The Diagnosis

By: Jess Griggs

Today I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression and generalized anxiety disorder. For the second time in my life.

My first battle with depression took place when I was 13. Those years are a blur of pills, pain, and apathy in equal measure that ultimately resulted in a stint at the children’s psychiatric wing in the quaint and charming Mercy Medical Center (see: Please Plan Accordingly). I really don’t remember much except that when I came back from the hospital I flushed my pills down the toilet and dumped my therapist. So that set me back a bit.

After somehow surviving high school I went away to college and left the depression at home. I wrote off that season in my life as a fluke – I had depression, but then I took anti-depressants and they made me want to kill myself, so double jeopardy, we’re even now. Plus, I picked up Jesus along the way, so if the dark times return I can just pray away the depression. Yes, things are really looking up for good ‘ol Jess.

This summer, however, the other shoe dropped. Depression hit like a wave and I was caught in the undertow.

I almost didn’t make it to the doctor appointment this afternoon. I convinced myself I was being over dramatic and that my symptoms were probably circumstantial. It has been an extremely difficult couple of months with my husband being unemployed and each of our families going through different struggles and looking to us for some stability they thought we possessed. Surely that could make anyone want to close off the world and fold themselves into a tiny piece of dust and float away, right?

But then Doug came home from an interview, beaming with the news of being employed at an awesome medical technology place. My first thought was, “Well now who is going to cry with me on the couch and eat buckets of ice cream?” And my second thought was, “Wow what a horribly selfish thought, I think I have a problem and I need help.” These thoughts were of course followed by energetic congratulations and endless praise because even though I’m selfish and broken, I have the ability to be a good wife and fake enthusiasm when the situation calls for it.

I sat in the doctor’s office and waited for him to come in. The nurse already took my vitals and confirmed my reason for today’s visit was for “sleep troubles.” (This was the only thing that came to mind when I made the appointment. I couldn’t very well tell the patient coordinator that I feel like the universe is caving in on me and if I think about it too long it gets hard to breathe. Plus, I have only been sleeping about 4 hours a night so technically it’s not a lie).

Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry. 

“Hi, Jessica, how are you feeling today?”

Tears bubbled over onto my cheeks and my chest tightened, but I hoped he hadn’t noticed so I pushed forward. “Oh… *sniffle* I’m… *snort* I’m…*sniffle* not great.”

He sat down and handed me a box of tissues. We discussed the anxious thoughts and restless nights. He asked about family history and previous medications. He had me complete a few tests on the computer to help diagnose anxiety and depression. The questions were on a scale: Not at all, Some days, More than half the days, and Nearly every day. The questions were things like, “In the past two weeks, how often did you find it hard to concentrate?” and, “In the past two weeks, how often have you had trouble getting to sleep or oversleeping?” (For a free online version of this test, click here).

As I clicked down the list, all but one or two of my answers were on the right side – the “nearly every day” side. I clicked and cried. I felt defeated yet understood. Each question echoed a truth I was too afraid to name.

“This is a really big step, and you’re doing great. One day you’re going to come in and take this test and all the answers will be on the other side. It just takes time.”

And that’s about the time I needed a third box of tissues.

My doctor strongly suggested therapy (no surprise there) and anti-depressants and anti-anxiety meds. I shared a little about my history with medications gone wrong and he listened. He told me an interesting statistic – people with one depressive episode have a 25% chance of needing to be on medication to regulate chemicals for the rest of their lives. People with two depressive episodes have a 50% chance of needing medication. And people with three or more will definitely need medication to help them balance. I talked with my mom after my appointment and she said her therapist told her something similar – after each depressive episode, the brain has a harder time healing itself without medication. I’m still taking time to let that all sink in.

I left the doctor’s office with a pill to reduce anxiety and help me sleep at night. I want to do some more research before diving back into the world of anti-depressants. Honestly, I’m afraid that the Prozac will push me over the edge and cause suicidal thoughts again and I haven’t found a therapist yet so I think I’ll hold off until I can talk with somebody on a regular basis whose whole job is to babysit and monitor my emotions.

Anyway. Today still felt huge. For the first time in a while, I feel like I might come out on the other side. It just takes time.