Your Recovery Is Your Responsibility
Five Things I've Learned Dealing With Depression TW:Mentions of Suicide
I worry that both of my parents will commit suicide.
I never once thought my parents' divorce was my fault, unlike the stereotype. But a suicide? I don't think I could get over the belief that I didn't do enough and am therefore, if only partially, responsible. I thought I was supposed to be their reason to keep fighting. I don't have kids, but everything I hear about the experience would lead me to believe that my mere existence, and better yet, my success, makes it all worth it. Is that selfish? My husband and cats make my life worth living, but that doesn't mean the thought of ending my life isn't tempting at times. I guess the same rules apply. It would not be my husband's fault if I took the spiral staircase lower and lower into my own demise in his presence. If he did nothing, yeah, maybe. But he would tell me how loved I am, how cherished I am, he'd question my therapist, my medication, and my environment before I reach rock bottom. I know he'd keep a close eye on me. So when he leaves me alone for an hour and comes back to a cold body, he wouldn't be responsible-not even a little bit. So why do I feel responsible for my parents if such a horrible thing happens? I don't know if it's some instinctual urge to care for your blood. Maybe it's because I feel united with them through our shared experience with mental illness. Perhaps it's just love.
My parents grew up in a time when professional help through a therapist, medication, and inpatient care was demonized. My father has admitted to me that he would see himself as weak if he took up weekly therapy sessions. How deeply frustrating it is to hear this, and no work is put into undoing that belief. Inversely, I grew up in the time of Tumblr posts that discussed how important mental health is. I grew up with the MeToo and Body Positivity movements. A time in which you were allowed to feel, express, and process pain. I firmly believe that you are typically not responsible for your trauma, but you are always responsible for your recovery. So, when I have these fears and they both refuse therapy, I get worked up. It is of the utmost importance to do everything in your power to get better, if not for yourself, for everyone who loves you.
It's not that I don't get it. There is a sort of comfort in deep depression, a release of inhibitions so strong that everything seems trivial. Not leaving bed, eating only one or two fast food meals a day, and scrolling Instagram reels sunup to sundown sounds like a perfect day. But that's the keyword: sounds. In reality, a perfect day involves the sun, loved ones, a good book, smelling flowers, sharing an ice cream cone, and a balanced dinner on the patio. It's climbing high peaks and plunging into deep lakes. But choosing life when the bed is so cozy, your body feels like it's filled with rocks, and dopamine is hitting rapidly thanks to phone use, is challenging. So those of us who struggle with this disorder and rise above it every day are some of the strongest members of our society, in my humble opinion.
I've always had anxiety. I can't remember a time I didn't live in a state of unrest and unease, but depression is a whole other story. I only began to feel lethargic, unmotivated, and exhausted at these levels in 2020, at the onset of the pandemic. Society opened back up, but my symptoms kept me locked away in my room. It's led me to be an inefficient employee, a lazy partner, and an absent daughter. For years, it ruled me, like Pisces is ruled by Neptune. Neptune is the planet of illusions and dreams. I dream big of a beautiful life where I write for a living in my exposed-brick Brooklyn loft. Not until 2023 did I take the first steps in Action, and not in Dreaming. In 2025, I still battle every day to embrace the old me. In these five years since the start of this… journey? Here are five things I've learned.
Therapy is not one size fits all. Run through the therapists in your town like a frat boy runs through a kegerator. Do not stop until you find one who speaks to you, and when she moves to another state and can't service you anymore, begin again.
Julie did wonders for me. She called me out on my bullshit, and she taught me to treat the depressed version of me as a friend, not like the enemy. It may sound obvious, but telling yourself to "grow up" and "stop letting this control you" is much less efficient than "it's okay to feel sad, but we are going to do better tomorrow." She was raw, honest, and felt more like an aunt or family friend than someone I was paying. Then she moved away, and my insurance continued to cover our sessions for a bit, then suddenly stopped. It was hard to let go and move on, and I stopped therapy for a while.
I started again and have landed on someone who understands me, but doesn't allow me to stay down where it's comfortable. Someone who laughs and sympathizes with me before giving her famous life-changing advice. It's like online dating, your first matches aren't likely to be your soulmate.
Medication changed my life for the better. Yes – there can be adverse side effects. But what's the alternative, spending your life miserable?
