Comment on "The Black Dog" Series

In one of my rare (unbacklogged) posts this week, I’m posting a comment from my mother-in-law and father-in-law mostly about Bob’s depression. Read below:

We love, support and encourage Bob and Marissa in every way that we can think of or are asked of. We wish that we had known more of what Bob was going through in his childhood and in his school and college years but he kept it very well hidden. We as parents maybe should have seen through some of what was going on but Bob tells us now that he became a master at keeping it hidden and we are not to blame for not realizing. That doesn’t make it any easier as parents to accept that we were oblivious to our own child’s needs but it is something that we are working on changing and accepting so that we can NOW be there for them, to do all that we can NOW to give them all the backup, encouragement, support and love that we can. There is nothing in this world that we wouldn’t do for our children (including our loving daughter-in-laws). We want the best for them and for their lives, we wish them contentment, stability, happiness, love, an understanding of each other and a willingness to forgive and forget – that they would turn to each other and us but most of all God in times of need. We pray that they will let us “in” and find a need for us as much as we need them. We hope that they can remember to pick their battles – to not sweat the petty stuff, to give and forgive freely and openly to each other and others. Bob and Marrissa mean the world to Dad and I, there is nothing that they can’t tell us, show us, do, think, or act on that would make us turn away from them – we just love them!

Family support is not just a bonus; it’s a real necessity.

The "Black Dog," Part II

In February 2004, I tried to kill myself. I don’t remember how now. But he pleaded with me to go see a doctor and get some help. Since I was 21, I no longer qualified under my mother’s health insurance so I tried to avoid docs as much as I could. My pediatric (PCP) doctor continued to treat me despite my age. Dr. X diagnosed me with depression and said, "Since you don’t have medical insurance, I’ll give you some samples of Paxil that a drug rep gave me."

Welcome to the beginning of my first experience with psych drugs.

(Just an aside: Before this, I had never taken medication for depression. My parents wouldn’t let me growing up. In the psych hospital, I said no even though the psychiatrist there gave me a tough time about it.)

I remained on Paxil through July. I wasn’t accustomed to taking medication each day so I’d take it for a day or two on and off. But no more than that. If I didn’t take it for three days, I knew it was time to get back on it. I’d suffer from dizziness and "brain shivers." It was also the first time that I developed eyelid twitching.

I went back to Dr. X and told her that Paxil wasn’t working. She told me that she knew I wasn’t consistent in taking my meds. But she still switched me to another med.

Enter Lexapro in September.

A crucial year in college. I was attempting to graduate that semester, juggle responsibilities as a reporter and copy editor for the college paper, manage a long-distance relationship, and complete a 50+ page honors paper. After accidentally reporting incorrect data on an investigative piece that I thought I’d thoroughly researched, university directors came down HARD on me. The managing editor made it a bigger deal that it really was (according to my teacher and newspaper advisor), freaking me out and sending me into a tailspin. I adhered to my Lexapro regimen much more carefully, but my depression worsened. By the end of October, I’d quit my job at the paper and found myself unable to get out of bed except for late afternoon and night classes. In November, I had to cut back from 16-18 credits down to 12 – just enough to keep me a full-time student. Of course, I didn’t graduate that semester.

I’d went to a psychologist (recommended by my PCP) who gave me "tough love" advice for $75 per half-hour. The "tough love" approach wasn’t for me and actually made me feel worse about myself. I continued to worsen under his care. In February, I switched to a Christian-based counselor and dramatically improved. She listened to me for $75 an hour and at the end of the session, gave me helpful advice. The support of my counselor and boyfriend helped me to get through the trying time. Bob helped pull me through graduation the next semester despite occasional moments of relapsing (into bed).

Bob, not accustomed to the severe depression at first, immediately became frustrated and used the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" mentality. After all, despite his depression, he was still going to work, still living. When he noticed that strategy wasn’t working, he did some research on depression and became a little more sympathetic.

However, our relationship began taking a turn for the worse: we began arguing about pretty important things – where we’d live and whether we’d have biological children. We took "breaks" on and off and after several attempts at discussing breaking up, we tried to do so. Of course, it didn’t last. His depression kept him from feeling confident in our relationship and his ability to handle my depression. He conveniently left out how he was worried that his depression would conflict with mine.

The "Black Dog," Part I

Men and depression. What a loaded topic. This may be a long entry so brace yourselves.

My husband suffers from depression. He reads this blog and may be embarrassed to some extent since his mother reads it too. But his story (intermingled with mine eventually) is worth sharing because it may help others understand some of the stigma men face. I don’t have the full picture, but I’ll tell you his experience from what I’ve gathered.

My husband, he comments as Bob, slowly began to suffer from depression early in his teen years. As a large boy – as in large, I do mean morbidly obese, unfortunately – he was picked on, teased to no end, and practically tortured. Getting beat up by his brother and cousin didn’t do much to help, either.

Bob, a quiet, shy kid, was able to hide his developing depression well. If he was happy, he had the same sullen face that remained when he was upset or sad. By his senior year of high school, he was the tallest guy in the class, which by that point, people stopped provoking him.

But the hurt and social ridicule remained with him. He went off to college, continuing to be insecure about his weight. He assumed that he wouldn’t make any friends since he didn’t have any after high school. At the end of his sophomore year, he finally opened himself up to friendships with roommates, suitemates, and those who lived within his hall. He’d tried two dates that never worked out. He remained quiet, shy, and girlfriendless. His face remained sullen, garnering the name, “Mr. Happy Face.”