On art, and fun, and saving your life

This Saturday was my first watercolor class ever, at the Brooklyn Museum.  I thought I knew my way around watercolor, but the more I learn, the more I learn that I don't know what I'm doing.  And really, I just want an excuse to paint for a couple of hours a week. It's a ten-session course, and I get to take it with my dad. Not to mention a lively assortment of art nerds. I say that without judgment, as I am one of them. These are my people. You shall know us by the graphite smudges on our cheeks.

One of my class paintings. Oh, but I have a lot to learn.

I cannot begin to tell you how fun this class was. It was stupid fun. I can't explain it. We didn't do anything ground-breaking. But by the end of the class I was giddy. I get such joy from this, it's embarrassing. Why is it embarrassing, you ask? That is an excellent question, and one I should bring up with my imaginary therapist.

It's been too easy, over the past few weeks, to set this new habit of mine aside. Life gets tiring and complicated and by the end of the day I'd rather watch the Daily Show than haul out my paints or find something to sketch. (The other day I sketched Jon Stewart. Multitasking!) I have to push myself, but I'm so much happier when I do it than when I don't.

As I wrote in my latest blog post over at Babble, I started painting after my psychiatrist suggested I figure out what "fun" meant, for me.

During one of my sessions with my psychiatrist, most of which were spent with my head deep in the tissue box, he asked me what I did for fun.

“Faaaahn?” I said.

“Fun,” he said.

“What is this ‘faaahrn’?” I said.

It seemed like there was a trick to his question, like my source of fun would have to be esoteric and challenging, something that hadn't occurred to me before. Like samba lessons, or advanced magic. I considered art, and disregarded it at first because it was--well, not easy, but natural. I've been drawing and painting my whole life. It seemed like cheating. Like I was getting away with something. As if fun needed to be hard. I am a slow learner, folks.

I want everyone else to have something like this. Especially those of us dealing with depression--we who tend to focus more on feeling okay, on avoiding pain, than seeking out joy. If you could do anything that's pure fun, what would you do? Bonus points if it's embarrassing. I suspect you're all secret clog dancers.

Hazy shade of autumn

Here is my cat. CAN YOU SEE HER?

Oh, but she is there. She is hiding. She is a sneaky bag-hider.

I put this paper bag on the floor thinking it would invite Izzy to enjoy Fun Active Times during which she would playfully bat at the bag, burn calories, and etc. Instead she decided that this Mystery Bag was actually a brand-new nap cubby. Cat just wants to rest. Only rest, says Cat.

She's still losing weight, though, I think, sort of, I mean SHE IS. Plus--and this is a big plus--her coat, which used to be greasy and disturbing from her midsection area down to her butt, is now all-over pleasant and shiny. You can pet her anywhere! You should not, however, pet her butt, because that is odd and also she will bite you. She is affectionate but her boundaries must be respected.

I AM NOT HERE TO TALK ABOUT MY CAT YOU GUYS.

I'm not sure what to say about things. Things that are not my cat. I tried to write a new post for days, but all I had were three words, and those three words were "Autumn is weird." Fascinating! Tell me more, Ms. Bradley!

I always experience a slight decline in mood and eensy-to-moderate uptick in anxiety level around this time of year, and every year it takes me forever to catch on to what's happening. Sometimes I suspect I am less smartish than I heretofore had figured.

I used to like autumn, too. I have no idea what I was ever thinking. This time of year is terrible and also! It will continue to be terrible until April! The light is waning! The cold is coming! The snows will envelop us all!

For instance. Look at that. Look at our October Snow. That is the second-worst Guns 'n' Roses song ever. How dare you, climate. How dare you right to hell.

On the other hand we can wear layers. And that's nice.

