You Again?

That's what I said recently when, after being on top of the world, and loving my life, it all fell apart and I thought...ok, what happened...and then I realized my anti-depressants needed to be adjusted. And I said, "Oh, you again?" To be honest, I kind of hoped I was done with this, which is silly since depression is as chronic as...well, my chronic fatigue syndrome (which is correctly called myalgic encephalytis, but I digress.) 

(A word to those who don't believe in anti-depressants or think something else might help me: keep it to yourself. I've been down this path enough to know what works for me. I reserve the right to ignore and even delete comments about something else I could try.)

The medical term for it is tachyphylaxis. It's more commonly known as "the poop-out effect" or when the meds just stop working. In a way, realizing I'm there again is a relief. It means maybe I don't hate everything in my life or need to make drastic changes. (As my mother's daughter, I am inclined to make what appear to others to be sudden, impulsive changes--everything from moving all the furniture around to moving to another state where I know no one. But those kinds of changes are best made when one's chemicals are balanced and one's vision is clear.) Instead, my mantra becomes "It's the meds....it's just the meds..." and I remind myself that I have an excellent doctor who, if managing anti-depressants were an Olympic sport, would be the ten time reigning gold medalist. Also, while I won't get all the way back to being me fast, I always respond quickly, seeing enough improvement to give me hope. And I've never had side-effects to anti-depressants. So now it's about waiting it out.

And being a little unbalanced is not without its benefits.....like the chance to create crazy and slightly disturbing art. You know, there are all these artists and writers who really could have benefited from anti-depressants. Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Sylvia Plath all come to mind. Critics debate if they had been correctly medicated, would their art have been as good? Uh, yeah. Because they too, would have had times when said meds were not working correctly, and would have given them plenty of opportunity to be dark and disturbing. They just might have gotten to live happier lives the rest of the time.

One of the consequences of my intuitive skills is that I have no fear of death. Zilch. Nada. In fact, I kind of look forward to it. (This does not mean I'm suicidal. I'm not. Stop freaking out, family.) I just like the idea that once I'm done learning the lessons of this life--and I really intend to learn them so I can take on new lessons in my next incarnation because...I'm sick of these--I get to go home and rest, reunite and contemplate, before doing something insane like coming back to this planet to learn some more. 

Those who know me might be surprised to know how often I play songs that talk about religion. The key is they're bluesy spirituals by people like Jim Byrnes and Eva Cassidy, who know a little something about life and pain. Today, as I was listening to Jim Byrnes croon "Lay Me Down, Sweet Jesus"--I told you you'd be surprised--I was struck by the image of finding some nice trees--aspen or birch maybe--and lying down underneath them and just letting go...which is what I really intend to do when I'm done with this life. 

When I was a kid, I remember watching "I Will Fight No Move Forever" about Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. At one point, the Nez Perce are on a grueling hike, trying to get away from the white soldiers, and some of the elders decide to stay behind. My mom explained to me that it was an Indian thing (though really I've read about it in many cultures.) That people just decide they're done, and go off in the wilderness, and wait to die, and it's not awful because they just know how to let go. At the time, it freaked me out. Now, having fought tooth and nail to stay alive (which I frequently remind myself of when my meds are bad) I seriously believe that I could die just by making the choice. In fact, I think that's what my mom did. Physically, her aorta tore, and not for the first time. Spiritually, I think she thought "Ok, I don't want to leave, but I'm done with this life and this battle. Time to move on." And she just let go. Even as my world shattered as I witnessed this, part of me was impressed and proud that she died just the way she always said she wanted to: here one second and there the next. 

As for me, I guess I'm fighting still, off to the doctor to switch from one med to another. In a couple of weeks, I don't hate my life. In a few months, maybe I'll look in the mirror and see myself, sane, and balanced, and I'll say, "Oh, good. You again." Just wanted to let you know what was up, but don't worry.....unless, of course, you see me lying down beneath some trees.