When I become extremely ill, like I did when I relapsed in 2015, it's only a matter of time before I become depressed. I consider depression a normal reaction to suffering from relentless fatigue, pain, flu-like symptoms, and insomnia. It's kind of a lot to deal with. Especially considering I was so impaired I was forced to quit my job, stop exercising, and hit the kill-switch on engaging with the outside world. Given how rapidly my life plunged into the abyss, I can't fathom how on earth I was supposed to sail through such crushing circumstances with a smile on my face and spring in my step.
Yet that is precisely what the medical system in my country expects me to do. Apparently I am not supposed to care that I am sick, about what I have lost, or show concern over how horrible I feel, lest I'm labeled with Somatic Symptom Disorder. As defined by Mayo Clinic, SSD is basically when a person becomes so focused on their pain or fatigue it causes major emotional distress and problems functioning. Ummmm...if the conundrum weren't so ridiculous, I would laugh.
So by October of 2016 my depression got so crushing, I was searching for the will to live--and coming up short. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the decline in my health. It was like I was floating in the sky watching my life disintegrate round me, utterly powerless to stop it. This ain't my first rodeo. I've fallen and fought my way back up more times than I can count. But I spent the better part of 2016 as
THE GREATEST PRETENDER, denying and suppressing the truth of my reality because I was convinced how I felt didn't matter and that I really shouldn't care...
Guess what, you brilliant medical minds who came together to write the definition for SSD? Pretending what's real ain't real does not work! It became extremely obvious to me the day I came home from walking my dogs and realized I'd just spent a half-hour drafting a goodbye letter to my husband in my head. Infused with furious anger, I had listed out all the reasons there was absolutely no point in either of us fighting for my pathetic existence any longer. While I hadn't hatched a plan to end my own life, per se, I was without a doubt on my way there.
That night I confessed the ugly depths of my depression to my husband. It was awful. But the battle back was only in its inception. Trying to find mental-health help while severely depressed was akin to cruel and unusual punishment. And I have good health insurance. Doctors have never done very well by me, and this experience was no exception. I found a psychiatrist in my network with an opening before the turn of the century, but was caught off guard when I had to give her office manager a credit-card number in order to book the appointment. The day I showed up, I learned they were unfamiliar with the term "co-pay." They wanted me to pay for the visit in full, then promised to reimburse me once they received my insurance's payment. Huh? Yah, I pretty much burst into tears. Confused and desperate, all I needed was an increase in my antidepressant dosage, and they wanted $400.
The psychiatrist herself wasn't horrible. She was quite disappointed that I didn't suffer from addiction, however. It seemed to be her specialty. She had never heard of, nor could she pronounce "fibromyalgia," but was compassionate toward my circumstances. Her diagnosis was shocking. She thought I needed outpatient psychiatric treatment, like a rehab where I went to class every day and learned how to not be depressed anymore. I tried to explain how with my illness, making a once-a-week appointment was a hardship; every day was simply impossible. If I were capable of that level of activity, I'd go get a job and get on with my life and forget about the whole sordid affair! Seeking a more realistic option, I inquired as to what level of help she offered. She didn't do counseling, just medication management, and didn't know of any therapists to refer me to. I left with my prescription in hand and never went back.
The psychiatrist was a walk in the park compared to the therapist I found. The therapist was twenty minutes late for our first appointment and spent the entire session listening to me talk while she input my medical information into her cell phone (at least that's what she said she was doing). The second appointment she was thirty-three minutes late, then once she arrived informed me she was delayed because she was shopping for her granddaughter's upcoming birthday party. That pissed me off. The third appointment was my favorite because it consisted of me sitting in her waiting room for forty-five minutes before receiving a text from her informing me she was twenty minutes away. I stood up and walked out of the room. Yea, I personalized the way this very unprofessional woman treated me. In my depressed state all I felt was mortified that I had become such an insignificant human being, not even a person I paid treated me like I was worth their time.
Clearly finding the will to want to live was up to me and my antidepressant. I was in an extremely fragile state and these doctors were doing severe harm to me. I didn't have the emotional stamina to keep shopping around until I found a mental-health professional who was the right fit. This experience rocked me, sent me reeling as I struggled to understand why I wasn't worthy of help. Already broken, I feared for the woman I would become after enduring more disregard and abuse.
It's been a little over a year since I first sought help, and after a hard-fought battle I can confidently say I securely own the will to live. The shift in my depression has far more to do with getting a grasp on my fibro/CFS symptoms than anything to do with mental health. Yet looking back on this experience, I can't believe how horrible it was. I was in a very desperate, awful place, and couldn't find a semblance of assistance. It speaks very poorly of the medical system that is is so clueless as to what's wrong with me, they solely seek to shut me down.
Thanks for joining,
Leah
