I have been living with severe depression for 35 years, since I was 14. It has been a massive, exhausting, demanding burden for the vast majority of that time. I’ll spare you the details – for now – but suffice to say that my life has not turned out the way I expected it to.

Although I’ve been able to accomplish some goals – marriage, Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees, a mostly-fulfilling career in social services, a move to California – my depression has always been there to some degree.

In late 2000, something in my life changed. My depression was triggered*, and there was no stopping it. At the time, I was married (to a man) and living the good life in California. But my depression took on a life of its own. It was kind of like watching Frankenstein’s monster come to life, only it happened in seconds flat.

It got progressively more intense and I had absolutely no idea what to do about it. I felt hopeless, helpless, lost, unworthy of love and kindness. I didn’t really give a shit about anything, even the things I love (like writing and playing tennis). I was getting more and more desperate to find a solution. I didn’t really want to die by suicide, but that’s where I was headed.

I FINALLY SOUGHT MENTAL HEALTH TREATMENT

I finally found my first psychiatrist in late 2001 (roughly 17 years after my depression appeared), who inexplicably diagnosed me as Bipolar Type II, even though it was very painfully clear to me – and everyone who knew me – that I had depression. It would take numerous subsequent psychiatrists at various locations over the next 14 years before this misdiagnosis was corrected. I’ve written a post about that, which you can read here.

This particular “episode” lasted from 2000—2006, during which time I participated in a vast array of treatment programs (inpatient, outpatient, intensive outpatient), stayed at a crisis residence three different times (a week each time), was hospitalized six times, and started the long, long journey of finding the “right” meds to help balance my moods. (That would take about ten years – but it has helped keep me alive to this point.)

It cost me three jobs, including a great job at a wonderful, impactful, respected nonprofit, played a big part in my divorce (and, therefore, my move to Minnesota and everything that has happened since), and basically fucked me over every chance it got.

A CHANGE OF SCENERY

By early 2005, I was divorced and had been in Minnesota for about a year and a half. After living rent-free with my brother and his wife for that time, I had moved into my own apartment in St. Paul. It was a basement studio. You know, the kind with the tiny windows where all you can see is people’s feet walking by?

It had dark wood paneling and the lighting was awful. My down-the-hall neighbors liked to have parties with VERY loud music on the weekends. One of the tenants on another floor, Theresa, would come knocking on my door every so often in search of cigarettes. And, as a sister in the (losing) battle of addiction, I know how much it sucks to be out of your addictive substance, so I’d usually give her a couple.

The buildings in this complex were old and really, really ugly. The only other thing I remember is that the ladies in the office were really nice. I made them Christmas cookies one year, and they just thought that was the best. I never got to know anyone else there. Hell, I didn’t even know the name of the guy who lived directly across the hall from me for over a year.

Oh, and of course I remember that my apartment was a very short five-minute walk across the train tracks to a small shopping center, where I regularly bought my fifth of Jack Daniels. That was the life – I didn’t even have to worry about driving.

THE LAST STRAW

2005 was probably my worst year ever (or maybe it’s tied with 2015). I was hospitalized 3 times just in that one year for my depression and suicidal ideation. My second hospitalization of that year saw me at my worst, ever. I was very, very ill at the time and could hardly function.

Despite the length and depth of my depression and the fact that I was barely functioning, I somehow managed to get a job as a case manager after I was let go from my previous job because of my poor attendance and lack of ability to do what I was hired for, both of which were depression-related. On August 29th, 2005, I left my new job of six weeks for lunch and never went back. I haven’t been able to work since.

Even though I had somehow been able to go through the minimal motions and get to work almost every day, I knew what was happening. Being so intimately familiar with depression, I knew that I was in BIG trouble. I drove myself to Regions Hospital in St. Paul that day and was admitted to their psych unit, where I spent the next 5 weeks.

