I guess I really did need those meds

The benefit of story is, firstly, for the writer, not the reader.

I want to tell you about the new development in my story idea.

A couple weeks ago, I shared the teeny book idea that’s growing from my experience of recurrent depression. You can read the post here. 

The idea was nothing more than a sentence—a person deals with a thing that won’t leave them alone—but that was enough, because it prompted questions which would develop my book and allow me to engage with my depression apart from, you know, actually being depressed.

Well, last week, more life happened.

I stopped taking one of my meds (atomoxetine). My psychiatrist and I thought it wasn’t doing anything. Oh how wrong we were.

I took my last dose Tuesday. By Thursday, my brain had turned on me. It gets vicious when I’m depressed, but it’s usually a slow build. This time, it was immediate.

Thursday morning, my partner said something that I interpreted as critical, which led to a cry that kept going and going and going, each new round prompted by terribly self-critical thoughts. 

I can’t make enough money and am a fraud of a book coach; I should quit. My kids don’t tell me what’s going on because they think I can’t handle anything else, so they’ll never tell me anything for the rest of their lives. All the problems we have are my fault but there’s no way for me to fix them unless I can switch my brain with someone else’s, which I can’t, so we’re always going to have these problems and it will always be my fault.

I cried off-and-on all day under the deluge of these mean thoughts.

The next day, I had a moment of okayness, so I went for a walk, passing neighbors gardening, working in their garages, painting trim. Three houses down, the tears started. 

You don’t go outside like a normal person; you’re so unhealthy. Your backyard is dirt when it should be lush with grass and plants; you’re lazy. Other people make their houses better while you can barely keep yours clean; you’re disgusting. These people are all ashamed to have you as a neighbor; you make this street worse. You can’t even go on a walk without crying; how can you be so weak? You’re defective and you always will be.

The thing is, I knew these thoughts weren’t true. They were my deepest fears spewing forth unhindered. But I couldn’t stop them. There was no turning them off. It was like the real me was trapped inside this sudden depression.

Aha. There it was. 

A snippet of truth to build a story around.

My protagonist is trapped by depression. 

I imagined an amber shell growing up around the protagonist until they were fully encased. They could hear and see—they knew everything going on in their life and with their loved ones—but they couldn’t do anything. Because depression removed their ability to engage with reality. They became passive in their own life, held hostage by their mind.

Yes. This is true. This resonates. This is strong enough to build a story on.

I love this development. Not only because it gets me closer to having a book, but because it accurately represents my experience of depression. The amber shell gives me a new way to conceptualize my disability and a new way to separate it from myself.

I am not my depression. It is something that happens to me, against my will, which removes my ability to live the way I want.

Writing this story allows me to build a new concept of myself.

The amber shell is a substantial enough idea for me to start thinking about other story elements like stakes, character arc, and worldbuilding. 

But what I’m more excited by, and grateful for, is the way it to allows me to separate myself from my depression. Depression does not happen because I’m lazy or bad or dysfunctional. It just happens.

You see, the value of a story isn’t only in the reader’s experience, the value is firstly, and fundamentally, in the writer’s experience. 

This book may never leave my laptop, but that doesn’t matter, because, by trying to figure out what the hell this story is, I am also figuring out what the hell my reality is.

In case you need to hear it (because I did)

If you think terrible things about yourself all the time, if you cry all the time, or feel nothing inside, or are unable to leave the house without panicking, it means something is going on in your brain that, likely, can be helped by medication and therapy. If you’re experiencing anything like this, please talk to a therapist or psychiatrist. You deserve help, and life can get better. 

I didn’t realize I was depressed or that I could try medication until someone named it for me. This is me naming it for you.

By the way, on Friday, I reached out to my psychiatrist and restarted my medication. I’m back to myself now. ❤️