Happy anniversary, SSRIs.

This is a bad time of the year for me. The anniversarial season of challenging life events.This month will mark the 4th anniversary for me and my meds. (I started off on Prozac, but switched to Zoloft a couple of years ago when I thought I might embark upon the childbirthing thing.)

Yesterday, my OCD kicked in… I wanted to recall the exact anniversary DAY. I poured through old pda notes, emails, letters, IMs,… all in search of pinning down the exact day.

Three hours later, no luck. But I want to say it may have been a Thursday sometime in the first half of the month.

Drove me crazy that I couldn’t pinpoint the day.

Fumbling through those letters and IMs… Wow. I am SO glad I am no longer that girl. What a sad, desperate, delusional, lonely girl. I found I did not have the patience to read them completely. I doubt the recipient ever did. (Can’t say I would have blamed him.)

Recipient: my first love. 1985. Bad, bad, bitter, bitter breakup, circa 1992. (Well, the FINAL breakup, anyway. Also, the last time I saw him.)

We’ve managed to be in touch in subsequent years. Sometimes, once every 3-4 years. But, in the time leading up to my “breakdown,” we were in more contact than we ever should have been. It wasn’t good, and it wasn’t fair to all involved. (My husband included… *especially* included.)

So many gory details, but the punchline is that my snapping point was induced by my uncovering hurtful lies (spoken and merely withheld information). When confronted, I was simply laughed at (literally) and tersely shooed away by him.

(Not to say that I was blameless. Or a victim. What I WAS was terribly, terribly lost.)

I spiraled into the deepest pits of depression at that point. That’s REALLY saying something because, come to find out, I’d been exhibiting many symptoms of clinical depression for YEARS. (One of my docs conjectured I’ve been depressed since I was a kid. I don’t doubt it one bit.)

Those pits are something I wish upon no one. It’s hard to explain what it’s like… I likened it to feeling like a ghost… Empty, driftless, meaningless, detached from everything around me.

I’d curl up in a corner on the floor or on the couch and cry for hours. I could not sleep at night… My thoughts would not shut off. I could not eat.

I just. didn’t. care.

I downed loads of vicodin with gin and tonic in hopes that I’d feel numb. I didn’t want to kill myself. I just didn’t want to feel. Feeling hurt TOO much.

And I seemed to lose my poker face at work. People started noticing something was wrong with me.

I made an appointment to see my primary doctor, Dr. Hamilton. (I HEART him so!) I had hoped he’d diagnose me with depression so he could give me a prescription. When he did just that, I felt my chest crush. It was official: his diagnosis made it real. Gulp. I left his office with a prescription, an appointment with a psychiatrist and another with a therapist.

And I’ve never looked back.

I learned that my claustrophobic reaction all those years to people (especially HIM) telling me to “just get over it” was founded. I COULDN’T just get over it. Not to mention the frustration I felt… I mean, hey, I’m a smart girl. And I could rationalize everything. So why couldn’t I just get myself to feeling better?

The meds helped me to realize just how chemical this whole depression thing is.

I am certain I would not be a functional person without the meds, the therapy, and my AMAZING network of friends.

Other stuff happened during “the season” the following year, but that’s a whole other story and, needless to say, I’ve triumphed through it.

Now, having said all of that, I am glad to realize that I no longer feel so anxious about not remembering the exact day of my anniversary.

What matters is where I am right now.

And that Tim just brought me cookies and a latte in my favorite ChocoCat bowl.

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