Get a good psychiatrist on your roster. When I first got prescribed Lexapro, my parents were worried. My mother doesn't process SSRIs very well, and during her time with Prozac, she became suicidal and felt that it was her righteous duty to end her life. When I began taking my meds, she feared that I would be the same. My father, on the other hand, felt the opposite. He was afraid that I would become a zombie. To be fair, that did happen. But only for a bit! We started at a low dosage, but eventually worked up to 20mg. That was just the right amount of medication to numb me, every part of me. My husband would look at my eyes, smile his beautiful smile, and tell me how much he loved me. I said those things back, but I did not feel them as deeply as I once had, as sincerely as I knew he felt. This wasn't me falling out of love with him. I was aware of my love for him like it was a fact, and not a feeling. I brought this to my psychiatrist, and she dropped me back down to 15 mg. All those feelings came back to me, but so did a more volatile mood, and once again, instability plagued me. I constantly feared being cheated, abandoned, or hurt. My mind was riddled with visions of my loved ones or myself dying tragically. I'm no stranger to horrific images of my own imagination, but with the 20mg, I had a brief respite from this quirk.
I knew that feeling this low sometimes meant feeling very high other times. I then brought this to my psychiatrist, and instead of changing my dose or medication, she prescribed me a supplementary pill to help with mood, motivation, and energy. Frankly, we still haven't found my perfect pill cocktail recipe for balance. I can't stress this enough: It's exceptionally annoying to find a medication that works. But you alone are responsible for your recovery. It had once been the norm to think that my friends all secretly hated me, that my husband would cheat on me. It had once been the norm to believe that I would die tragically and would leave no impact on the world, like a fly landing on that sticky paper that hangs from the ceiling. It wasn't until I started taking medication that I could even begin to identify how illogical my thinking was.
There will be hard days, even when you develop healthy coping mechanisms, even when you are medicated, even when you work hard to feel happy. The horrors persist, but so do you.
For me, at least, no matter what I do, there will be days when I wake up and, within seconds, look at the news, or a text, or a bad encounter replays in my mind. Whether these things brush off my shoulders or stick around is like roulette. Often, the headlines that hit my phone in the middle of the night mean nothing; perhaps I'm subconsciously choosing not to process them. For self-preservation or laziness, I read them and consider the global humanitarian crises. Still, I continue on, because in this apathetic capitalist society, it doesn't change the fact that I need to get to work on time. But there are days, and there always will be days, when it's sticky like spilled juice that was never cleaned up. It's a shadow following me everywhere, whispering negative affirmations in my ear, telling me all that everything I love will be burned or taken by the wealthy and powerful, and that there's no point in fighting it.
It’s cliche but true, you aren't alone.
I know, I know, but hear me out! I've called the suicide hotline – which is now 988, if needed – exactly once in my life. I got into a fight with my husband, and we said some terrible things to each other. Our marriage was nowhere near coming to an end. We even made up before the night concluded. Post-fight, I locked myself in the bathroom with a substance that could take me out, and googled a lethal dose. I went back and forth with myself on what to do. On the cold bathroom floor, I heard my cat trying to paw his way into the bathroom, and decided to call. I felt silly after I explained what happened, something so trivial as a fight. But she reassured me that there's no silly reason to call. She talked to me, sincerely, and I told her that I was feeling a lot better. After a promise to call back if I needed to, and more reassurance that calling is always the right thing to do, we hung up. I went to my husband and apologized for the things I said through a shower of tears streaming down my face. We talked it out, and within half an hour, we were holding each other as we cried. Jennifer, who works at the hotline, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I know there are people out there with much worse problems than mine, and you took the time to reassure me that calling was the right decision.
Depression is a bad habit. Not actually, but let me explain.
My therapist once described depression as a bad habit. Of course, she and I both understand that it's not a bad habit. It is a chemical imbalance. However, she explained it to me this way: when you have standard serotonin levels and lie on the couch, your brain doesn't utilize the serotonin it has, and it slows down production. When you make choices that allow your brain to stop producing serotonin, you can get depressive symptoms. So it is crucial that in the moments when it feels so heavy that you can barely stand, you fight. Get up and do something, anything that will make you happy, not temporarily, but always. Writing, reading, a cup of tea, a bath, a walk, yoga. Whatever it may be, because when you get in the habit of doing things you don't want to, even though they help, you break the habit of giving in to depression. As annoying as it may be to be creative when I already feel so drained, it will only benefit me. It's hard to look at an empty Google doc, imagine what you could do, and mourn what you aren't doing. Write, no matter how choppy or flawed you think it is. It may help your brain begin to backtrack on years of lost serotonin.
It's a lifelong battle, but we can defend ourselves from the jaws of this disorder. It takes hard work. It's meaningful work. Work worth doing, that must be done.