Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Depression, Boxes, and Revelation

I don't talk about my depression much.  I've been very good at putting on a Cinderella smile and making everything appear completely normal.  Until lately, since my family doctor decided to jack with my depression medication and change a few things.  At first I was okay, but then the panic attacks started.  I got in touch with my actual psychiatrist and she make a few more adjustments to my meds to help take care of the anxiety.  I haven't have another panic attack - thank God - but now I'm a zombie who cries... a lot.  I hate crying.

The psychiatrist decided I needed to add "talk therapy" to the regimen.  Ever since my dad was diagnosed with rapid progressive Multiple Sclerosis when I was 10 years old, I've been in and out of psychotherapy.  Clearly at this point in my life if I still have to do the therapy thing I know it isn't going to work.  It hasn't for the last 27 years, why would it now?  But I went.  Once, to appease the doctors.  But something happened this time. I realized something about myself.

All the little parts of my life, including people, incidents, memories, happenings, everything that has ever happened to me is in a little box and shoved down deep inside me where I can keep it and no one else has to know about it or see it and I don't ever have to talk about it unless I want to - which I don't.  All my mistakes, all the ways and reasons for how I feel about myself and in a box somewhere.  When I went to this psychologist she started asking me very specific questions and boxes started opening and things started flying all around my brain.  Almost every box was at least cracked in some way and things leaked out everywhere.  By the end of the night I couldn't take any more.  I couldn't stop the thoughts.  I couldn't stop the tears.  I couldn't stop all the thoughts of every awful thing that I had repressed for years and years.  I apparently had worked very hard on organizing my life and putting everything in it's proper place and pretty little box and calling it "making peace with my past."  

Obviously the revelation finally came.  The pretty little boxes were nothing more than baggage that if I don't deal with and properly store away so I don't explode again, it will just overtake me and I will live in a whack shack for the rest of my life.  Don't you just love learning new things about yourself?  I hate it.

1 comment:

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