DIAGNOSIS DEPRESSION

I turn on the water and step under the drink.  Slowly I move the handle hotter and hotter, until I know I will boil.  I don’t have the energy to shampoo, so I stand for a long while, inviting the water to burn through my skin.  I am tired.  I drop to my knees and fold into a little ball on the tiles on the bottom of the shower floor.  My heart rate slows down.  I don’t know how long I stay like that, my face in between my knees and my weight on my shins.  I think I doze as the water beats hard on my back and steam rises.  When I open my eyes again, I know it’s time to move on.  Standing, I realize one leg has fallen asleep, and I sit back down, this time squeezing my knees to my chest and rocking slowly back and forth.

Another day is just beginning.

I am late for my appointment—a rueful realization.  I finally arrive, have a few words with the receptionist and then sit and wait for my name to be called.  My time has come.  I’m holding a cup of coffee, but I notice that my hand is shaking so I pitch it in the bin just before I get called into the small room.  I know what to do.  I spill what I want to tell and this time I answer a bunch of questions.  She hands me a test that would I mind filling out? No, of course not.  I love multiple choice.  But it turns out to be a hard test to take.  I hand it back to her minutes later and watch her score it.  She is quick.

“Thirty.” She looks from the test back up at me, eyebrows raised.  Her tone of voice piques my curiosity.

“So… what does that mean?” I ask.  I am wringing my hands and pinching my fingers so they hurt, otherwise looking calm but inwardly afraid of what I might hear.

My counselor leans forward, putting her elbows on her knees, and waits until I look at her and hold her gaze.  Her own bright eyes convey seriousness as she says with certainty: “You are clinically depressed.  And you are on the brink of severe depression.”

I take it like a bucket of ice on the face.  My eyes get watery and I blink, but I don’t say anything.  I had told her that I felt depressed, but to be diagnosed with it felt much more real… more frightening.  And ridiculous!  I’ve only just turned twenty-two with no particular complications currently in my life, and this is due in part to reacting to several years of stressful circumstances and committing to too many things... so how might I handle stress in my true adult years to come?

Already my mind spins and I feel like I’m going crazy many nights before I fall into bed.  “Anxiety attacks,” the last counselor had concluded just days earlier.  I was advised next time I undergo this feeling of panic to cross my arms or legs over each other to get my right and left sides of the brain “talking again.”  How funny!  I turn my attention back to my current counselor who is taking notes.

She puts on child gloves, speaking a little slower. “I am going to walk you to the front desk as soon as we’re done here and we’ll get you in right away to see Dr. Hutchins, all right?” I nod, unsure of what I should say.

“Are you open to the use of medication?”

I don’t know, am I?

She highly recommends it.  So I say “I guess.”  She nods.  “Kay, this is serious.  You won’t be able to fix this right away.” She looks thoughtful.  I feel guilty.  “We will be able to get extensions on your papers from your professors if you want.”

No, I don’t want.  I want to rewind and not have come in here.  I mumble something to that effect and then listen to her speech about depression, though I know I will want to research it more on my own in the safety of my own room.

Clinical depression is a medical disorder, like diabetes, high blood pressure or heart disease, in which a person’s emotional state is abnormally low for an extended period of time.  It negatively affects the way a person feels, acts and functions, as well as inhibits the ability to work or study effectively.  Body, mood and thought changes are common.  This person does not feel like himself or herself anymore and generally loses interest in once enjoyable activities.  A clinically depressed person becomes unable to change his or her mood independently.  Many factors such as stress, trauma or genes can cause the illness.  Sometimes it is simply due to a serotonin imbalance in the brain.  It cannot be willed away or snapped out of.  According to the American Psychiatric Association, some 17 million Americans are affected by clinical depression each year.

She puts a hand on my back as she steers me out the door and down the hall.

“We would like to book an appointment with the doctor as soon as possible,” she nods meaningfully to the receptionist, who picks up the hint and says, “Ahh, certainly… she can go in right away.”

Suddenly I am being handled like a breakable doll, and I know why.  If I cross any more into the severely depressed category, I may attempt suicide.  That is, if I follow history and statistics from others who have been in my position.

I hop up on the cushiony patient table and swing my legs above the floor as I wait for the doctor.  It is very plain and boring in here, but I suppose that is true of all hospital-like waiting rooms.  Finally the doctor walks in, shuts the door, and peers at me over his spectacles while intermittently checking his clipboard in hand.  He begins his own assessment.  Can I focus? No.  Make decisions? No.  Sleep at night? Alas, no!  Am I contemplating suicide?  I pause.  “I would never carry anything out.”

More questions.  My mind wanders and I try to pay attention to what he is saying, but it’s hard.  “…anxiety attacks as well as depression.  I also think taking medication as soon as possible would be the next appropriate step, along with continued counseling…”

There is a colored streak on my jeans.  I wonder how I got it?