Anyway, I've managed to cheer myself up, in all the boring ways, like taking care of myself and sleeping enough. BORING. Also, I am running while listening to fun music! (Running around, that is. I come back home. I'm not flailing my arms and screaming as I bound across state lines.) And it finally hit me, after watching three episodes of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix, that this is a fantastic show but a terrible choice for someone with anxiety. Right now I should only watch things that make me laugh or at least smile with enthusiasm. Like this other show called Baby Hedgehogs and Kittens in Teacups. Wait, no, that's Cute Overload. I thought Cute Overload was a show.

It SHOULD be a show, at that. Damn it, powerful network executives. What's it going to take?

Go ask me: so, about the pills

I received an email a couple of weeks ago that posed the following question: knowing everything I know now, would I still have started down the medication road?

Well.

I have been thinking and thinking about this. Was I too hasty, starting on Prozac? Should I have explored other therapies? Tried to get my nutrition in order? Worked on becoming more active, getting more sunshine, found a spiritual community, taken herbs, gotten a good old-fashioned exorcism? Before I launched into this weird and side-effects-filled journey?

I first took Prozac when I was 27. I had been in therapy for years. No amount of talking seemed to shrug off the consistently low mood I had fought for as long as I could remember. I had anxiety and panic attacks, as well; these began when I was a teenager.

The worst part of my feeling awful was that there was no reason for it, as far as I could see. I had a boyfriend who was funny and loving and supportive (I later married him). I had a fun job working with people I loved. I had plenty of friends. I had therapied myself until there were no more issues to unearth and discuss. There was nothing that I could use to blame for my constant misery. At some point, when my therapist suggested for the 93rd time that I think about medication, I listened.

My first psychiatrist was weird. Off-the-charts weird. He giggled when he talked about the sexual side effects of certain medications. I remain mystified as to why people like that go into psychiatry. Nonetheless, he was thorough. He ordered a complete blood workup to see if there were any underlying physical issues. When it was confirmed that I was in full working order, except for my malfunctioning thought processes, he prescribed Prozac.

A few days after I began the Prozac, I woke up one morning, and I felt fine.

Here's the thing: up until that day, I had never felt fine. Not ever. I didn't know what "fine" was. I thought I did; I thought there were periods when I thought I was doing quite well. I thought the Prozac was treating a relatively recent development in my emotional state. And then I woke up that day, and I realized that this was normal, and this was how I was supposed to feel all the time. And it was utterly, utterly new to me.

It was as if I had spent my entire life hearing a constant thrumming sound in the background, a percussive rhythm that became part of the fabric of my life. And then I woke up to silence, and I had no idea what silence was. And I could think, without all that noise.

Well! I proceeded to call all of my friends. I couldn't get enough of this feeling. This being fine was a miracle! Who knew? Was everyone else like this? Did everyone else get to experience what I was experiencing? I practically skipped out of my house that morning. I'm sure I was unbearable for a while, there. I don't think I cared even the tiniest little bit.

That was 15 years ago, and if I had been smart, I would have never messed with the prescription I was on, but the records show that I am not always smart. About a year later, although things were going swimmingly, I decided to stop taking Prozac, and then I relapsed. And I began it again, and stopped again, the then another relapse. This happened four times. Meanwhile I switched psychiatrists (I just couldn't take the giggling) and my new doc for some reason just desperately wanted me to be bipolar. She put me on all kinds of bipolar meds that made me ill, and then I found a smarter doctor, and the bipolar diagnosis was quickly scrapped.

Here I am now, back on Prozac. I've read a lot about depression in the ensuing years, and one thing I learned is that if you have more than 3 or 4 relapses, you probably shouldn't ever go off the medication. If you've read my last few posts about my depression and the medication adjustments, you know that I had another relapse while on Prozac, which was (for me) unprecedented, and worrisome, to say the least. Thus the new drug, Remeron, which didn't take. So now I'm only on Prozac, again, and right now I'm back to feeling fine. Which is a feeling I love with all my heart.

As for my relapse-on-Prozac, I think I leaned on the medication a little too hard, and as a result let my diet and self-care slip because, after all, I had the drugs to keep me well. This is like a person being on cholesterol medication and eating bacon and ice cream sundaes every night. In the past six months I've been completely overhauling my diet, in addition to making sleep a high priority, both in quality and quantity. (Mmm, quantity.) I'll get into the food stuff in a later post, as I see this post is getting too long for its own good.

