This post has been taking me a while to write, not because I have a lack of subject matter, but because I have so much I want to blog about. I've been thinking about my meds a lot lately, and how I have struggled with whether or not to pop antidepressants. This train of thought always reminds me of The Matrix. One of my favorite scenes in The Matrix is when Morpheus offers Neo his choice of pills. Take the red one and go further down the rabbit hole. Take the blue one and go back to a life of oblivion. This scene strikes me the perfect analogy for taking antidepressants and other psychoactive meds. Do I want to see if the pills work? Or do I want to go back to my depressive norm?
I am currently reading a great book, Is It Me or My Meds?: Living with Antidepressants by Paul Karp. Karp has struggled with depression a long time, and as part of his treatment, he's taken meds for many years. Karp relates how he attempted to stop taking his meds, and how it affected him mentally and physically. He then presents a variety of stories he gathered from a group of 50 who also struggle with depression. Is It Me or My Meds? presents an interesting viewpoint on how patients deal with this aspect of depression treatment. Where other books are written by doctors analyzing how meds metabolize in the liver and affect neurotransmitter levels, this one presents patient stories about individual battles with the biochemical treatment of depression.
This book really hit home. One of the worst parts about depression is the self-imposed isolation depressives seem to prefer. I have certainly experienced this, and I have seen others pull into the turtle shells of their self-contained world. This book allowed me to peer into the minds (so to speak) of other people who have grappled with defining their depression, and consequentially, how to treat it. I can certainly relate to many of the struggles that Karp so eloquently articulates. And I think the analogy to the Matrix is really applicable here. I have gone down numerous rabbit holes in search of medication that actually works. I have taken 7 medications in my quest, and I feel extremely lucky to have found a pill that actually works. I have heard about people who are treatment-resistant and never respond to meds. Or have to undergo electroconvulsive therapy to find relief. If you're not familiar with it, it's what was called shock treatment in the old days. So I thank my lucky stars that my current pill of choice does what it is supposed to.
But what are we supposed to do if the pills the doctor gives us DON'T work? And what if we are too tired/exhausted/paranoid/panicked to get out of bed, much less leave the house? How can we trust our physician - is he or she someone that we can really count on for help? I have struggled with this issue of trust, and pretty much decided that I had to count on myself. I figured out what meds to take, and asked the doc to help me adjust the dosage.
But there was never a chance to discuss my any of my frustrations within the severely flawed American medical system. A perfect example of how the system failed occurred in 2005. I went to Kaiser Permanente for treatment for my fourth major depressive episode. My depression was bad. Really bad. When I selected my insurance plan the previous year, I was lured by Kaiser's "Living Well" campaign, and I clearly remember the images of blueberries and praises about the anti-oxidants they contain. I went in at my scheduled time to be evaluated by the intake team. I have been through assessment many times, and I had my answers down pat. I was assigned a therapist, and when I asked to see a psychiatrist for meds, I was told that I would have to wait for 3 months. WHAT??? I can barely get out of bed, have a history of self-injury and suicidal ideation, and you want me to wait 3 months for meds that I KNOW will work??? What the f*#k??!! I asked for an earlier appointment, desperate for the relief that I knew my medication would provide. When I asked the receptionist to call me if there was a cancellation, I was informed that I would have to call in every day to see if there was a cancellation.
I felt abandoned and alone. If any of the staff or clinicians knew what it felt like to be depressed and desperate for help, they sure weren't letting on. I had a history of cutting when I was younger, and when my depression gets really bad, it is almost as if my brain reverts to an earlier mode of operating and lures me into thinking that cutting will indeed help to alleviate my pain. I hadn't cut for many years, but the fact that the idea popped into my head told me that I was on a slippery slope, and that I needed help. NOW.
But there was never a chance to discuss my any of my frustrations within the severely flawed American medical system. A perfect example of how the system failed occurred in 2005. I went to Kaiser Permanente for treatment for my fourth major depressive episode. My depression was bad. Really bad. When I selected my insurance plan the previous year, I was lured by Kaiser's "Living Well" campaign, and I clearly remember the images of blueberries and praises about the anti-oxidants they contain. I went in at my scheduled time to be evaluated by the intake team. I have been through assessment many times, and I had my answers down pat. I was assigned a therapist, and when I asked to see a psychiatrist for meds, I was told that I would have to wait for 3 months. WHAT??? I can barely get out of bed, have a history of self-injury and suicidal ideation, and you want me to wait 3 months for meds that I KNOW will work??? What the f*#k??!! I asked for an earlier appointment, desperate for the relief that I knew my medication would provide. When I asked the receptionist to call me if there was a cancellation, I was informed that I would have to call in every day to see if there was a cancellation.
I felt abandoned and alone. If any of the staff or clinicians knew what it felt like to be depressed and desperate for help, they sure weren't letting on. I had a history of cutting when I was younger, and when my depression gets really bad, it is almost as if my brain reverts to an earlier mode of operating and lures me into thinking that cutting will indeed help to alleviate my pain. I hadn't cut for many years, but the fact that the idea popped into my head told me that I was on a slippery slope, and that I needed help. NOW.
So I add one more reason to become a psychologist to my list - to see if I can help work out a kink or two in the system. I would love to hear your side of the story. Leave me a comment if you want to pass it along.
