JASON

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It would be wrong to accuse my parents of being responsible for my mental health. They sent me to the school they thought was right, encouraged me to be social and relatively athletic, we all had genuine quality time together throughout the week, they were happy when my brother and I got along and reprimanded us for misbehaving.

And I was still the kid who talked about not having any friends despite my frequent play dates and recess get togethers. Regardless of my weekly routine of walking down the street every Saturday to hang out with one of the two neighbors I always played with, I was convinced that I was unliked. I genuinely believed that I was artistic and had some talent, but that only lasted until I saw a friend’s artwork make mine seem like it was done by someone two grades younger. I thought I might have had some capacity for intelligence, but that was harshly and apparently taken from me when I couldn’t answer a teacher’s question.

I knew I had some issues when I always changed for P.E. in the bathroom, but I started noticing something was off when I was in late-middle school and thought other people kissing and dating was weird. I had no attraction to anyone (male or female).

In high school I went to live with a family friend (the principal of a school a couple hundred miles South of us). I know a lot of people think living with their principal is asking for problems, but this was different; he was/is one of the most amazing people someone could be exposed to. At that time there were a lot of conflicting things about my personality. I was going to social events and meeting with friends almost every day, while also being the only one in the group wearing all black. I could have fun singing with the songs on the radio, but I only played rock and angsty music from my phone. I played soccer, cross country, and tennis, but also smoked cigarettes in secret. Still having a lot of creativity, I started writing a lot of stories and eventually go into Special FX movie makeup (fake blood, monsters, broken bones). I put fake bruises and marks on myself (looking like bruised fists and eyes). I can’t tell you how it helped, but I felt a little bit less weak by doing it. The only way I could describe how I felt throughout most of middle and high school was indifferent or angry (with frequent distractions like entertainment or stress).

After high school I went to Israel for two years (back in America for summers). My depression progressively got worse, leading to some issues with alcoholism, and  instead of referring me to a therapist, my trusted adults told me being depressed is a sin, I would be stronger for getting through it without outside help, and, “Have you ever heard of AA?” Some people said I was exaggerating, and other people said, “I don’t know. You just don’t seem depressed to me.” Eventually I started cutting myself and what started as once every couple days, turned into a few times every couple hours. When I came back to The States, I went to the doctor for a routine flu shot, but when he saw the many cuts on my arms he made a same day appointment with a social worker, who set me up with a psychiatrist. I was quickly diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder.

The doctor initially prescribed me Zoloft. After about 6-7 weeks, my depression was nearly gone. I was finally getting something comparable to a sex drive. Unfortunately, one of the leading side effects is listed as sexual complications and when I was too embarrassed to bring it up with my psychiatrist, I just stopped taking the medication. My therapist convinced me to bring it up and I was switched over to Wellbutrin. Another 6-7 weeks passed, and I was feeling fine, but the depression hit me in waves, so they added Lamictal (a mood stabilizer) which fixed the problem (over the next few weeks).

The worst I got was suicidal, but I’m happy to say it’s been a long time since my depression got bad.

I may not feel depressed, but the negative self-talk and insecurities have been ongoing for over 20 years. Meds have rid the depression and therapy has a helped a lot, but it’s going to take time to fix my mindset… So if you know someone who has depression (whether active or in remission), know that the good mood does not mean everything is okay. We’re working on it, and I’ll take time, but we’ll get there.