I only write when I’m depressed. I was prolific at diary entries during my teens. I was depressed. At 32, I’m still depressed. I was fine for many years. I can retrospectively map my decline: at 3 months I was starting to plan a date at which I’d likely have to commence SSRIs, at 1 year I thought I’d be OK, at 18 months I’m facing the reality that this low grade erosion of my self isn’t eroding so much as eroded. The worst, besides the other worst of low days when the emotional pain is so great I need to double over and squeeze my eyes shut tight (this is when I will myself to vanish), is the background drone of my lack of feeling, the paucity of deep felt happiness or even contentment. It’s a London greyness that colours my days interjected by the occasional searing streak of red and black. This emotional fatigue weighs down my ability to be interested or interesting. I can’t even cook a meal and eat with gusto – I’ve cooked maybe 4 times in the past 3 weeks. I loved to cook. I loved food. Now I cook with the microwave and eat plastic wrapped excrement.
Sadly, the one thought that gives me a little pleasure is the anticipation of starting fluoxetine. I’m still reluctant but I think I need to. My fears:
- Mental dulling affecting my work.
- Alcohol interactions (although I pride myself in not “turning to the bottle,” I do like wine with dinner and nights out).
- I have to tell – even I stigmatize patients on anti-depressants or cite depression under medical history; I don’t want it on my Occupational Health record.
- I have to tell – I’m worried, and I know Thabo will blame himself; he’ll see it as a failing on his part rather than a health issue that I’m experiencing.
The circumstances under which I’ve arrived at this juncture aren’t modifiable. My emotions? Maybe. Medication is the plastic wrapping, Laura Palmer style.
