Looking back over what I have written, I apologize (no, I don't) for ranting a bit ... I am a bit, a BIT manic right now, and blurted out some memories about when I finally broke down and did what I needed to do to get help. It's helped me. Here it goes ...
I have learned to be very careful with who I share my mental ilnness issues with, as I do with my alcoholism. Unfortunately, there is still so much misunderstanding about depression, with 'normies' that experience situational depression from time to time. They look at us with contempt, as weak because they had the strength to 'pick themselves up', 'think happy thoughts' or whatever form of self discipline they used that they judge us as lacking.
It really isn't their fault. They simply don't understand. I'm learning this even more, everyday, especially the last few days with all the comments I've gotten from 'normies' that have expressed that they have a different way of looking at those they love, struggling with mental illness.
The most maddening part of my journey, was the ignorance and misunderstanding of my illness and symptoms from the very people that I have always believed I could trust - the medical profession.
Sometimes it would take me a year of intense suffering before I was worn down enough to be able to crawl into my doc's office and lay out all my symptoms, only to be told "Sounds like you a have a bit of depression."
"A BIT OF DEPRESSION, YOU .......... .........!" I think. Then she gives me that nervous, almost scared little smurk of hers and shoves a piece of paper with 12 questions into my hand, leaves the room and asks me to evaluate my 'bit of depression.' Hell, I can't evaluate up or down, black or white, reality from delusion ... I can barely hold the pen as I am shaking so bad from the inside out and she wants me to calmly assess MY condition?
Then, she comes back, glances at the paper, and says, "Yes, seems like you are pretty gloomy these days." OK, that's about it! This ...... is going to get a a good healthy dose of MY reality.
"Hey doc, do you think it's normal to wake up in the morning and the first thought of the day, is that you want to be dead. Do you think it's normal, that in order for me to even fall asleep at night, I create these elaborate fantasies of my own death, complete with my hands folded neatly across my chest, which fills me with a sick sort of peace, that lulls me into a fantasy that reassures me that the pain is over, that I have to fool myself into thinking I am dead, in order to function?"
"Well, does sound a bit serious." She uses that word 'bit' just one more time, and I think she will get a first hand lesson and example of exactly what 'going mental' looks like, right here here in her little cubicle. "OK, calm down wacko, let's try and get some help," I reassure myself.
