Why is it news that Mike Wallace once tried to kill himself?

The real story is, why, in 2006, depression still is stigmatized to the point that its sufferers — myself included — aren’t comfortable talking about it.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a chronic illness. I’m not currently on medication, and haven’t been for over a year. But I have been on antidepressants three times in 10 years and chances are good that I’ll be on them again at some point.

For me, depression affects my thinking, my behavior, my physical well-being, every part of me. There were days I could not bring myself to leave the bed. There were days I could not stop crying. I never tried to kill myself but there were times — when I was 24 years old, first married, stuck in Indiana — that I would think about driving off of the road, just hoping the pain that was inside of me would stop.

I thought it was my fault.

I thought something was wrong with me, that I was ungrateful, that I just couldn’t be happy with that I had. But it was no more my fault than a broken leg would be my fault. Depression runs in families: my dad, brother, mother (although she never sought medical treatment, as far as I know), my grandmother and my uncle all have been depressed.

Being attuned to my emotions is a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I generally know what I’m feeling. But on the other, I’m so sensitive to my emotions that I react more strongly than other people and I’m able to see sadness in other people, too. I hurt, a lot.

About a year ago, I noticed a change in a good friend. She was snappish, teary, just not herself. So I did something unusual for me — I opened up. Over time, I told her about my depression. I told her about sleeping too much, about crying too much. I told her that medicine can help, that itfixes a part of your brain that just doesn’t work right. One morning, she called me and said she couldn’t stop crying. I cried with her. I told her it could get better, to just call her doctor. I told her not to worry, but they’d probably get her right in if she told them what was wrong (they did, her only laugh of the day). She still takes Prozac today (I’ve been on Paxil — freaky shit — Wellbutrin — can’t drink alcohol! — and Lexapro.) and she’s a more compassionate person today.

If you’re reading this at 2 in the morning because you can’t sleep and you feel more alone than you ever have, you’re not. You may wonder if you’ll ever feel like “you” again — you will. No one has to know that you’re getting help … but, I bet that once you’re back to yourself, you’ll be just as mad as me that it was so difficult to get help in the first place.

∗ Posted by Monique on 05.19.2006
∗ Annoyances, Celebrities, Monique's favorites, My life, The past