Better living through chemistry

During one of my many brief affairs with college, I took a psychology class. I don’t remember a lot of details from the class. I don’t remember the history of psychology or anything about cognitive development in children. I don’t remember exactly what reductionism is or how hypnosis is supposed to work. What I do remember - perhaps because I paid the most attention to this part without even realizing it - is the explanation of the role of brain chemistry in mental and emotional disorders (such as depression and anxiety). I couldn’t tell you any exact names of the parts of the brain that are related to depression, but I do know that an imbalance of certain brain chemicals as well as malfunctioning nerve cells/circuits are major components of the disease. I also remember that you can be genetically predisposed to depression so that if your immediate family suffers from depression, you are much more likely to also suffer from the disease.





When I took this class I had not yet begun to suspect that I suffered from depression. I hadn’t yet identified the sudden drop in grades and self-imposed social isolation in high school as what may have been my first depressive episode. My sister hadn’t yet been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I hadn’t begun to realize that my 12+ hour sleep sessions were something more than just plain old laziness. And I still thought that mom...well...sometimes mom just got really mad, and sometimes she just got really sad. Isn’t that how parents work?





But, even though I wasn’t yet personally relating to the class material, it did change the way I look at emotional disorders. I knew, even then, that depression was not just about “feeling sad.” I knew that it wasn’t something you could just walk off, like a twisted ankle. Depression is a disease, just like cancer, that has real physical causes. I think it’s this knowledge that helps me talk so openly about my depression. I don’t worry that I’ll be judged as someone who just “can’t handle her shit.” And, while I do wish I could talk about it a little less when discussing my day, I’m not embarrassed or ashamed. This mindset also made it easier for me to ask my doctor for help. Medical help. As in: drugs.





Last week I saw my doctor and finally spoke with her about something other than another annoying urinary tract infection. When I arrived I filled out an extensive questionnaire with a nurse, had my blood pressure and temperature taken, and was left waiting in an exam room. I was a little nervous. Now, I adore my doctor and feel very comfortable talking to her about all of my medical needs and ailments. Her interest in exploring alternative methods of healing (supplements, physical therapy/stretching/strengthening, etc.) are one of the many things I love about her. But this time I didn’t want to explore those other options. Yes, therapy and meditation and a change in diet were sure to affect me positively - and I’d used them in the past - but this time was different. I was in too deep. I needed something stronger. I wanted drugs. I wasn’t looking for a miracle, cure-all pill that would make me instantly happy. I just needed something to begin working on the physical problems in my brain so that I could even muster up the mental strength to try the other methods. And, as much as I love my doctor and have never been steered wrong by her before, a small part of me was afraid that she would convince me that drugs were not the right answer for me. And I’d believe her. And I’d go home with every intention of trying all of those other methods, but would ultimately fall back into my pit of depression. And the great strength it took me to pull myself out of the fog long enough to even make this appointment would have been for nothing.





But thankfully, after just a few minutes of talking with my doctor, I knew she was going to give me the help I wanted. She gave me a wonderful laymen explanation of the chemical and physical components of depression (something about a tiger chasing you and a well that was either full or empty, I can’t remember it all exactly), even including how genetics play a part (something about being born with less reserves or a smaller well) and how drugs treat them. She told me about many of the different medications available to treat the disease and how my specific symptoms made some more appropriate for me than others. We talked about sexual side effects and I explained to her how important it was to me that these were at a minimum. And then, finally, she made a recommendation: Wellbutrin. We talked about why that would likely be the best choice for me, and what side effects I could anticipate. Then we chatted about all of it a little bit more and she revealed to me that she’d been on antidepressants for a period in medical school and claimed, “I probably wouldn’t be sitting here today as your doctor if it weren’t for antidepressants.” Her way of telling me that this wasn’t a failure. I love her so much.





Today I took my first pill, and my first step toward recovery.