“I used to be happy. I remember being happy.”
Some time ago, one of the myriad antidepressants advertised on television—I don’t remember which—had an ad that stuck in my head. The part that stuck was an actress saying, “I used to be happy. I remember being happy.”
It struck me that I didn’t. I knew I was depressed, but I honestly didn’t remember ever being truly happy. Every depression questionnaire I’ve ever read asked if the symptoms had lasted at least a month: “Does since the day I was born count?”
Since, I’ve had a few times when I thought I was happy. I doubt I really was, but I had fooled myself into thinking I was. I’m not even sure what it feels like.
I’ve seen ‘counselors’ about this, who referred me to psychiatrists, who put me on drugs. They didn’t help much. About the only real effect of the antidepressant I was most recently prescribed (Lexapro) was a side effect that I shouldn’t discuss in polite company. (Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? The side effect was that I was practically unable to orgasm. It sounds like a good thing, but believe you me, going for three hours without a happy ending is a recipe for eternal frustration.)
Thursday I see yet another psychiatrist. (I could have gone back to the USF psychiatrist I had been seeing, but I really don’t like her; she basically didn’t listen to me at all.) I’m going to ask to be put on a different antidepressant. I need a massive dose of Lexapro to see any effect—while side effects set in at much lower doses—and Wellbutrin didn’t do much at all. Maybe this time I’ll find something that works.
Comment posted by morenna at 8:01 am on 5 February 2007:
Hang in there Phoon! It may take four or five different tries to get the medication that works best for you. It took me three. The second one technically worked, but also was making my hair fall out.
*hug*