This was the worst I’d ever been. Words can’t even describe how I felt. I was so bad off and so far gone, my mom and step-dad flew up from Florida and stayed with my brother and sister-in-law for three weeks so they could visit me and be involved in my treatment. A week or two after my admission, I hadn’t gotten any better. I wasn’t eating, I wouldn’t (couldn’t, really) participate in the groups or activities, and I couldn’t stop crying. Mostly, I slept and stared off into space.

I EXPERIENCED ALL THE RISKS OF ECT

ECT (electro-convulsive or shock ‘therapy’) was brought up as the next best option for me. My family and a dear friend came to the hospital for a meeting with my doctor and the rest of my team (I was there also, but I don’t remember it). The doctor explained what ECT was all about, including how remarkably effective it is for treatment-resistant depression. Everyone agreed (including me, apparently) that it was really my only option if I didn’t want to end up at a state hospital for an unknowable amount of time.

I ended up having 10 ECT treatments in 3 weeks. (During ECT, they induce a momentary seizure – a type of Traumatic Brain Injury – using electricity, which activates your neurotransmitters, which make you feel better.) Unfortunately, it did not help. In fact, a week after I left the hospital, while I was staying temporarily in a group home, I was more suicidal than ever. I had to go back in the hospital.

I understand perfectly that ECT is effective for the majority of people who receive it. It “jolts” them out of their depressive stupor and allows them to function once again.

However, I was in the minority of people that it didn’t work for. It did not help my depression at all, and it has left me with cognitive deficits that greatly contribute to my inability to work.

I used to be one of those people who didn’t have to study much and still got good grades. Reading comprehension/language arts skills were always my strong point (they still are, surprisingly). I have never been good at standardized tests, yet I always scored in the 99th percentile in that area. It just came naturally to me.

I always thought the depression had ruined me, and it did, for a long time. But the other reality is that ECT ruined my future. Those treatments have had a profound, lasting, undeniable effect on my cognitive abilities.

I have serious problems with my memory, especially short-term and immediate. It took me three weeks to relearn my address and phone number after the treatments. Even now, thirteen years later, I can’t remember shit. That’s why I’m always writing notes to myself.

It’s almost pointless for me to read a book, because I quickly forget the details – and sometimes the bigger picture, too. My ability to comprehend and recall what I hear or read has, more or less, gone out the window.

Nowadays, when I’m learning something new, I need to employ multiple methods if I want to be able to fully understand something or recall it later. Too often, I need to read and re-read the same passages over and over and over (whether it’s a novel, an instruction manual, a love letter – the subject is irrelevant) to be able to follow along. This is especially true if I’m in an environment where I don’t have absolute quiet. Focus and concentration are elusive and fleeting, no matter what strategies I implement.

My thoughts are scattered all throughout my brain. They often fly around as if caught in a tornado, and I am unable to nail down specific thoughts and details. This makes organization nearly impossible for me, which is truly a handicap. It also means that it’s very hard to identify what my next steps are. (Thus my preference for being told what to do.)

FINAL THOUGHTS

I have been virulently anti-ECT ever since. I do believe that it has a place in psychiatry; however, I think it should be reserved for a very small subset of people. In my extensive psych unit experience, it has been used more often than I ever thought it should be.

So I will never do it again. I don’t necessarily preach against it, but I do share my experience with others so they know some of the risks.

For some, it’s exactly what they need. Maybe you’ve had it and it actually helped. That’s fantastic! But for me, no. Never again.

Thankfully, I have found TMS to be an extremely effective treatment for my depression (and sometimes my anxiety) and consider myself very lucky that I’ve found anything at all that works.

Living with chronic depression sucks beyond words. If you feel depressed, do yourself a favor: Get some treatment. Research your options. Don’t assume that doctors are always right about everything – my misdiagnosis and subsequent years of suffering are proof of that. Get a second opinion if you feel like you need one.

Just do something. For years, I said, “I don’t enjoy life; I endure it.” You know what my screen-saver says now? It says, “I am okay :)”.

It is possible to get better. Never give up.

And Keep it Real.

*Triggers can be small things, big things, or unknown things. This one happened to be a doozy.