It’s good to laugh.  I do believe laughter is the best medicine – depending on how many milligrams of Xanax you’re getting.  I try to laugh as much as I can.   Sometimes my honesty is funny.   And honestly, sometimes it’s not.

I struggle with depression.

I have struggled with depression my whole life – back when they didn’t readily diagnose depression because it brought to mind the stigma of straight jackets and shock treatments.   Instead, I was diagnosed with “an ulcer” at the age of 10, given antacids and forbidden to watch the evening news.

In college, after a bad break-up and thoughts of suicide, I was finally given ‘the label’.   After being studied in an out-patient treatment facility, the psychologist determined my sickness linked back to my parent’s divorce, my father’s alcoholism, that I had grown up too fast and carried the stresses of trying to keep it all together and please everyone.

While those were all true and still may be, that was not why I was depressed.

I come from a long line of crazy.   It’s in my blood.  An internal  imbalance that creates a dissatisfaction – like an itch you cannot reach no matter how hard you try.  A desire to reach the unreachable self-expectations.   A sadness that eats away at you, stifles your productivity and creates an uncomfortable sensation in the smallest things.   A yearning to cry that takes your breath away.  An illusive fatigue that exhausts you and makes you want to sleep it off with thoughts of not waking up.

I watched my mom cry, curled up in a fetal position and sleep in till noon on her bad days.  I pleaded with my dad on the phone while he was on one of his drunken rages – threatening to end it all – while images of the rifle in his closet cluttered my mind.   I have stood over a beloved aunt and a young cousin that have both taken their own lives – not in judgment or simply mourning, but with empathy, I understood that place that they were at.  Hoping upon hope that I could keep a handle on this family curse, that I was strong enough to beat it.

I’ve seen therapists all of my life, but it wasn’t until recently, that I agreed to the medications being offered.   I was stubborn, I thought I was invincible,  and I didn’t need the judgement that accompanies the good old fashioned shame of being nuts.

Screw that.

For so long, I expected perfection from myself.  I am far from perfect and it was killing me.   My inadequacies were many and I couldn’t keep up anymore.   Life was overwhelming and I needed to be able to catch my breath and lighten up my perception and my own demands.   I was tired of wanting to cry.   I was tired of being so hard on myself.  I was tired.