still kicking

Fred Astaire

How long has it been since I last wrote about depression, that unwanted visitor who’s been barging in for 35 years. I’ve tried all manner of remedies, including talking therapy, meditation, St. John’s wort, exercise, reading, socializing, volunteering, and staying busy. And medication, albeit reluctantly. But I stopped a year ago, thinking I could (or should!) go it alone. Seems that I — along with others I’ve talked to — have this deep-seated idea that taking pills is a sign of weakness, a cop-out. But as my GP asked me long ago, “would you think any less of someone with diabetes taking insulin every day?”

So I’m “on” again and, after ten weeks, can report a gradually levelling of mood swings. Side effects are inevitable and a small price to pay. They include sleep disturbances, wild dreams, loss of libido, weight gain, and couple of others to intimate to report. But several times each day I catch myself smiling for no reason at all. Feeling at ease and, as hard as I try, unable to think of a reason why I should be happy.

I’m listening to Leonard Cohen’s Live in London as I write this. Between songs he explains that since his last concert there, “I’ve taken a lot of Prozac, Paxil, Wellbutrin, and Cipralex. … I’ve also studied deeply in the philosophies and religions … but cheerfulness kept breaking through.” And so it is with me. There are, to paraphrase Rumi, a thousand ways to kiss the ground in gratitude.