Getting moving

I'm still concentrating on simply moving forward in the world. No, not moving forward, simply moving. Not standing still. Not vegetating.

I am loathe to admit it but it seems to be true: If I will simply do something, I feel better. I should be happy to admit it, happy to know it. But the truth is that depression is insidious in that way. It sucks the desire out of me, it sucks the marrow out of life. It leaves me an empty shell that doesn't want to do anything but sit and stare.

There is something in me that makes this impossible. If I simply sit and stare, I gradually grow more and more anxious, like I should be doing something, anything. So I run through the list of things I could be doing, ticking each off like beads on a rosary. But nothing seems to spark me, nothing sounds fabulous, nothing sounds the least bit fun.

So in the past few days, I have forced myself to do something anyway. Something. Go to the coffee shop. Walk the dog. Read my email. Write a post in this blog. It doesn't matter that it's a small accomplishment, having a shower every day is at least better than not having one. Putting my contact lenses in is a sign I want to be alive instead of in the hazy, fuzzy world of myopia. Buying a book and reading a few pages every hour or so is better than not reading it.

So I will keep moving. Forward, laterally, zig zag. Just keep moving.

Hello, EmSam

I've been depressed as long as I can remember. It's not just like "Oh this is so depressing" kind of depressed. It's the insidious kind, the kind that steals moments of my life and never gives them back. It's the kind that makes me want to close my eyes and sleep, all the time. The kind that makes it hard to give a damn about anything.

They call it "major depression," and in my case it's chronic -- which means it is there, always. My particular type is treatment resistant, which means that even if I'm lucky enough to find a drug or combination of drugs that help me for a time, they eventually poop out.

I visualize it as a cloudy figure, surrounding me with silvery fog. It's deceptively soothing, but really is much more like numbing. I care about things and people, but not about life. I'd rather just have a nap, thanks.

I don't realize how depressed I am until I get a flash of it lifting, when I see a color I haven't seen in a while or have an inspiration to actually pursue a hobby again. I take it as a good sign when I wander around inside a craft store, for example, and imagine all the things I'd like to make. If only. If only I had the energy, or the desire for more than a flash or two.

I have tried all the SSRIs, one by one, for the past 15 years. It started with Prozac, which was described after an especially acute episode of public rage. I was scared into taking a drug I knew would alter my brain chemistry in the bizarre and somewhat frightening ways that anti depressants do.

I've been on a rollercoaster ride of various drugs since then -- when a new SSRI comes out I was switched from Prozac to Paxil to Effexor to Zoloft to Cymbalta. Probably a few others in there, too. I tried Wellbutrin and had one notably frightening experience with lithium.

Nothing lifts my moods. I am somewhat resigned to living a life that is not worth living (considering the alternative is too costly). I have researched vagal nerve stimulation and transcranial magnets. I read Kitty Dukakis' book about electric shock therapy and have seriously considered it. Am seriously considering it. Would do it if given the chance without the red tape involved.

Instead, today, I'm on Emasam. It's a new antidepressant, named for the daughter Emily and son Sam of a marketing person somewhere. Well, hello there.

Some people out there say it works wonders. Others aren't so sure.

Right now I'm in the second category. I'm experiencing withdrawal from the Cymbalta and Wellbutrin (yeah, was taking both) and am off sleeping pills and anti-anxiety drugs as well. From being on all of it a few weeks ago to being on only this.

This morning I thought it was going to be the end of me. I was so light headed, so frightened, so frazzled. It's minuscule improvement in the past few hours, but probably because I succumbed to taking a Cymbalta I found rolling around in the bottom of my purse. I felt like someone had given me a gift or a sign so I popped it and I think that's relieving some of the pain of the withdrawal. Or I'm imagining it. Or something.

Anyone else taking Emsam? How does it work for you?