Depression, and an update

Here’s the update: I’m in pain, stuck inside my apartment, on (prescription) drugs, waiting to hear back from Medicaid so I know whether I’ll have to ask my parents for upwards of $25,000 to pay for my surgery. K and I have to be incredibly careful about having sex, can never have it for a long period of time, and can’t have it often, because we haven’t yet found a position that doesn’t cause me to be in more pain the next day. So far, the best option has been changing positions often. (If anyone has experience with lower back injuries and sex, I’d love to hear from you.) My sex drive is also lower than usual, because of a combination of pain, drugs, and something caused by herniated discs called “saddle numbness”, which means my whole genital-ass area needs more stimulation than usual to get going. I am so glad I already had a stable of sex toys when this happened; they’ve helped immensely.

But I’m actually not writing this post to gripe. I’m writing this post because Allie Brosh made a post about her depression. Go read it, then come back if you can.

I’ve read reams about depression, because I had it. I’ve never seen anyone describe the way I felt, and did not feel, during depression, as well as Allie Brosh did. No memoir or study has ever gotten to the heart of it like that, for me. And reading that post made me deeply thankful that I don’t have depression any more.

Throwing out my back was agony. Having to take drugs that make my thought processes so murky that I can rarely write is frustrating in the extreme. Needing to weigh whether sex, or even taking a shower, will be worth the pain, is the opposite of fun times. Knowing that if I do leave the house, my pain will skyrocket for the next week, makes me feel like a prisoner. Not being able to cook or clean makes me feel guilty for not pulling my weight around the house. But depression was worse.

When I was depressed, I was physically healthy. I could run, jump, go for long hikes, have marathon sex in weird positions, take as many baths as I wanted without worrying they’d cause me pain. Not counting the depression, my brain worked fine — I didn’t have to stare at a computer screen trying to remember common words, and I never forgot what someone had said a half minute after they’d said it. On the outside, there was no reason I wasn’t accomplishing anything whatsoever. Everyone was frustrated with me: here was this A-average scholarship-laden 20-something with nothing to show for her life, who wasn’t even trying, and why? I was called lazy, spoiled, unmotivated, selfish, etc. But no one could call me names like I could call myself names.

Now, I’m in physical pain all the time. Sometimes it’s worse and sometimes it’s better. I get sad a lot, and I feel guilty a lot over the things I said I’d do before I realized I’d be in this condition for this long. (I have so many reviews in drafts.) I’m angry a lot, too. Why does this country, with all its wealth, even concentrated as it is in the top 1%, not have universal health care? Why do I have to wait, for months, in pain, for a system that treats me as guilty until proven innocent to say yeah, okay, maybe you deserve something that will fix your constant pain, I guess, you lazy bum. (Because it’s so productive and economically sensible to let injured and sick people stay injured and sick rather than getting them medical care to cure or ameliorate their problems.)

However, I would rather have the condition I have now, and be in the situation I am now, than have depression. I’d rather be poor and in constant physical pain than rich and in perfect physical health with depression. Though doing things is harder than before I was injured, I find value in doing things. I feel a sense of accomplishment from writing this post. I believe that there are people who care about me, and I believe that, with luck, things will get better. None of that is possible with depression.

When you have depression, people tell you to use willpower to “get over it”. You tell yourself you’re a horrible idiot selfish stupid evil vile pukemonster for not just getting over it. That is all bullshit. I even knew it was bullshit when I had depression, and that made me feel worse for telling myself things that I knew were bullshit. People had “real” problems, the world was a mess, why couldn’t I get off my ass and do things?

Well, now I have one of those “real” problems, a major literal pain in the ass. Given the choice, I’d rather keep this pain, and everything related to it, for the rest of my life, than have depression again. Depression sucks your soul. This pain just sucks.

And now, here is a cat in a very small basket.