An albatross around my neck

Crystal Abraham is 33, unmarried, and childless. She is an educator and writer, and in her free time she enjoys reading, hiking, and singing. Crystal is a practising Catholic, teaches confirmation in her parish church, and is also involved in the parish’s outreach programme to displaced people. Crystal is currently undergoing treatment for depression.

THIS is not the article I wanted to write. The article I wanted to write would have begun like this:

Two weeks ago, I visited the psychiatrist’s office.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Good,” I replied, because two weeks ago, this was true. Two weeks ago, I felt great.

“The pills are really helping. I feel more stable, and don’t have extremes in my moods,” I continued, impressed with what science could do.

The psychiatrist nodded, and seemed pleased. This was what the pills were intended to do, he explained. They were meant to help me feel a bit more “normal.”

Still, the psychiatrist stressed that while the antidepressants were helping, the achievement of being stable was my own. I perked up at this. I have been wary of becoming dependent on the pills, and so I asked if it would be possible to reduce my dosage. He agreed.

In the article I wanted to write, my state of stability would have continued. My anxiety, which had been kept at bay while I was on the higher dosage, would still be under control. My dark thoughts would not have returned. The gnawing mistrust I have of others, of their motives, of their thoughts about me, would desist from eating away at my thoughts. My sense of despair would continue to be suppressed by the sheer audacity of my sense of hope.

But this is not the article I wanted to write.

What really happened was this.

On the first day after the psychiatrist reduced my dosage, I was fine, excited to be doing better. Day two also went quite well.

At some point during day three, however, things started to go awry. Out of nowhere, the tears came back. I couldn’t explain why, because I didn’t feel sad, but by the end of the day, I had fought back tears on three occasions.

It takes considerable energy to fight back tears. You can no longer focus on the task at hand, because your energy is instead being directed into not crying. My productivity dipped. My loneliness, which had just begun to be bearable, was once more an albatross around my neck.

Depression has a range of symptoms, but for me, the main ones are anxiety, restlessness, and constantly feeling empty, guilty, pessimistic, and worthless. Like beloved frenemies, the symptoms returned.

I was determined not to let them overcome me, and held on to the psychiatrist’s words: it wasn’t the pills that were being calmer, more positive, less anxious. It was me.

I needed to talk to someone, but few of my friends know of my condition. Strange, considering how many of my relationships have been affected by it. I didn’t want to disturb anyone. It is difficult for me to imagine anyone would want to spend time with me, and so I find myself trying not to call too often, or suggest plans too frequently, to allow people to have a break from me.

On the other extreme, when I am anxious, I get worried when people don’t reply to messages or return calls, and I begin to write and call with the persistence of Captain Ahab. But people do not want to be hunted like whales, and so what begins as an attempt to draw people closer to me often ends up pushing them away.

This is what happened with Fr Mike.

We hadn’t seen each other since the day he suggested I seek professional help. There was so much I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to see that, even now, with the symptoms threatening to return, I was doing much better. I wanted to laugh with him and show him, show us both, that I would be okay.

A series of misunderstandings, however, exacerbated by my hyper-communicative methods, resulted in Fr Mike being annoyed and in the end explaining that he didn’t think he could be my confessor any longer.

I do not blame Fr Mike for distancing himself. Depression is not only hard on the sufferers. It affects those around them, too. Friends and family are left confused and hurt by their loved one’s behaviour. Depression asks them to make “Jesuan” efforts to understand, to forgive, to love.

Of all the people I have lost to depression, I will miss Fr Mike the most.

This is not the article I wanted to write. That article would have ended more triumphantly, with me excited to be weaned off the antidepressants in a few weeks. That article would have ended more optimistically, with relationships mended and friendships renewed.

This article offers only another glimpse into the seemingly Sisyphean task that recovery from depression entails.