression. I thought it meant feeling dark all the time, being unable to get out of bed, unable to accomplish anything. Since my go-to when I’m stressed is to do more, my productivity was rarely affected by my sense of well-being (or lack thereof). I plodded on, day and night. Cook, clean, shop for groceries, open mail, plan birthday parties. Nurse babies, read to toddlers, remind preschoolers to get dressed, fight with kindergartners about the letters of the alphabet, drive kids to and from school. I was often up at night. My kids never did that magical thing the parenting books call, “when they start sleeping through the night.”
When Kayt was 21 months old, our second daughter, Kyli, was born. A year later we moved to a larger house in the same town. The girls woke several times every night for weeks after we moved. A few months later, I started counseling. I was perfectly miserable in my perfect life, and I wanted help.
My counselor, Beth, became a trusted partner on my journey. She saw me—the real kind of seeing—and she started me on the path to seeing myself with compassion. But after seven years of intermittent personal therapy and marriage counseling, Michael and I found ourselves in a dark period. My depression deepened around April that year, and by the time it leveled out in June, it had made a significant negative impact on our marriage. I resisted our marriage counselor’s nudges toward trying antidepressants, until the moment I decided that if I could do something to spare my husband from a hollow wife, and my kids from an angry mother, I ought to try it.
My kind doctor offered to see me one morning before her first patient, so I didn’t have to wait months for an appointment. She prescribed Fluoxetine, and in mid-July last year, I began the drug experiment. Four days in I wrote, “I have had a significant increase in difficulty with sleeping (which is usually a non-issue for me). I have had trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, and going back to sleep, and twice I’ve been awake long enough in the wee hours of the morning that I start to feel nauseated and have to eat something before I can go back to sleep. Michael and I both feel that I do have improved emotional capacity. It has been a tiring week, but my ability to handle things without getting overwhelmed and shutting down seems to be better than usual. And I would say I feel less dark and discouraged, despite the difficulty sleeping and the resulting tiredness.”
A few weeks later my sleep had mostly returned to normal. By October I was settling into feeling more alive than I had in ten years, so when Michael suggested that the medication was affecting my libido (it was), I told him in no uncertain terms that I would not sacrifice my mental health for an orgasm. After working through that with our counselors, it was smooth sailing.
Fall became winter and I marveled at my capacity to enjoy life. I felt a renewed sense of agency as I regained the ability to choose a response other than anger to life’s frustrations. I knew I was lucky to have responded so well to the first medication I tried. A few friends had cautioned me or expressed concern about antidepressants, and I was well aware that a wide range of negative effects were possible. But the primary effect the medication had on me was to make me feel human again.
As spring approached, I wondered what my annual spring depression would look like. Three years in a row I’d darkened inside as the days grew longer and trees blossomed. My doctor said I could increase my dose of Fluoxetine if needed. Three weeks into April, I did. In my notes I wrote, “To this point, I have only positive things to say about being on Fluoxetine. I have come alive, enjoy so many things, and am more flexible and joyful. Started feeling my spring depression a few weeks ago, so I’m planning to try the higher dose for a month. Then hoping to go the opposite direction and maybe stop taking it later this year.”
Five days later I wrote, “I feel blank, like this higher dose of antidepressants has removed all ability to feel, all motivation, and almost all thought. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep it up for a month. I write from my mental and emotional activity, so if there isn’t any, I’m not sure I’ll be able to write. I do have three topics in mind though, so I will try to write, and I will drink coffee and text friends and maybe do some yard work, definitely take a shower, force myself to cook, invite myself to enjoy the sunshine, maybe color some birthday cards for friends. I know I am okay, but I miss feeling it. I guess the plus side of being emotionally numb is that I don’t respond to everything with anger.”
Ten days later: “Thirty mg of Fluoxetine is a mixed bag. Motivation is down, libido is down, I don’t feel much emotion, haven’t cried except when Phred died (the family cat), and it seems like writing is more of a struggle. I’m just more numb, more blah. On the other hand, I feel pretty calm, not very angry. I’ve been more easily in touch with what I like and what I want, instead of what I should do, and I’ve been doing more fun things with the girls—a little less focused on tasks and more oriented to quality time. It’s weird to in some ways be more connected and in some ways more disconnected.”
After only two weeks on the higher dose, I was unable to refill one of my prescriptions and I dropped back to 20mg of Fluoxetine. A few days later I wrote, “I’m feeling good about it, now. I was pretty ‘muted’ and I’m feeling a bit more alive the last couple of days, and not too heavy.”
My spring depression slowly receded, and this summer has been the least stressful summer since kids came along 11 years ago. There’s no way of knowing how much of this has to do with antidepressants. My relationships, personal growth, the ages of my children, and even what I choose to eat and read are all in the mix. Ultimately, I’m glad I threw some drugs in there. I feel like I got my life back this past year, and I rediscovered the version of me that isn’t bitter and exhausted.
What have I learned about my mental health during this past year? I’ve noticed some things that don’t help me: exercise, to-do lists, a full schedule, guilt and shame (which can come from self-help books, religion, and—most often—my internal dialogue). There’s a longer list of things that do help me: small groups, one-on-one time with friends and with my spouse, coffee, writing, stillness, being flexible (I’ve learned this significantly reduces anger), learning to stay in friendship with myself and live out of my Spirit center, time in nature, recognizing when I fear myself, and allowing myself to experience intimacy and connection out of my imperfections (not my perfections).
My doctor encouraged me to take antidepressants for one full year and go from there. I’m a few days past the one-year mark, and trying to make a decision. I slept like shit last night and I feel like shit this morning, which makes me hesitant. On the other hand, I know what to watch for when I decrease medication: anger, loss of friendship with myself, feeling overwhelmed/helpless, moving from enjoyment to duty, feeling afraid. I’ll start my lower dose on Friday and see how it goes. There’s nothing to be afraid of. God and I and most of the people in my life are on my side. I’m not in a battle against myself (despite what the church taught me). I’m part of a big, dysfunctional human family, where everyone belongs simply because we are alive. And ultimately, belonging (and drugs) is the way out of depression.
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