My Struggle With Depression

First, let me give you some background. I was always a moody kid. I would come home from school and go straight to my room and either read or start my homework. I was very lonely, hardly had any friends. My parents were always running off on vacations and we were left with a babysitter. My sister had an active social life where I didn't have any.

I took speech therapy for two or three years always hating to hear my voice on tape which probably explains my fear of answering machines or talking to strangers. After seeing my last speech therapist, I went home and took an ice pick. I don't know what I was going to do with it, but I imagine that was the start of my suicidal thoughts. You can imagine what my high school career was like.

When I started college, I would drive back to school and thinking how easy it would be to just let go of the steering wheel and crash, killing myself. I went to three different colleges, meeting a boy my dad hated. He threatened me to either go to the University or to stay home. Guess which I chose? The only good thing that happened by going to O.U. was meeting my future husband, Larry.

In early 1994, I was worried about my son. He seemed so unhappy all the time and he had no purpose in life. Of course it didn't help when he had an older brother who was very outgoing and everything came easy for him and Tim had to struggle for everything. Anyway, I made an appointment with a therapist to talk about him, knowing he would never go himself. By the second or third time, the conversation got around to me. To this day, I don't how it turned from my son to me. After about six months, she told me she couldn't help me anymore, gave me some names and that was the end of that. For awhile I would leave notes on her car.

My major depression started in late 1994, while I was working as a library tech at a local library. Suddenly, I started crying whenever another staff member began talking to me to see if I was feeling all right. I was seeing a counselor at the time and was working out pretty well until I went on a crying binge and threatened suicide. She called a psychiatrist and told him that I was so fragile and she thought that I belonged in the hospital. The Dr. saw me before Christmas and diagnosed me with major depression, anxiety and panic attacks. After I finished my stay in the hospital I went back to seeing my therapist. Soon after that, I got mad at something she said, paid for 30 minutes and walked out and never saw her again. I tried another recommended therapist and didn't like her at all.

After the first of the year, in 1995 I entered the psych. unit of a local hospital. I spent six or seven days there and then entered a day treatment program they had. It lasted from 9:00 to 3:00 five days a week. Their van came and picked us all up. I spent five or six months there, then I "graduated". All went fairly smoothly until the holidays struck. I couldn't wait until they were over, especially Christmas. I hated everything about the holiday, the tree, the gift giving. I hated it all. My husband put up the tree, decorated it, did the Christmas shopping and wrapping and wrote the cards. I didn't want anything to do with it. I was very sad and depressed.

It seemed like I was in the psych. wards of various hospitals once or more every other year except the past two. I've been a cutter that is I've cut on my legs and arms; I've attempted suicide three or four times, always by taking pills and/or with alcohol. One would think I would be safe while Larry was home, but no, I just went into the bedroom while he was watching T.V. and took a handful of prescription Motrin. I counted them out into my hand so it wasn't by accident and took them all at once with wine. As a chaser, I went into the kitchen and took four or five extra strength Tylenol. I went back to the living room, calmly telling Larry what I had done, and although I didn't want to go, he rushed me to the hospital where they made me drink charcoal and kept me overnight with an I.V. to flush the toxins out so I had to pee every ten minutes. The psych. social worker came in the next morning and wanted to put me in a hospital down south, but I talked her out of it. I'm getting very adept of talking people out of things that I don't want to do.

By then I wasn't seeing anyone except the psychiatrist and needed talk therapy too. In fact, he wouldn't see me unless I saw a therapist also. He recommended one in the summer of that same year, but since I had a phobia about talking on the phone to people I didn't know, much less an answering machine, my husband called for me. Not knowing she was on vacation, I started getting panic stricken that she wouldn't call at all even though I didn't know her at all. Well, as you can probably guess, she finally did call and after much persuading by my husband, we set up an appointment.

Larry went with me for the first appointment, because I was afraid to go by myself. Somehow we clicked and I went to her for eight or nine years until she retired in Jan. of 2005. For awhile, during that time even the thought of her leaving on vacation threw me into a tail spin. I was very upset and angry at the time she retired. In Feb. I started seeing another therapist but in Oct. of 2005, when Larry was forced to retire because of cancer, that all changed. Since I had Medicare Disability insurance which was my secondary coverage and I was covered by Blue Cross through his work as primary. The Medicare then became my primary insurance and it won't pay for therapists.

I'm a whole lot better now, especially now that I've become the main caregiver for Larry and have to see that he takes his medications on time. Now, I'm too busy to do anything except love him forever and always.


 

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