Colour Supplement

Articles by contemporary writers

Sunday July 23rd 2006

 

Depression part 1: admitting you have a problem

By Gordon Atkinson

 

 

My doctor drew a little diagram of a brain and of a nerve pathway with a gap in it. He pushed the paper in front of me so that I could see it.

“You see, this gap prevents unnecessary communication between different parts of your brain. You don’t want your thinking to become undifferentiated. When you have certain kinds of experiences, neurotransmitters are secreted into this gap, making the connection and allowing communication from one part of your brain to the other. See?”

One part of me was listening to him, but my eyes kept slipping over to the right side of the paper where he had written a list of symptoms. I couldn’t stop looking at the list because I have every single one of them.

He continued. “You’re a poster child for this disorder. I’ll probably be telling people about you when I describe it in the future. The depression, the loss of energy and a lack of desire to do anything, the anxiety attacks, the migraines, the facial tic, the insomnia, the trouble with digestion, the appetite issues, the dark moods and temper flare-ups. It’s textbook.”

“That coupled with your family history, your mom and your grandfather. It sounds like he struggled with this his entire life. I won’t know for sure until we get your tests back, but I’m convinced you have a chemical deficiency, or imbalance if you want to think of it that way, that runs in your family.”

“It’s true,” I said. “I never want to do anything. I have to make myself do everything, even fun things with the girls. Sometimes I can make myself get started and hope the desire will catch up to me. The only thing I want to do is escape from everyone. Writing and movies do that for me. I got along okay until the last year or so. That's when the facial tic and the bad headaches started."

“Do you know I never want to go to church on Sunday morning? I have to make myself go. It’s like whipping a dog and driving him out of the house. Every Sunday for years. I thought there was something missing in my spirit, you know, like I'm not praying enough or something.  I always manage to find a way to get up for the people at church, but I can’t seem to get myself together for my own family. They see a different Gordon, one that no one else sees.”

Suddenly I began to weep, though I didn’t feel like I should be crying. Part of me was standing outside myself, watching and analyzing. “What the hell are you crying for, you fraud?”

The doctor waited patiently, then added a compassionate, “I know.”

I pulled myself together and said, “So, what would it be like if I took whatever it is you’re thinking of giving me?”

“Well, it’s a matter of trying it and seeing what happens, but I think it would be like coming back to life again. I think you probably don’t even realize how diminished life has become for you. You’ve probably struggled with this for some years now. When people are younger they can usually compensate a little better.”

“Yeah…I guess. Look, I’m not sure how to say this, but what’s going to happen to the way I think about the world around me? Is this going to change that? I think I tend to experience things in a kind of detached way, almost like I’m watching myself. And then later I write about what’s happened to me, and that’s when all the emotion comes. Do you think this is going to change the way I think and experience things in some fundamental way?”

“No, I don’t. I think you’ll come to remember that you used to experience things quite passionately and in the present moment. You’ve just forgotten. You’re not thinking clearly right now. You know, our thoughts and our emotions are tied together very closely. I think taking this medication will bring you back to life.”

I wanted to believe that this was true, but some part of me couldn't accept it.

“See, the thing is, I can’t help but think this is just a problem that I should be able to cope with. You know, like everyone else does. Taking some drug seems like the lazy way out.”

“Is that what you tell people in your church who are on medication?”

“No.”

"Of course not, because you know that sometimes people have to take medicine. It's not a matter of the will or of strength. Your brain isn't secreting enough neurotransmitters. We're fortunate to live in a time when medication can help. Your grandfather didn't have this option."

He paused, then went on. “If you want to keep trying to feel better on your own, you can. I can tell you what will happen. It’s only going to get worse for you. Your children and your wife will be forced to live with a shadow of who you really are. Eventually it will become too much for you, and you’ll probably end up in a hospital like your mom. Sure you're strong and determined, probably as strong as anyone I've met, but eventually this thing will eat your lunch. And what will be the use of that? So what if you manage to hold out for another twenty years or so. You’ll only be robbing your family of what they need, which is you.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I was becoming open to the idea. I still felt like I was just some lazy guy looking for an easy way out. But I went to this doctor promising myself and my wife that I would at least try his advice.

Then he gave me a way out. “If you want to keep trying therapy, you can go to that guy in Austin that you like. You can try it for a few more months, but I don’t think it’s going to help. You can’t talk your body into increasing its production of neurotransmitters.”

For a moment I considered putting this off for awhile. I thought about it, but in my mind I saw a picture of myself sitting, slumped on the couch: Lillian skips in and asks if I want to play chess. I feel a wave of irritation that makes no sense at all. “No, I don’t want to do anything,” I say with no feeling or compassion.

“No. I’m going to continue therapy for other reasons, but I want to give this a try. When can I start?”

Down inside I still wonder if I have a problem that requires medication, but I am a trusting person. I am trusting my doctor. My family is worth at least that.

 

TO READ OTHER PARTS IN THIS SERIES PLEASE GO TO THE COLOUR SUPPLEMENT INDEX FOR 30 JULY 2006

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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