Many of you probably know that I've been struggling with clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder for most of my adult life. It's been a continuous series of risings and fallings, with subsequent falls a bit deeper, or perhaps more serious, than the previous falls. I went through a period in my young life where I expected someone to "cure" me -- with either drugs, therapy, or a combination thereof -- and if they couldn't, there was a part of me that labeled them either incompetent or myself a lost cause.
I medicated myself with food. Food was my drug; I literally could eat a piece of chocolate and experience a little burst of happy feelings. If I had a craving and I satisfied it, there was a little thrill of satisfaction and a sense of calmness. Of course, that does not last. Guilt has always been a strongly embedded feeling in my life -- even what has been labeled "inappropriate guilt" -- and then followed the self-loathing. So what does an addict do when a high wears off? They run right back to the substance -- and for me, that was food.
Weight loss surgery did NOT solve all my problems. It did not even solve all my health problems. I don't regret my surgery, because it forced me to face my addiction and uncovered psychological issues I was not dealing with appropriately... I wasn't even recognizing them, in fact. An unexpected result of the surgery was the sudden cease of the calm, happy feeling I got from food I craved. Sure the chocolate is pretty good still, but there's no longer any effect in my mood. That was quite a blow. For the first time I realized food HAD been making me "high," and then I also was confronted with the sudden loss of that comfort. And then anxiety hit me full in the face and that was also something I had not foreseen.
Add other major life changes that happened within a year or two: a new marriage, an addiction to an online role-playing game, immigrating to another country (which inherently carried the inability to work), and I was ripe for a Great Big Fall. My anxiety was manifesting in debilitating physical symptoms: excruciating, frequent migraines; jaw, neck, and shoulder muscle tension to the point where it felt like seizing cramps; gastritis and other stomach issues caused by stress and made more likely to happen by the surgery itself. I sought help, which in and of itself added a new financial strain.
But I was no longer capable of functioning the way I was. In a period of nearly a year, my recovery has been remarkable. I have become more self-aware, and still make it a point to continuously evaluate my thoughts and behavior without falling into negative thought loops. I was more open to therapy than I have been in the past, and I was more patient with the medication and its periods of adjustments in dosage and type until we found what seems to work for me. I know that I'm not "cured." This will always be a life-long battle. But I finally feel like I am not starting with nothing, that I have tools to help myself.
Motivation is still a struggle for me, and probably always will be a problem for me. I almost always have initial anxiety before an appointment or a meeting or even a party, which is magnified if it's in a location I've never been to before. But I find that if I power through it, I usually feel much better for it. I still want to work on self-motivating and becoming more healthy all around. I'm eating better but I'd still like to find an exercise program I can commit toward. That's the one thing -- exercise -- that my brain seems to keep digging its heels in on, so to speak, and I'm not sure what the great aversion is for me.
I hear sometimes friends echo some of the feelings I felt toward the front end of my journey, and I hope that my own experience can lend them some hope. I never thought a year ago that I could ever get better. I thought that perhaps I was just broken, that there was something wrong with me, that I was made different than everyone else. I thought that I would never see past my pain. It might sound awfully self-consuming to people who don't experience these types of illnesses, but when you are emotionally and physically in pain constantly, devastated constantly, barely able to function... when getting out of bed and putting on your clothes feels like a chore akin to painting ten houses in two hours... and not only that, but you sense what a burden you are to those around you and you just can't help it, it's not just a matter of get your lazy butt up and do it. It takes tools and time and effort in a more steady, manageable pace.
It does get better, but you do have to put one foot forward, ask for help, and be open to receiving that help without embarrassment. You would not be embarrassed if you had cancer. You would not be embarrassed if you had to wear glasses because you had an astigmatism. Why should you be embarrassed because nature did not equip your brain with the appropriate chemical makeup you need? Why should you be embarrassed that your personal traumas have hurt you in places people can't observe by just looking at you any more than if a car accident broke your arm, and now you need therapy?
I read a book that said that people with disorders like depression, anxiety, ADHD, etc tend to find a partner who has some or all of the same disorders subconsciously, perhaps because they find understanding in that partner or behaviors/personalities in common. If that's the case (and these disorders are largely genetically-based) then the rising occurrence in diagnoses of these disorders makes absolute sense.
You CAN change your life. Asking for help isn't weakness and it isn't cause for embarrassment. It is the first effort you can make, the first step of many steps that will lessen the burden, the isolation, and the pain.
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