He pops out of the room for a moment and returns, handing me a box containing a week’s worth of samples.  “These are non-addictive and are not harmful to you.  You can’t overdose on them and die.”

Well, I would think not… it would be tragically ironic to give depressed people something they could use to kill themselves.

I begin to walk out the door—so, I’m depressed… I am a depressed person…but then am reminded that I’m supposed to rebook with both the counselor and the doctor next week, as well as the week after… I rebook.  It is Thanksgiving Day.

I amble through doors, down steps, outside--I am mentally ill.  There is something wrong with me—and back to my apartment.  I should be celebrating this nationwide holiday, but I have nowhere to go tonight.  I’ve just returned from a night class—I had toast for dinner. Happy Thanksgiving to me.  Clutched in my hand are a few pages entitled “What Everyone Should Know about Depression,” meds, a happily-ever-after story of one student who overcame depression and another prescription for something to help calm my anxiety.  I try to hide them.  I am ashamed.

My roommates burst through the apartment door moments after me.

“KAY! What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, if you have twelve dollars, you can eat with us!”

Hmm… twelve dollars.  I debate. I can’t say I’ve had a twelve-dollar appetite recently.  Some of the advice I was given hours earlier floods back to me.  Do all the things you would normally do.  Get out of your apartment.  Act like you’re okay even though you aren’t. Well, I guess I will be having dinner after all.  Only then I find out the turkey won’t be done until midnight.

A dozen of us are gathered in a community kitchen on campus, eating a feast in the late hours of the night.  It looked and tasted good—I am happy, although I’ve overeaten.  I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten so much.  At some point in the evening, one of my roommates slips out and doesn’t return.  I look around the circle.  They are all friends.  I feel like an outsider, even though I know I’m welcomed.  I’ve had enough of this… the feeling of becoming overwhelmed begins to take over and I decide to excuse myself and return to the apartment where I find the roommate who bolted earlier.

“I just couldn’t watch it anymore,” she says.  “This is supposed to be such a great weekend with my sister up here, but… yeah.  My ex is screwing around with my sister.”

Ouch… I’m sure I would have left early too if I had to watch my sister and ex-boyfriend flirting all during dinner.

“That’s horrible!  I’m so sorry,” I empathize.  I lean against the wall and study her face.  After a moment: “If it makes you feel any better, I had a bad day too.”

“Yeah? How come?”

“Well… I was diagnosed with clinical depression and I’m supposed to start taking meds right away!” I joke. Evidently I think that if I say it in a lighthearted way she will also laugh, and hopefully say back, “Oh, that’s no big deal.  Loads of people have depression.”  But she doesn’t.  Her eyes widen.  “Oh… wow… I wouldn’t have thought you would be the type to have it.”

The type?  Anyone can become depressed…

“You don’t seem sad all the time.”

“Oh--well, I’m not… that’s not all it is…”  I don’t feel like repeating the lecture I’ve just received about depression being a chemical imbalance in the brain.

She looks uneasy.  Hmm… I think I am not going to tell my other roommates about this.  Maybe I will make it my secret.

It’s quite late now.  And not long before I turn in for the night.

~~~

2pm and I’m still in bed.  I’ve been awake since eight, staring at the clock and dreading the rest of the day that will inevitably come.  I’ve gotten up several times, looked at my long To-Do list with the empty checkmark boxes I’ve drawn next to them and crawled in fear back into bed.  I have so much homework to do… there’s no way I will finish it in time… my heart starts beating quicker and I actually start to sweat.  My body becomes rigid and I realize my jaw and fists are clenched.  I see that it is my own fingernail marks that have clawed into my palms, but I haven’t drawn blood yet.  I jerk the comforter over my head, crossing my legs and hands like I was instructed as I wait for the panic attack to pass, but I can’t stop panting as I think about everything I have to finish.  Everything I have to start.

Suddenly I remember this is production weekend, so I have to copyedit for the school newspaper.  Commitments come first, even if they are voluntary.  With great effort, I drag myself to the bathroom to wash my face, then head straight to the office, where I’m handed a thin stack of papers.  More of my doctor’s words—cut out anything that you don’t have to do.  Set a goal to only finish your final class papers. But I can’t just leave—I promised I would be here, and there are probably only four articles in my hand.  I stare at the first page.  Starting is always the hardest.  Fifteen minutes later I am still on the same sentence in the first paragraph because I can’t decide if the noun/verb tense is agreeable.  I finish an hour later.  Then I am handed more papers—a bigger stack.  There is too much noise; I can’t focus.  I move into an empty room next door to rid myself of distractions.  It works for the time being, but then my mind starts spinning again.  I tell the chief copyeditor that I have to leave, and I do. I have only finished editing one more article.