The Edge of the Abyss

The Edge of the Abyss
Depression is not a sign of weakness

Monday, December 19, 2016

Coming Back from the Edge of the Abyss



Twenty years ago, I was certain I was going to die, or go insane. Or both. And it had nothing to do with my arthritis. Actually, it had everything to do with it.
I was in the throes of a “major depressive episode,” which doesn’t sound nearly as Sylvia Plath-esque as “a nervous breakdown.” (Though I assure you, there was nothing poetic about it.)
For the first eight months of 1996, I had an uneasy feeling. Something was not right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. After that, my emotional decline came on rapidly.
By autumn, I was circling the drain. I began each day with the unholy trinity: terror, despair and bone-crushing fatigue.
My fear was free-floating, attached to nothing and everything. All day long, I had severe panic attacks. I would just come out of one, only to go into another. Fear revved in me like a grand prix engine. I sweated and shook. Tight bands of muscles in my head and chest constricted to the breaking point. I ached like I’d been in a bar fight.
The despair surrounded me like an all-powerful demon. When I looked back on my life, I saw nothing but misery and sadness. I vividly remembered the nasty details of every orthopedic surgery I’d ever had. Nights when I lay in my hospital bed and heard “Code Blue” called, knowing it meant somewhere a child lay dying. Was anyone there holding her hand, assuring her she was loved, as her life slipped away?
The fatigue of my depression was monstrous. Sleep had always been my reliable companion, a seven-hour respite from my daytime pain. But by December 1996, I was sleeping perhaps two to three hours per night. The rumble of panic and terror inside me chased sleep away, until exhaustion would finally pull me under around 3:30am each night. Then the alarm would ring at 6am.
Through all of this, I continued to go into work each day, though admittedly the depression wreaked havoc with my ability to concentrate for more than a minute or two. Except for my husband, I never told a soul. I didn’t know what else to do.
I had struggled nearly my whole life with depression, yet I didn’t recognize it. It typically came on as anxiety with heightened emotions and insomnia. I had always thought depression caused people to feel nothing and sleep 20 hours a day. Then I learned anxiety and depression were two sides of the same coin.
Just before Christmas 1996, I found a reputable psychiatrist and compassionate therapist. I began a treatment plan, consisting of meds, talk therapy and daily cognitive behavioral exercises. Dr. David Burns’ “Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy” became my Bible. I still consult it now and then.
I want to be clear that -- through it all -- I never, ever thought about harming myself. In fact, my panic stemmed from the irrational fear that I was going to die, and I desperately did not want to.
It was a long, 18-month slog back to “normal.” There were good days when I actually laughed and went out to lunch with friends. And there were days when I only had to remember the Kris Kristofferson song, "Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down," and I would have to shut my office door and sob.
Medical professionals say people living with chronic pain are three times more likely to develop depression than those without pain. They have known this for decades. Yet from the time I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis at age 8 until my breakdown at 32, not one medical professional ever broached the subject. It boggles the mind that no doctor, nurse, physical therapist, etc. ever discussed this with me, a child – then later an adult – struggling with a disease causing severe chronic pain.
Over the past 20 years, I’ve hit a few emotional bumps in the road. A blip now and then when I’ve been easy to tears or when panic’s icy hands have gripped my throat. I combat them with journaling and meditation. Thankfully, the blips are nothing like the terror of 1996.
I have been to edge of the abyss and peered down into its blue-black, bottomless depths. But I stepped away, and by sheer force of human will, I pledge never return.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Crazy Cat Lady, and Damn Proud of It



A multi-level tower greets those who come through my door.  Toys made of foil or fluff are strewn across my floor.
You might call me a crazy cat lady.
I suppose I am one. And a bit of a novice, too. While I’ve loved animals my whole life, I was certain I was a dog person. Until two fuzzy feline sweethearts came into my life three years ago. Two kitties -- a mother and daughter – who lived on the streets and needed a human mommy.
It didn’t happen overnight. There were many days when I admired them from afar. Then my husband and I tendered some kitty treats, and a bond began to form.
We weren’t certain if either of us had allergies. So we started out with the rule that we wouldn’t allow them in the house beyond the front room. Then the rule quickly changed to “in the house but not in the bedrooms.” That rule didn’t last long, either.
Now three years in, the only forbidden zones are the cupboards containing household cleaners and the stove top. (OK, the inside of the refrigerator is off limits, too.)
So why the change? How did I become someone who never imagined being a cat mommy to a woman who does hours of online research to find the best cat harness?
Perhaps it links back to my disability. I developed severe rheumatoid arthritis back in grade school. The disease quickly became a juggernaut of severe joint pain and destruction. It has since resulted in two dozen major orthopedic surgeries, followed by months of torturous rehabilitation.
Do you know what it’s like to spend months on your back – your body aching from constantly maintaining the same position -- forbidden to enjoy the simple luxury of rolling onto your side?  
I do. I know what it feels like to lay in a pool of my own sweat collected under my lower back, unable to get air against my skin to evaporate the moisture.
It may sound like a small thing, something you could simply distract yourself from noticing. I assure you it is not. Because when your whole world consists of you in a hospital bed, you literally ache for the simple pleasures we often take for granted.
And I remember all of it: every miserable detail, even the sleepless nights from 40 years ago. Nights and days when I thought: “If only I could roll over for five minutes. If only I could lie on soft sheets. If only I could have a few moments of relief from these aches that never end.”
Perhaps that’s why – if you visit my home – you’ll see comfy cushions and baby blankets throughout my house and soft dish drying pads lying around my patio. I understand such things may label me a crazy cat lady. I proudly cop to that label.
But don’t forget there’s more to the story. That cushions and blankets and pads symbolize a reduction in suffering. The reduction in suffering that tantalized but evaded a frightened young girl in a hospital bed. The reduction in suffering that I am determined to provide to my fur angels.
Am I a crazy cat lady? You’re goddamn right I am.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Dear Wheelchair: We Need to Talk



Dear Wheelchair:
We need to talk. Yes, I know: no conversation in history starting off that way ever ended well. But there are some things we need to hash out.
We’ve been together nearly half a decade. Wow, that’s significant. Five years is the length of cohabitation most health insurance policies require before a chair user can get a new chair. Not that I’m in the market for another, dear. I’m just sayin’…
Now, babe, don’t cry. Need some reassurance? You are amazing at giving me my own space. I mean, you are the opposite of clingy. Of course, I would expect nothing less from someone named Torque Storm. Not exactly the moniker of a clinging vine.
But sometimes you’re just a little too laissez–faire. I’ve got an image to uphold, you know. People see a gimp girl in a wheelchair and they immediately assume I’m “wheelchair bound.” (Stop snickering. The B&D of our private life is nobody’s business.) They’re convinced that we’re perpetually fused together. That I shower in you, sleep in you. That I never transfer out of you into a theater seat. Can you imagine what they’d say if they saw me taking a few steps with my walker? Good God, the fallout that would cause.
This affects your image, too, you know. You and your progenitors have established your reputation as symbols of failure, as prisons on wheels. What would they say if it leaked out that you’re really enablers, huh? Enablers of mobility, of freedom…of independence, even! What if I went to the press and told them the truth: that I never would have gotten an education, made a career or left the dang house without you in my life? Two can play at that game, my friend.
Come on now, baby. I didn’t mean to be cruel. You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. So what if you’re not my first, or even my fifth? So what if my chair throughout college cradled my backside like no other? It didn’t mean anything. It was nothing compared to what we have. We’re going to be together forever, just you wait and see.
Or at least until insurance says I can roll you to the curb.