So: with everything I've been through, would I still have gone on medication? In a heartbeat. Medication was, for me, a tremendous gift. I got to see what relief felt like. And when I lost that relief, I knew what I could have again. I knew exactly what I was aiming for.

Here I am!

It took longer than expected to get back here, but I'm here now, hello! I feel like a human again. And not some kind of awful platypus. Not that platypuses are awful--I just felt like one that is. One that waddles around poisoning passersby with its venomous hind spurs, just because. Because it can. I'll bet his name is Gary. Gary the Asshole Platypus. God, what a dick. And to think I felt like just like him! Thank goodness that's over.

Thank you, everyone, for your kind messages and emails and comments. Except for the commenter who said I sounded like a "menopausal Vienese [sic] matron from 1896." I don't think he meant to crack me up, but holy hell, that made me laugh. That is awfully specific, sir! Not to mention puzzling. I never once mentioned my overly tight whale-bone corset OR the various remedies for Hysteria prescribed to me.

Listen. 

I can imagine how it sounds to some people, me being all, "I can't work! I have the Dark Mood! My doctor told me to have fun!" It sounded indulgent to me, for sure. I wasn't into it. I like to work. I vastly prefer it to near-constant thoughts of death. For instance.

I know there are people who roll their eyes at the idea that someone is too depressed to work. If they want to roll their eyes at me, that's fine (Henry rolls his eyes at me all day long, so I'm used to it), but I do wish everyone would stop with the idea that depression is just a mindset and a person need only cheer up, for goodness sake. Depression is not only the state of someone's mood. Depression affects your entire body. The negative thoughts and feelings almost seem like a byproduct of the physical toll depression can take. It's a horrifying experience, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

That said, I know from the comments that some of you are dealing with your own depression and anxiety, and you have my deepest sympathy, and fervent hopes that you feel better, and soon. Here are a few things that helped me (in addition to Prozac, Mirtazipine, and Klonopin):

Getting outside every day. For the first few days I couldn't walk more than a block or two (I don't know whether it was the meds or my brain, but any kind of exertion left me lightheaded and whoopsy), but I gently coaxed myself outside every day. Walking Charlie was a perfect activity--short distances (he's an old dog) with many stops (who feels compelled to pee on everything). Plus sometimes we would interact with other dog owners, and they were nice, which was a helpful reminder that Nice People Exist.

Instant Netflix (again). Although I've seen every episode of Arrested Development more times than I can count, I watched it some more. And "Working Girl," which I found strangely compelling, although I never have before. Sigourney Weaver, ladies. Am I right? (Although when Melanie Griffith lisps that line about having a head for business and a "bod for sin" I kind of want to punch something. Still, punching is better than crying!)

Podcasts. I love many podcasts, but right now my favorites are the Pod F. Tompkast, Superego, and Julie Klausner's How Was Your Week?  If you want to feel like you have witty, warm friends who are whispering hilarious somethings into your ear-canals, I can't recommend these podcasts enough.

Fish oil. Okay, I don't know if the fish oil actually did anything, but at least it helped me feel like I was being pro-active. Also, Vitamin D3. Which I am apparently deficient in. And I ignored my doctor's orders to take it, and then I read that a Vitamin D deficiency can cause depression, so I'm not ignoring my doctor's orders to take the Vitamin D now, is what I'm saying. I should have been taking it already. Again, I don't know if this helped. Maybe it did? No, definitely! Look how positive I am, now! VITAMIN D!

In other news, tomorrow's my birthday! And I am going to write more for you guys next week. Things are looking up. I'm glad you're still here. Or, you know, you've come back. I didn't think you were waiting here this whole time. I KNOW YOU HAVE A LIFE. Sheesh. I just, you know. You're here, and I'm here. Let's celebrate. Hooray!