Colour Supplement

Articles by contemporary writers

Sunday August 20 2006

 

Depression part 5: relapse

By Gordon Atkinson

 

People told me that it would take some time to get my medication figured out. They said I shouldn’t get discouraged if the first medication isn’t right for me, or if it takes some “trial and error” to get the dosage right.

So I felt lucky when the first medication turned out to be the right one. 25mg, 50mg, then 75mg, the magic number. I take three little brown pills each night, and my depression, anxiety, and anger are nowhere to be found.

I’ve decided that I like this way of living. I’ve come to accept this new life as normal for me. Depression? That’s something that used to plague me long ago in some other life. You know, back in the days when I was too stubborn to go to the doctor. I have to laugh when I think of how stupid I used to be.

Yeah, right.

I’m like a guy who wanders into church for the first time and thinks he “gets it.” Six months later he wants to teach a bible study and meet with the pastor to explore the possibility of ordination.

God, I should have seen this coming. F**king Pride. They do say it comes just before the fall.

A couple of weeks ago I was cleaning up around the television. I grabbed a half-empty can of Diet Coke and headed for the kitchen. Jeanene said, “That’s my Diet Coke.” I nodded, but continued toward the kitchen, thinking I would put it on the counter for her. She didn’t see me nod and repeated herself a little louder. “That’s MY Diet Coke.”

I nodded again, but for some reason it didn’t register that she wanted me to leave the Diet Coke where it was. I was thinking of other things and by this time was just entering the kitchen. Jeanene, thinking I hadn't heard her, spoke up again, this time loudly.

“THAT’S MY DIET COKE!”

A surge of rage coursed through me like an IV push of pure adrenalin. There was no question of holding it back. The best I could do was to keep from yelling at her. I whirled around and hissed through my clenched teeth.

“I HEARD you. I was just going to put it on the COUNTer!”

Jeanene looked shocked and a little hurt. There was no reasonable explanation for this anger, nor was there any warning of its arrival. I was embarrassed and immediately regretful, but the residual effects of the anger were still with me, so I turned around and put my hands wide apart on the kitchen counter. Then I leaned forward, dropping my head and letting my weight rest on my hands. I didn't want anyone to see my face. This anger felt familiar, as did the feelings of sadness that now rushed into the void it left behind. Later I apologized to Jeanene.

Then Friday night came. The girls had a couple of friends over for the evening. To me it seemed like there was a chattering mob of people in my house. There were only five girls, but it felt like twenty-five. I began to feel anxious, so I retreated to my bedroom with some Poptarts and my computer.

Jeanene found me there and looked at me with her head tilted slightly. It was the “Why are you way back here and so disconnected from us?” look.

That’s when it hit me. The depression was back. My heart started beating faster. I paced back and forth in the bedroom, fretting and picking at the skin around my fingernails. Crazy thoughts fluttered around in my head.

“What if the medication is losing its power? What if it becomes less and less effective until I feel like this all the time again?”

“What if modern science is wrong and there really are demons in the world? What if some graduate school demon has selected me as the subject of his dissertation?”

Saturday was horrible, just like the old days. I didn’t want to do anything productive, and doing nothing made me feel even worse. I held on and waited for night to come, though I dreaded going to bed. I wondered if Sunday morning was going to be bad.

No. Sunday was a good day. I was in a great mood, and I had a wonderful time with the three sisters that afternoon. Monday morning I woke up and felt as though I was “back to normal,” whatever that is.

I don’t know what happened that week. It was like some dark presence inside of me surfaced briefly to remind me that my journey to emotional health is just beginning.

Trust me. I’m properly humbled. I keep parroting phrases I either heard when I was a chaplain in a rehab unit or on television from George Bush senior.

“Easy does it.”

“Stay the course.”

“One day at a time.”

“Trust the process. Quitting now wouldn’t be prudent.”

My medication does have a few annoying side effects. The worst of these is a ringing in my ears that sounds sort of like crickets. It gets louder if I clench my teeth. And I still occasionally wonder if I really have a chemical imbalance, like my doctor says I do. At this point, it’s almost a moot question. I feel good, and I don’t mind taking drugs if that’s what I have to do to feel this way.

Ouch. That sounds familiar. It sounds like things I heard addicts say in rehab. You know what? I don’t care. That’s the way it is. I have to take drugs, and I’m going to keep taking them, though I wish I could find some way to make the damn crickets go away.

In spite of this recent bump in the road, I have reasons to celebrate. I feel joy again. Joy in living and not just in writing about living. And I can write as much as I want now. Writing is a legitimate way for me to spend my time and not just an irresponsible way for me to escape my sadness and anxiety.

Nothing has been broken that cannot be fixed. Jeanene loves me, and the three sisters are all smiles. They tell me they had forgotten how silly and funny I can be. I’m joking around again and playing pranks. Reiley called me on my mobile phone the other night, and I answered with a Cockney accent:

“Oy, Bob! This ere bird thinks Oi’m er father!”

Yeah, daddy’s back. And he’s so glad to be here.

And you know what? Time is on my side. I have a lot of living left to do, assuming I manage to stay alive. The presence of God seems very real to me right now, and there is joy in my humble prayers.

And I think God is hearing my prayers, even over the sound of the crickets.

 

PART SIX OF THIS SERIES WILL BE PUBLISHED HERE NEXT WEEK (27/08/06).  TO READ PREVIOUS PARTS PLEASE VISIT THE COLOUR SUPPLEMENT ARCHIVE

Gordon Atkinson is pastor of Covenant Baptist Church in San Antonio, Texas and has his own excellent website www.reallivepreacher.com.  We are most grateful to Gordon for his permission to reproduce his essays here.

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