I can’t remember when my “depression” really took hold of my insides. Guess it’s been so long that it’s almost like a family member I don’t really care for but can’t get rid of because it just wouldn’t be “right.” What I do remember is being sad a lot. Crying a lot. Writing poetry a lot. I remember “getting caught” writing my good-bye letter.
That, coupled with a lovely self-portrait art project consisting of myself on my knees slitting my wrists, and I found myself living in a behavioral health center for two months. I was 16. While there, I was diagnosed with “clinical depression.” I was put on Zoloft, which I took until I was on my own and couldn’t afford it. My mom begged me to go back on it (I was apparently a mess or something), and I did. Took it all the way through my first pregnancy, hoping pregnancy and childbirth would kick my serotonin into gear. No luck.
Got tired of Zoloft and went for Welbutrin. Cried my eyes out the entire time I was on it. Bas. Ket. Case. Moved on to Paxil CR, which seemed to work rather well. Had to come off of it for my third pregnancy (I lost the second baby). Tried not having to take anything as I felt euphoric and like I could conquer the world. Too bad THAT didn’t last! After having been on Paxil so long, I was tired of the sexual side effects, so I tried Cymbalta. I hated the entire effing world! So – here I am, back on Paxil CR, still feeling lonely and sad and like I could vaporize at any minute without anyone noticing.