A Prescription for Change

I’ve been fascinated with caterpillars and butterflies since someone read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to five-year-old me. (And this is the only time that a reference to five year old me doesn’t result in an immediate and brutal beating, so if you’re my therapist reading this, you should take note.) I’m sure I’m not the only kid who stalked furry caterpillars to rehome them in a “mayonnaise jar, with a stick and a leaf, to recreate what they’re used to.” In spite of my loving attempts to provide a warm habitat and a welcoming environment, my caterpillars never magically transformed into anything other than dead caterpillars – but I never, ever gave up hope. I guess I’ve been a closet optimist most of my life.

I’ve been in the midst of my own metamorphosis lo these past few months, which is why you’re enduring the world’s most obvious and heavy-handed metaphor. No, I didn’t relocate to a mostly empty Miracle Whip jar. I haven’t redecorated the palace in a twig motif. (There is still a kitty condo in the living room. Because I’m nothing if not classy as hell.) And after a recent visit to the Minnesota Zoo’s butterfly exhibit with my energetic, musical, adorable four year old nephew, I dusted off my grade school science books and refreshed my memory about how caterpillars become butterflies.

In spite of my diverse liberal arts background, my grasp on basic biology is tenuous at best. I mean, I understand where babies come from, with absolutely no thanks to the archdiocese of Minneapolis and St. Paul, whose idea of sex education consisted of having a celibate Christian Brother show us a series of videos that illustrated the sinfulness of the flesh. (Hell looked really hot and miserable so I decided to stay as far away from any activities that might land me there. I think most of you know how much I hate to sweat.)  Thankfully, my parents armed five year old me (there she is again!) with a copy of Where Did I Come From which is where most of my basic biology knowledge comes from. In more recent years, the hubby and I have become amateur pumpkin growers – a hobby that involves science, plant anatomy, and assisted pumpkin procreation. I did not, however, have a real appreciation of the biology of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly until recently. Better late than never, I guess.

The very hungry caterpillar failed to prepare me for the incredibly violent and traumatic process of metamorphosis. I won’t jump the shark but if you want to learn more, may I suggest a little light internet research? While I didn’t digest myself or release any cool enzymes in my own transformation, there were moments when it felt just as painful and violent, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can tell you that the fundamental difference between a caterpillar and me is that the caterpillar has the self-awareness to know when it’s time to make a change. I was less of a caterpillar and more like the frog who doesn’t realize she’s being slowly boiled alive. Ribbit.

It’s no secret that I’ve been living with depression for several years. My word choice is intentional. I’m not suffering from or struggling with depression. I live with it, the same way I live with my 34 inch inseam, my freckles, and my cat and dog. There are days when I don’t mind living with it and there are days when it’s a giant pain in the ass, but I’m not a victim of my brain chemistry. I am, however, most certainly guilty of hubris.

I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been living with depression – partially because I have the superpower of selective memory but mostly because I spent most of my adult life pretending that I was a-okay. I deluded myself into thinking I’d fake it until I made it. If I just worked hard enough and wanted it bad enough, I’d be happy. Depression was something that other people dealt with – not me. I was stronger than that. And my strength would see me through anything.

What no one knew, what no one could see, and what I refused to admit even to myself (except in those exceptionally dark and honest moments that occur at 3 AM) is that I’m no superwoman. I’m not nearly as strong as I pretend to be – not physically (although I can lift the 50 lb. bags of dog chow by myself now), not spiritually, and not emotionally. To admit that it was a daily struggle to get out of bed and face the world would be to admit to a weakness I simply could not face . . . but it was real. And as it turns out, there is a difference between living with depression and pretending you’re just fine. When you’re ignoring your depression, it wraps itself around you like a weighted blanket that you carry everywhere you go. There is a heaviness to your soul that makes weariness your de facto mode. Fatigue doesn’t adequately describe your levels of exhaustion and yet you can’t sleep. You trudge through each day in slow motion, fantasizing about returning home to the safety of your jammies and your bed, thinking that maybe tonight is the night you’ll sleep like a baby. And at 3 AM, you’ll find yourself once again staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell is wrong with you.

That’s depression. Of course, strong women like me don’t have to worry about things like living with depression, right? Smart women don’t get depressed. Depression is problem for other people, not for people like me. And I believed that, wholeheartedly, until about six years ago when I got my ovaries in a twist (figuratively) and a routine doctor’s appointment changed everything.

If you happen to have “girl parts”, you’re well aware that girl parts are a lot like owning a BMW or a fancy car. Upkeep is a full-time job and there is a lot of opportunity for things to go wrong. I’m not really using my girl parts for anything but in spite of that, I recognize the need for routine maintenance. I was about 15 years overdue for the girl parts version of an oil change so in a rare moment of adulting, I scheduled an appointment with the OB/GYN. As we reviewed my health history, my physician told me she was concerned that my ovaries were conspiring against me . . . at least, that’s my interpretation of events. She talked about something called PMDD which is the overachiever’s version of PMS. It’s like premenstrual syndrome on steroids, and no amount of Midol will make it better. I left the doctor’s office with a diagnosis of PMDD and a prescription for Prozac, which was supposed to tame the mental health side effects of my rotten ovaries.

I incorporated this little pill into my daily routine and you know what? I started to feel different. Better. Normal. And that should be where this little story ends but of course it’s not. Can you imagine if a diabetic stopped taking their insulin because they felt better? Or if an epileptic stopped taking anti-seizure pills because they haven’t had a seizure in a while? That doesn’t happen because the epileptic and the diabetic are blessed with common sense and do not possess the shocking levels of arrogance that I have.

Sometime last year, my prescription ran out. I was out of refills and the only way to get more Prozac was to visit the doctor again . . . something I really wanted to avoid at all costs. If I’m being honest, the real reason I didn’t want to visit the doctor was because I didn’t want to stand on that big scale of shame in the office while a chunky nurse in rubber-soled clogs loudly told me what I already knew . . . I’ve gained a significant amount of weight in the past 18 months. You don’t burst out of a pair of pants at work – and then staple them back together – when you’re at goal weight. Because I didn’t want to face the scale, I convinced myself that I didn’t need the Prozac anymore.

Now, I’m the first to tell you that Prozac isn’t a miracle pill. I still have low days when I’m properly medicated. But I tend to shower more regularly and spend more time out of my pajamas when I’m taking my meds – and I have fewer highs and lows. I like to say that the Prozac moderates my moods and takes the edges off. And without it, I am left to experience all my moods in their full, Technicolor glory. When combined with my self-proclaimed hall monitor of the world proclivities, an unmedicated Denise means that a lot of unsuspecting people are subject to my wrath. This includes but is not limited to litterbugs; people who don’t recycle; arm rest hogs; that sweaty asshole at the gym who can’t be bothered to wipe down his machine when he’s done; everyone at the damn grocery store; and more.

I had a good unmedicated run over the past nine months – but it was harder than it needed to be. I hit a speedbump that left me very, very low recently and I had to face facts. I’m not stronger than my brain or my ovaries. I can’t outsmart or outrun or “out-strong” depression. I was humbled, and I had a tough choice to make. Do I keep fighting this thing or do I admit that I need help and take the pills again?

Four weeks ago, I renewed my prescription. It felt like a personal failing, but I took the pills anyway. Slowly, I’m beginning to feel like myself again – the version of myself who does get out of bed; who can face the world; and who washes her hair periodically. In fact, just this morning, I looked in the mirror and realized instead of a caterpillar staring back at me, I saw a butterfly, wings and all. Maybe Prozac is more miraculous than I thought . . . .

© 2016 Princess D.