Jump

Jump
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They say those who really want to die

jump from the Golden Gate Bridge facing the sea.

Those who still cling to life leap facing the city

arms outstretched in silent benediction

perhaps wondering again

in that last millisecond

"Why me?"

Who's to say?

I know I'm fundamentally changed

for now

I would jump facing the city.
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Depression, it's a controversial issue, even in the rooms of recovery. Taking an antidepressant, which admittedly has positively changed the lives of millions, is one of the hardest decisions one makes in recovery. I struggled through the first ten years of my recovery depressed. I went to two different therapists who suggested I struggle on, and I did.
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Finally, when I had ten years clean and my mind's tape (one friend refers to his as a small rat terrier voice) still told me I was "a piece of crap" and that "I should just kill myself," I had a moment of clarity. I had ten years clean, I had the job of my dreams, I had purchased my first home, there was nothing wrong yet I still had that voice in my head. I remembered that old cliche, "Pain is mandatory; suffering is optional." I was suffering. I decided to heck with well-meaning therapists who recommended I wait it out. My family doctor prescribed Prozac.
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For me, it was miraculous. As long as I took my small daily dose, it switched off that voice, that constant companion of years, telling me I was worthless. I stayed on Prozac, switching later to Wellbutrin which had less side effects for me, for about a decade. I did see a psychiatrist at one point to address my attention-deficit disorder (ADD) after I had went through diagnostics to ferret out why I was still having trouble functioning administratively (I spent more time looking for things than working). I was told that I was ADD and perhaps a little bit manic-depressive. I gave that report to the psychiatrist who commented "Being a little bit manic is like being a little pregnant."
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I stayed on Prozac, but then the choice became should I take another medication for my ADD. He suggested dexedrine. Speed wasn't my drug of choice, and the psychiatrist assured me that if I took it AS PRESCRIBED, it would not be a problem. I reluctantly took one pill, felt my jaw tighten in that old familiar way, and threw the bottle away. I couldn't risk my recovery, and I've chosen to manage my ADD myself. (Ask the administrative assistants I've had through the years--my plan hasn't worked so well.)
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As I got too ill to take any medication approaching my transplant, I stopped taking my antidepressant. I felt, once I was told I had only a few months to live, there is little difference between depression and facing the end of life. It's all dark.
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After the transplant, I don't take an antidepressant. Although I'm still somewhat emotionally labile (up one day, a bit down the next), I choose to ride with the wave. As I often say in meetings, "I don't have many bad days." I have had God's grace in so many ways in my life, first that I, an addict of the hopeless variety, could get clean, and second, that because a six-year old boy died an untimely death, I could live. How bad can it get?
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I believe that the brain of a depressed person does not function normally. Depression runs in my family; my father had long silent spells, and several of his children have not escaped unscathed. Add this genetic component to years of chemically managing our moods and it's little wonder that so many of us have a few gaps in our synapses.
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I only discuss this subject because so many of us struggle with depression and sometimes in silence. On the other hand, I find that so many of the newcomers who ask me to work with them are already on antidepressants, a trend I found troubling. Unless there is some psychiatric history, I usually suggest that newcomers who are depressed wait a year before they decide to take antidepressants. I'm not a psychiatrist, of course, nor a Scientologist, so this blog is merely what has worked for me. It may or may not work for you. There, now I've written a legal disclaimer.
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Well, it's a beautiful day, Romy wants a walkie and I'm going outdoors. A bird built a beautiful nest up on a post on my porch. She had eggs in it and I delighted in watching her fly in and out, perfecting it. When the wind blew it down a few nights ago and smashed the eggs, I was sad. I placed her nest, which was about six inches in diameter and spectacular (she raided my dryer vent for part of it), in a tree near the porch hoping she would reinhabit it.
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Yesterday I went onto the porch with my coffee and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The nest was back in its original spot! I can't figure how she moved it; if she did it herself (it probably weighs a lot more than she does) or she had help from her bird partner. (My boyfriend suggested perhaps they used a small helicopter.) That was my day's lesson in determination.

Until tomorrow, may you listen to your Guidance.