I stopped taking my anti-depressives about six weeks ago - about a week after I returned from NZ. I don't recommend how I stopped - practically cold turkey - and believe you me, I've had professionals tell me it was wrong. I know. One of the things I most pride myself on is training and racing smart - I am smart about listening to my body, I'm smart about nutrition and hydration, I'm smart about heart rate training. It would have been smart to wean myself off according to directions. Instead, I forgot for a couple of days, went to a half dose for a couple more days and then stopped altogether.
I was lucky. I only had dizziness for a couple of weeks and brain zaps (no way to describe except as if there are electrodes attached to my brain and someone flips the switch on occasion - and as having touched more than my fair share of live wires, I know what it feels like!) for a couple more. Mostly the side effects have abated, though blue light and use of multiple electrical devices/light sources at night can bring them back (laptop reading, shifting focus to TV and back again, for instance). No fun. Apparently the side effects can last for years.
There were two reasons why I allowed myself to stop taking the anti-depressives - one reasonable, one an example of beautiful logical illogic. Essentially, I am sick of being sick. That's the reasonable one. I am sick of the dullness and reduced emotional range that the meds brought me. I'm grateful for what they did for me - that limited emotion was exactly what I needed. But it wasn't me. My Mum tagged everyone in the family with characters from Winnie the Pooh and I was .. naturally ... Tigger. Tigger has been gone for a while and I hate it. Hate it hate it hate it. I am, by nature, a cheerful, positive, optimistic person. I bounce. That's what Tiggers do. We bounce. There's no bouncing on meds. Or at least not for me.
The second reason is the unreasonable one. I saw a TV program where someone said "only the sick take pills, therefore if I don't take pills, I'm not sick." There's a term for that logic, I'm sure. I know it's wrong. I know only the sick would believe it. But someone it wormed my way into my head and I found myself wishing I could just stop the meds. So I did.
But like I said, I was lucky with the side effects. And even more importantly, I almost immediately felt great. Not just good, or normal, but great. I had energy I hadn't felt in months (good for bathroom renovations!) and was laughing and giggling and smiling all the time.
So it's been a good few weeks. I even managed to find a therapist (and yes, one of the things I'll explore with her is why it took until I felt great to finally succeed at finding one). I like her because when I googled her name, I found an article that was written about her and a couple of colleagues who advocate for exercise as a part of therapy and recovery from depression. Finally, I thought, someone who'd understand why exercise has to be a part of my treatment. And she hasn't disappointed - 45 mins a day is what she's prescribed for me.
Of course, I've also been waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew that somehow the irons I had in the job fire would fail and I'd be faced with more rejection, feelings of worthlessness and despair.
I'm always right. Mark will tell you that.
Last week I got the news that despite being deemed "qualified," 46 candidates were deemed "more highly qualified" simply due to their status as vets. So their names were submitted to the hiring manager and not mine. Not one non-vet was submitted in fact. Suffice to say I lost it. Crying jags, demoralization, anger that I don't know what to do with. Anger at myself too because I allowed myself to get excited about this job - it was perfect for me and I had a good chance of getting it, if only I'd been afforded the chance.
And--dear friends--branding me as being some how anti-military simply because I don't like a bureaucracy that fails to provide hiring managers with the full pool of qualified candidates (and yes, I've been a manager - I know what it's like to received hundreds of applications and have to deal with them - that's my job as manager) is like rubbing salt in the wound. I don't appreciate it, it doesn't help and it's not fair on me.
How quickly does depression return? Am I depressed again? I've managed to exercise, stayed out of bed, worked on the bathroom. But I've cried multiple times a day, even while running or riding. And I couldn't run for more than a couple of miles. And I seriously considered quitting my ride. And I would have ridden the quick way back to the parking lot if only I wasn't at the top of the ride and the direct route was only half a mile shorter than the cued route. How pathetic - I can't even quit properly!
The past few days also have been triggering a lot of memories of two years ago. The team has been voting on which Ironman or iron distance race(s) to do next year. Only those who are serious about racing are to vote. Mark and I both voted for the option for September races. Not only are they more attractive to us as races, they would give me the best timing for recovery/build/taper before Challenge Wanaka in Wanaka, NZ in January 2013. It's an ambitious plan - about 16 months of training, including some very very long days in the middle of winter, with international travel thrown in for fun.
My friends on the team training for Ironman Lake Placid had their big training weekend this weekend and I sagged (drove a car with water and so forth, ready to pick up anyone who needed a ride back to the cars) their 120 miler ride. So I was out there on the second anniversary of breaking my elbow on my 120 miler (http://indyflies.blogspot.com/2009/06/road-kill-9.html).
Between talking about training for Ironman again, reading back over some of my training posts and remembering where I was two years ago, I've gotten kind of excited about doing Ironman again - gotten excited about 2012, gotten hopeful of exercising myself out of this hole I'm in.
So that's fed into my reaction to the lost job opportunity also. Because if I don't have a job (a decent one - not just any old job), we certainly can't afford for us to train for three Ironman races (Mark one, me two). So much counts on what I have so little control over.
So back to quitting. One of the 120 milers quit at mile 96. But what she really did, was instead "retreat to live again another day." Her knee was giving her sharp pain, so the sensible thing to do was to quit. Not the same at all as me looking at google maps for the quickest route back at mile 27 of a 38 mile ride. Sometimes though, the quickest route back is still ten miles long. And you may as well ride as planned and appreciate the 38 miles you got in your legs. A Clayton's Quitting, eh?
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Arohanui
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