Don't Try This At Home

"Why haven't you blogged in a while?" several friends have asked. Thank you, I didn't really think so many were reading it! My answer has varied from "Too busy" to "Nothing to say."

There is more to it, though, than that. This will be a long one. You might want to go get a glass of iced tea.

When I was in my early 30s, I was diagnosed with chronic depression. There's another name for it, which I've forgotten, but I was given the medication of the day and told to see a counselor. Because I was ashamed to be a pastor and have this problem, I found a counselor in a small city an hour away. I did not want anyone to see how weak I was. I did not want to be dependent on medication.

After all, my grandmothers were certainly depressed, and they survived, right? The counselor asked how they had coped. I told the story of my mom's mom, how she had been directed by the doctor to get up, get dressed and put on lipstick. That was all he had for her. I told the story of my grandpa, her husband, who had been raised by an alcoholic father and refused all alcohol because of it. When he suffered from depression later in life, the doctor prescribed (actually wrote it down) a beer every night so Grandpa could sleep. I told about uncles who drank too much, and my dad's extreme temper in the darker months of the year.

"If you could give them something to help them, wouldn't you?" she asked. "If you could provide just a simple pill that would allow them to function better, feel better, wouldn't you do it? If it was heart disease or diabetes, wouldn't you allow them the medical advancements we have made since they were alive? How is it different to take medication for depression now?" I couldn't answer. She was right. So I took the pill.

That particular medication didn't do very much that was healing and gave me a voracious appetite. I gained 40 pounds in a couple of months, but rather than go back and try something else, I just quit. I was convinced if I could just do the right things - eat better, exercise, pray more - I would be ok. Surely I, the pastor, the Christian, could solve this on my own.

All I can say is, don't try this at home.

For the next several years, I wobbled along. Sometimes I got medication (different, more helpful ones) and sometimes I gave into the idea that I didn't want to be dependent. Sometimes I saw a counselor, and sometimes I didn't. It was a struggle. What's worse, Randy and then the kids struggled along with me.

I could hold it together for most of the day, but at home, where I could be myself, it wasn't pretty. Every small thing resulted in my getting angry, sometimes enraged. I never hit, but I certainly yelled a lot. I couldn't figure out where such deep rage came from, but it was certainly there a lot of the time. I grouched. I couldn't think well, my memory blew out the window. I lost my car keys, forgot to close the car door before I backed out of the garage, couldn't recall names and faces. It was as if I was living in a fog all the time, fighting my way through a thick, sticky mess just to be alive. I blamed Randy. Or the kids. Or my job. Or God.

When we moved to Elkhart, it all came to a head. The grief of leaving close friends and a church we had come to love sent me downward. I was desperate and went to a new doctor. I told the story, gave a list of the meds that had worked and those that hadn't, and recieved the same advice my first doctor had given 12 years before: take this medication, and see a counselor.

This time, it felt like life or death. Within a week, the fog in my head began to clear. Within six months, with an increased dosage, I felt like a new person. Thyroid medicine accented the improvement a year or so later. The things I knew I needed to do - eat well, exercise, hold my temper, pray - became possible again.

Fast forward to December 2008. A new medication was released, similar to what I was taking, but with fewer side effects. My doctor tranferred me to the new one, at a lower dosage, urging me to call if it wasn't enough. I'd lost 60+ pounds by then, was riding my bike and walking for an hour a day. Surely now I would be ok, I reasoned. The old temptation to 'do it on my own' came sneaking in the corners of my mind. Call it pride, or the Evil One, or just human nature, but instead of taking the new meds, I went off them all.

Don't try this at home.

January was hell for me and everyone else. I gave up that fight pretty quickly. I filled the prescription and took the new medication, but by April, I was feeling the fog, again. My memory was gone. I was scared to leave town, it was too hard to cope with the simplest stresses. Randy asked me to turn off the coffeepot, and I couldn't remember by the time I made it to the kitchen. It wasn't just that I'd forgotten. I really didn't remember him saying it at all. I started thinking I might have Alzheimers or some other disease. My work was affected, I had to write every detail down. When my PDA phone dumped my calendar a couple of times, I was genuinely lost. What's more, I had stopped exercising and craved the sweets that only made the cycle worse.

My doctor said, "Double the dose." I resisted, once again. Another doctor said, "It's just your age." Still another offered a neurological workup. It didn't make sense to me. If the dose I was taking was making me crazy, how could a double dose help? I remember having a conversation to that effect when I admitted to co-workers that my doc was adjusting the meds.

Finally, though, in desperation, I doubled the dose. 4 days later, I could think again. I could focus on a conversation without having to doodle. I could solve a problem. I could move myself off the couch and onto the seat of my bicycle. I could avoid snapping at my kids, instead listening to them before I formulated an answer. In other words, I felt like I could be myself again.

Why am I telling you this? Because it might be you. Millions of people suffer from depression and either don't know it or refuse to get help. My ancestors, and many today, deal with it by abusing alcohol, drugs, food, sex. Anything to get the fog to clear for a moment, or to numb the pain of having to constantly swim through a sea of goo just to do the most normal things. People deal with it, but the side effects of illegal drugs and alcohol far outweigh the benefits of being able to escape from the depression for a while. Relationships continue to suffer, because alcohol and meth and 100 other things don't quite cut it.

Others just keep grouching, yelling, blaming their situation or their spouse. I am not judging, I am just saying that it's true. I see it, every day.

You can think worse of me if you want. I don't care. I thank God for the research scientists and the doctors every day when I take my little square pills. My medication helps me be a better person, not in a magic way, but in giving me the ability to think through consequences and choose the path of Christ I've decided to follow. My medication helps me be a better parent, not in a magic way, but in giving me the energy to think through responses to my kids instead of just reacting.

Far be it from me to give advice, but I do pray as I write this. If you reading this are one of those people who think it's better not to be dependent on drugs, if you are wondering if this is you, ask your family or close friends what they think. And ask yourself if you would really deny anyone all the advancements in medical science we have made over the last century?

When it all comes down to it, for me, it is a spiritual issue. It is pride that makes me think I should be exempt from the need for assistance. God have mercy on me, and make me humble enough to receive help when it is offered.

I really mean it when I say, don't try this at home.