Category Archives: mental illness


It’s the start of fall squash season and I’m still suicidally depressed. I still wake up crying most days. Today I have two butternut and two acorn squash to cook for lunch/dinner at work, and I’m still crying.

I feel like I’m trapped in one very painful moment in time while the world moves through at normal speed.

For every recurrence of depression in adults, it gets harder to treat.

I haven’t found a medicine that makes these days bearable.

I have a posted of Georgia O’Keeffe’s Brooklyn bridge hanging on my walls, along with all my other queer paraphernalia.  My cat is showing me all of his toe beans.

I am still crying but I have squash to cook.


Medications and “Side” Effects

A lot of psychiatric medications were initially created to do something else.  A lot were not intended to be taken every day.  For most of these drugs, even the doctors that prescribe them do not understand how they work, only that they do, sometimes, with some people.

Most of these drugs come with serious side effects, the most common being the euphemistic “sexual side effects” that range from decreased desire to the inability to achieve orgasm.  Of course, for most people with serious depression, feeling like you want to die is a bigger damper on your sex drive than any medication could ever be.

I’ve been on and eventually off of all the following drugs: prozac, paxil, lexapro, zoloft, celexa, effexor, cymbalta, bupropion, abilify, latuda, mertazapine, trazadone. I’m now only on trintellix.  Some of these worked for short periods, others for longer, some not at all, and still others completely knocked me out so that I couldn’t feel suicidal but also couldn’t feel anything due to being a zombie.

“Working” is also not like when we say other drugs are “working.” There’s no blood test (yet) that can be done at home several times a day to determine whether your serotonin or norepinephrine is higher or lower. In fact, I don’t even know if “higher” and “lower” are the correct measures for these things. Mental illness is uniquely measured by the symptoms rather than the causes. The pills may or may not lead to a lessening of symptoms. I’m still not sure if that means that the illness is getting “better.”

When I start crying for little to no reason, I mentally check to see if I’ve taken my meds today. But I have very little faith that taking them will help.

Things that have been proven to help: good books, a clean apartment, cats, sunshine, exercise, stretching, time with lovers.  I can usually get at least two of these things per day. Maybe I should start thinking about them when I begin to cry.

Where do feelings come from?

When I was a lowly undergrad, I volunteered at a peer counseling hotline. We had extensive training that makes all other job training I’ve had look like playtime at okay corral. One of the things we were never supposed to say on a call was “how did that make you feel?” because one of our prime directives was “nothing makes you feel. Your feelings come from you.”  At the time, I got around this rule by saying something like “how did you feel after that happened?” or “what did that feel like?” and by openly mocking this rule to friends outside of our office – “hey hey! nothing makes you feel anything. these feelings are your response!” (yeah i wasn’t the most belly showing coworker, even then). It didn’t make sense to me that someone could dump you, or you could get rejected in some other way, or some attack could happen, and you were still wholly responsible for your feelings. I was young.

There’s some kind of magical (or at least intricate) process by which we take the events of our life and turn them into feelings.

After my not very bad week, I came to work today and immediately started crying. What happened? Honestly, nothing. Nothing happened… well, nothing caused the feelings.

Last week in therapy my therapist suggested that, like my last not very bad week, perhaps life didn’t have to be painful. That just maybe we could go about our days and not have horrible pain in our bodies and minds becuase of the world around us and how we interpret that world.  That seemed completely foreign to me. The world is horrible. How can we not feel horrible? But… organizing, doing nothing, reading, writing… none of those have seemed to impact either the horribleness of the world or how I feel about it. So what is the cause? Is it all in my head? Yes, no, and yes and no.


A Surprisingly Not Awful Very Bad Week

Last week my partner in crime went away to a huge festival (named pensic) where they took the kids and dressed in “garb” and carried money around in a leather pouch and observed battles in the company of others who like to do these things. Because this vacation involved other people and groups of other people who join in medieval role play, and because it involved sleeping outside in tents, I declined to join them.

Before they left, I made several contingency plans for things to do if I got really really sad and lonely. I didn’t have to rely on any of these contingencies!

When I went back to therapy on Monday, my therapist observed that I looked amused and surprised by how well my last week had gone.  I do find it slightly amusing and very surprising when I’m not suicidal. I think most people who struggle with long term health problems or mental health issues develop this capacity to be pleasantly surprised by ordinary functioning.  I haven’t cried yet today. In light of the world we live in and where I was emotionally a few weeks ago, that’s good news. At the same time, we are aware that normal functioning isn’t something to be surprised by – so we remain a little apart from it, as if it is someone else’s life that is converging on ours.

Knowing someone – my partner – who spends most days not crying and doesn’t quite understand the range of struggles I deal with internally, I do understand that wanting to live isn’t this hard for most people.  But it has always been this hard for me. So the not wanting to die is a nice change, not something to count on for sure, but a pleasant surprise.

