The bright side of depression

            Today, I was on Facebook (as usual) and noticed a sweet picture.  Tears flowed.  "Oh, how sweet!" I said to my Pug Frank.  A little later, I noticed a video featuring the Doctor and Rose.  I watched the video and tears flowed.  "Frank, how precious!" (Don't judge me--I live alone :) ).  On it went--I read a sweet post, tears flowed.  I saw a darling picture--tears flowed.  Finally it dawned on me--I forgot to renew my depression meds!
              Many people suffer from depression--I consider them my brothers and sisters.  To paraphrase the old saying--some of us were born with depression and some had depression thrust upon us.  I am a mixture of both.  Depression is part of the gene pool, so to speak.  I have always dealt with it and have seen family firmly in its grasp.  However, it blossomed and went out of control (sort of like cancer) after my multiple losses.  I was so entombed that I felt I could barely breathe.  I had to go to work every day, but I don't remember enjoying anything.  Life was one step after another until I could finally go to bed.  In the morning, the whole thing started over.  I began in severe depression and soon became suicidal.  I continued in that state for at least seven years, and I didn't receive treatment during any of that time.  My children were the ones who caught the brunt of my disease.  I remember asking my daughter--she couldn't have been more than 17--if she thought she could watch the baby if I were gone.  She and I both knew exactly what I was talking about.  I still cringe thinking about the hell that I put her and her brothers through.
               As the years passed, I finally realized that I needed help.  I finally asked for medicine, and I received the Prozac that changed my life.  I still was depressed, but it was infinitely better.  My life itself had many hard elements--being a widow, a mother of four, having a full-time job, and dealing with a son with special needs is not easy--but it was so much more manageable.  I found that life began to be interesting again.  I stopped being so self-absorbed and began looking outward. Life became something to look forward to rather than something to slog through.
               Before I started on the Prozac, I began to write.  My pieces were directly influenced by my mood.  Many things that I wrote during the darkest period were, of course, horribly dark themselves.  But here's the thing.  Many of the pieces weren't so much dark as very emotional.  I have been told over and over again that you can feel the character's pain, her joy, her anxiety, and so on.  I am sure that this was because I was so fully enmeshed in the character myself.  Reading the character, you were actually seeing me.
               Since I've come back to health, I notice that the characters haven't changed (I think) so much as that the process has changed.  It takes me much longer to reach the desired mood, and the mood itself isn't as deep as it used to be.  Going back to the beginning of the post, during the time this has been taking place, I was completing a book.  The book is a series of readings on characters drawn from the time of Christ.  The readings  flowed easily in the past few days--the emotion, the understanding of the feeling, and so on has been there, just as it used to be.  Well, of course!  I was off my meds, or at least the ones that seem to control the outpouring of negative emotion.  So emotion came at my command, and it was overwhelming.
              Now that I realize my problem, I'm determined to go back on my meds as soon as possible.  I don't like the whoosh of emotion that comes with depression.  I'm not manic--I used to think I was, but the few moments when I felt a "high" were actually the few moments when I wasn't depressed.  Life today is a series of small highs, small lows, and infrequent rushes of exaltation or despair.  I believe that's normal.  I wouldn't want to go back to the daily rush of despair.
              But is it a good trade?  I was speaking about this with my daughter today, and I believe that it's a valid question.  People live without their meds all the time because their meds make them feel like automatons (I think this is more true of people with bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, although I've heard it said by those with ADHD as well).  Mine don't.  However, it would be easier to write with the emotion I need if I were off my meds.  My daughter suggested that maybe I could lower the dose or go on an extended retreat while I'm writing and then go back later.  I choose not to do that, for the simple reason that the lows are so low that I feel that I'm walking through dark valleys--again.  I choose not to live that way, even for my art.  I have to work harder to accomplish the same thing?  So be it.  The alternative is not worth the reward.