The three of us were sitting in a restaurant when I felt it: it was going to happen. This was the day I would finally take off the mask in front of everyone and scream in a public place, “I’m crazy! I’m losing my mind!” The thin line separating me from the “street crazies” who talk to themselves out loud was about to be erased.
While my husband dealt with our son’s imperative demands, I used every ounce of strength I had to contain what was boiling inside me. My main tool for silencing the voice whispering, “Do it. Do it now. Why keep up the performance another day?” was the certainty that the panic attack I’d been riding for more than three hours was a side effect of the medication my psychiatrist had prescribed. “If any, the side effects should be mild. Just power through them, and you’ll see how great you feel in a few weeks,” she said. Weeks. Plural.
Just when I felt I was about to stand up and scream, our waitress arrived. A lovely woman, eager to make us laugh. She asked how we were doing. We answered, in unison, that we were great. Another day in character and costume.
On the way to the restaurant, we’d seen two people on the street talking to themselves. Arguing with the air. I’m always deeply interested in listening to what they’re saying. What conflict are they trapping themselves in? As I said before, there isn’t much distance between them and me. The only difference is that I draft the argument internally, in silence. If I had to say one thing about them, it’s that at least they’re braver than I am, for they’re honest about what’s really going on. It’s probably for this reason—or for the reasons this reason hints at—that my psychiatrist prescribed antidepressants for the third time.
If you see me and talk to me for a bit, you’ll notice I can be pleasant. Sometimes even charming. But underneath, as my psychiatrist said, it’s like there are “rivers of blood” running beneath my skin. “Yes, they’re called veins. I don’t make the rules,” I replied. Five minutes later, she sent a prescription for 10 mg of escitalopram to my pharmacy.
I wouldn’t say I’m depressed. I’d say I’ve spent years juggling rage attacks followed by euphoria attacks, followed by sadness attacks. I’m not a stable person. Is that depression?
A few months after having my son, I realized the world of motherhood was riddled with deadly traps. And I fell into every single one. A person in a lab coat asked me an almost infinite series of questions and concluded that I was suffering from postpartum depression and chronic anxiety. I suggested she revisit the diagnosis, since the depression also felt kind of chronic.