Don’t hurt the dragon!

My cats are the reason that I’m still here. I know that sounds “crazy.” I usually don’t tell psychiatric type people this because of how it sounds. But, the thing is, my cats are old, they aren’t well suited to change, and they don’t bond well with new people. Basically in a shelter to adoption situation, they’d be doomed. I tend to forgive them their accidents – eating too fast and then throwing up on the carpet, etc – because they are animals that don’t know better. They can’t learn. They don’t have the ability to think “remember last time I ate this fast and it made me throw up? let’s not do that again.” to the extent that they have thought processes at all, it’s more like “food, yum, eat eat eat, oh no!”

i imagine that Daenerys’s dragons have similarly limited thought processes. they hear the command and they breath fire. In the GOT series, we very rarely get “good” characters who don’t kill and don’t reap the benefits of murder. Like my cats, the dragons have no conscience, they aren’t *supposed* to obey any kind of social contract. They are simply doing what they’re instincts tell them to do. Eat until full. Breathe fire. Sleep. Fly around looking menacing.

I would forgive my cats anything. I would also forgive the dragons anything. I know that this is misplaced solidarity. I know that there are human people in my life who love me and would care a lot if I killed myself. I know that their pain would be much more than my cats (who would end up okay, because I have good friends who might step in and at the very least a great humane society in my town that rarely kills animals for space, only for severe and unremediable behavior or health issues). But my heart goes out to the wounded dragon, it seems unfair that he would be hurt, and my heart would go out to my cats if they’re designated human servant left them.

Perhaps this is because I don’t expect dragons, or cats, to help their humans think of better solutions to life’s problems (be them horrible depression or usurpers to the throne). I expect the humans in my life to think of better ways. I guess I should admit that I’m pretty angry at the people in my life for not being there for me in the ways they can. Even though I haven’t given them instructions, even though there’s mostly nothing they can do, and even though there are a few who have come through for me.

In conclusion, don’t hurt the dragons. It’s not their fault. But it’s probably not people’s fault either.

Getting Better

When you go to visit a lot of psychiatrists and other “helping professions,” people often ask you how your depression/anxiety/whatnot is on a scale of 1-10. This is a horribly inaccurate measure for most people, but it gives you some data points at least, despite:

  • one person’s “5” is another person’s “8” and the charts don’t stay with a particular patient through various agencies, so there isn’t a way to measure your progress or not on your own individual scale
  • you are asked to rank your depression overall for the past week/day/whatnot, and you automatically privilege how you are feeling at that moment. i regularly have “dips” to being at an 8 or 9 but they only last for an hour or so, and then fade.
  • you never ever want to say “10” or “1” because these seem like the end of the game.

The goal is for your score to go down as you get better. Not that anyone thinks you will ever get to a 1, but to hover around a 2 or 3 at least means that you are not a danger to yourself and that life seems bearable.

I’ve been at about a 7 or 8 this week. Well, for quite a few weeks. My goal is to hover at around a 6, which would translate to at least “I have some hope that I won’t feel this way forever.”

Death isn’t a cure for depression. But it is a cure for a life lived in this much pain.

I’m just searching for another cure. Trying out the various things that the doctors give me. Trying to hold on.

Relationship Remixer

When I was just at the tail end of and getting out of college, up through the beginning of graduate school, I had a very serious girlfriend. We shacked up. We codepended. We were both pretty depressed – her more than me at that stage in my life. She self medicated mostly with pot and I self “medicated” with an eating disorder and cutting. It was overall not a good scene, even though there was a lot of love and care and mutual understanding. What there wasn’t a lot of, at least towards the end, was sex. Maybe this is true of all relationships, maybe just of lesbian relationships, maybe just of finally getting your shit together and getting on the right medication that kills your sex drive, maybe some combination of all of the above. For my time in grad school, she would still call me up every so often and tell me that I was the only one who ever really knew how to take care of her, who accepted her the way that she was (and ask me sometime to tell you about her new husband who is a staunch republican, totally anti-gay, and has borderline personality disorder).  I did love and accept her, and she did me, and we never needed to say “I don’t know why there is no reason I’ve been crying all day this is just my life.”

For a long time after that relationship ended, I thought that what killed our sex life was the fact that I took such good care of her — that I became a pseudo-parent figure to her.  I vowed that in my next few relationships, I wouldn’t let my partner take care of me. I would rely on friends, on chosen family, on anybody but the person who I wanted to also fuck my brains out to pick me up form the psych ward. Never the twain shall meet.

Unfortunately, and fortunately, my current primary partner doesn’t have a serious history with mental illness and will always ask what happened when he sees me crying.In some ways, it is a nice change. In others, I want to shield him from what happens in my head because I don’t want him to take care of me and because I don’t want to let him in.