Depression...

... i got it.

There is so much stigma around mental illness that I hesitate to write this post. In a blog where I've spoken openly about my breasts, among other pretty personal things, I wonder about whether or not it's wise to disclose my history with anxiety and depression. But I never claimed to be wise.

Over the course of this whole cancer fiasco I've come into contact with just a ton of doctors. The D section in my phone contacts is thick. They start, invariably, by taking a medical history. Then at the end they ask if you have any other conditions that they should know about. Which is when I get a dumb blank stare when I tell them that I have chronic anxiety and depression. Which, I think, is pretty relevant information to have about someone who is about to go through hell, but I'm not gonna go on about the medical establishment at the moment.

it's actually not.

Clinical depression is not new to me. I'd been taking medication for my depression for years. Then I self-medicated with booze for a while. Then I self-medicated with vitamins (mega B-stress from whole foods, plus another 400mg of folic acid and a D vitamin every morning was super effective). Then I got a new, fulfilling career and wasn't depressed at all for a while. And then I got cancer. I knew I'd be fighting a battle on two fronts from day 1. But my options are more limited, now.

I didn't want to start up on antidepressants again. Coming off of them is just too hard. And I don't want to take my vitamin cocktail because I'm scared that something will be contra-indicated with some of the poison I'm taking every two weeks and my chemo will be less effective. (I've had this fear since a doctor neglected to tell me that the zinc I was taking to help with wound healing when my legs were all messed up from surgery would interfere with the antibiotic he prescribed me for same, infected wound and my oncologist refused to andminister my chemo for a third time because my stupid wound infection wouldn't go away. I had to google that shit.) I have a stockpile of benzos, but I'm trying to stay off them because of the sexual side effects (going HAM with the disclosures today).

So that leads me to today. I hit a wall with depression on the evening of June 25th. I was going about my business as usual when I found myself sitting alone in a room staring into space mentally listing everything that sucks about me. It's like that sniffle that you know is going to turn into the flu. Depression season is here!

Since then I've tried a lot of things:
crying hysterically
crying quietly
watching a funny movie
crying alone in the kitchen with a cat on my lap and watching a funny movie
fighting with my boyfriend
drinking till I feel better
candle magick
sitting on my stoop
mentally listing all the things I haven't accomplished
crying on my stoop
hanging out in the shed for no reason
napping under the dining room table
mentally listing all the ways I let the people around me down
crying alone under the dining room table until my bf actually suggests I go shopping to try to cheer up
crying at Goodwill and Target
VISINE
texts from mittens
the "everyone hates me" chant
internal dialogues about why they're right
sleeping

Surprisingly, none of these has worked (well, drinking did, but I can't carry on with that). Don't worry, though. I'm taking a Valium, like, now. Writing this post has convinced me of the exigency.

I know I said I wouldn't get on my soap box, but: It totally baffles me that psychiatric care isn't integrated into cancer treatment. Counselling shouldn't just be offered, it should be mandatory. (also, don't worry, I have the phone number of a shrink that I'll make an appointment with as soon as the Valium kicks in.)