That Prozac Moment

I read Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America before I started taking Prozac for the second time last October. Being diagnosed with depression was a blow to my ego initially, but I hoped that by reading the dramatic adventures of memoirist Elizabeth Wurtzel, I would look at my diagnosis as a little less pathetic and a lot more intriguing.

I see myself as an ordinary person. However, when I picture an author, or say a famous person with depression, I am inclined to view them as a mysterious enigma. Looking at the book’s cover, I imagined Wurtzel strolling into a party turning heads, not a single person whispering, “You know she has depression.” Instead, I pictured partygoers in awe remarking, “There is the famous author who has depression.” I envisioned her lounging around wearing a crushed velvet blouse that hung over her hands and black eye shadow that had been smudged from crying. Her deep shade of lipstick would be smeared across her face because she probably ran out of tissues and did not want to use her expensive shirt to wipe away her tears. The misery-chic aesthetic of this heroine seemed fascinating and eccentric. If I was going to have the diagnosis of depression, I would prefer to be like this.

My experience of going on anti-depressants did not bring with it the same glamour as writing a memoir about going on anti-depressants. I am a normal person with the diagnosis of depression. I am a wife, a mom, a daughter. I have a job that I enjoy. I wake up each morning and make my bed. I have friends, and I have hobbies. I am not opposed to wearing crushed velvet blouses, but I prefer sequins.

No one is applauding me when I get out of bed in the morning. You do that to young pretty girls who wear make-up to bed from a night out, not a middle-aged woman who has gray in her hair. If I ever uttered the author’s sentiment that “I feel like a defective model, like I came off the assembly line flat-out fucked and my parents should have taken me back for repairs before the warranty ran out,” I would probably be met by the rolling of eyes. My words do not bring with them the same fascination as someone who titles their prologue “I Hate Myself and I Want to Die.”

With the exception of the time I laid on the dining room carpet of my home in Wales sobbing uncontrollably because the Christmas trees in the United Kingdom did not live up to my American expectations, I generally am unable to relate to people who will not get up from the fetal position. Even at my lowest moments (by the way, the Christmas tree scene was witnessed by my visiting mother and mother-in-law) I continued to clean the house, exercise daily, and cook dinner from scratch. Many might describe me as “dramatic and animated,” but no one calls me sluggish or unmotivated.

I am not the typical face of depression.

But then I am learning that there is not a typical face of depression.

Who says that there needs to be?

Photo credit: Grant Stewart

I still have no idea when I first suffered from low serotonin, but I know that I feel much better a year later with medication. Anti-depressants have not fundamentally altered my experience of the world nor have they dulled my emotions as some would say. I could probably argue though that the trees appear to have more color when I am on Prozac.

My husband recently recalled that he loved that I get overly excited about things. In this case, the cause of my exuberance was the sprouting of new grass from a dead patch where I had planted seed days earlier. It might be juvenile to be thrilled over green blades, but there was a time not too long ago when little would cause my eyes to sparkle.

After a 22-year hiatus, I am thankful that a year ago I took my husband’s advice to go to the doctor as he noticed that “something was just not right.” Fearful that the receptionist would shout, “We have a depressed woman on line one,” the hardest part was making the initial phone call to set up the appointment. What does one even say when asked the reason for your visit? (“Uh, I think I might be depressed?”)

Admittedly, none of my problems have vanished on anti-depressants, but they have become more manageable as I experience increased clarity in processing my emotions. In fact, this year has proven to be more difficult with the pandemic and personal challenges, but I am better. One of the main benefits I have seen from medication is that the increase in serotonin has prevented me from going down the rabbit hole into worry or anxiety like before. Random catastrophic thoughts still enter my brain without warning, but Prozac has helped me exit out of the maze quicker and not remain captive underground.

Medication is not and should not be the answer for everyone, and even when required, often takes time and patience to find the right formula. But if you, like me have tried diligently to practice healthy habits, yet still have periods of unrelenting darkness no matter what you do, perhaps it is time you seek professional help.

This past year as parts of my life have become more vibrant, I did not realize how many areas were clouded over in darkness until the darkness had started to lift. I wish I could have been able to muster up the strength to move the heavy weight aside with my own strength, but I was not. One year on, my entire life is better after asking for help.

“When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.”

- Elizabeth Gilbert

To those of you who have already had the courage to seek help, I admire you. To those of you who are waiting to take the next step, know that life can actually get better and that you are not alone. May our collective vulnerability be seen as our superpower, not shame or a flaw.

If there is no typical face of depression, then any face could be the face of depression - yours and mine included. And they are all beautiful.