Labor Pains

Depression is a lot like childbirth. Once you've climbed out of the Black Hole (i.e. are holding your newborn in your arms) you forget (at least temporarily) about all the cursing you did during the labor that got you there.

In my mood journal (which is the most important thing I do each day), I have rated every day since last September a number one (on the scale from one to five--one being the least amount of pain and five bordering on hospitalization). That's eight and a half months of sanity and wellbeing (minus the natural grumpies and PMS days), which means I'm starting to forget what it was like to be so depressed.

But this morning I got a reminder.

Upon greeting me, my dental hygienist looks intently into my eyes and says in the most (awkwardly) caring tone, "So...how...are...you?"

Something told me this wasn't the typical pleasantry exchanged by patient and tooth nurse.

"Crap. What did I do the last time I was in here?" I asked myself. Being a manic-depressive is a tad like being a drunk who can't remember his Madonna imitation on the pool table from the night before. The memories get a little fuzzy, especially of the really bad days.

I tried to recall the last time I sat in the dentist chair wearing a paper bib. A year and some months ago. Right smack in the middle of my depression. And then it all came back.

The hygienist had asked me how I was—-a standard salutation--and I began to sob. In fact, I cried so hard through the entire cleaning that I was having trouble breathing (with congestion blocking my nose, and my mouth being probed with all those sharp and scary-looking silver utensils). I don't know how many times she asked me if I was okay, but it was at least a double digit.

What triggered Niagara Falls that day? I asked myself this morning. And then I remembered the dialogue in my head that went something like this:

"I want to be dead. God, I wish I were dead. Stop! Think positive. You are so blessed. Think positive, Therese. How many days until I can die? Stop! Master your thoughts! But I really want to be dead. Why are so many people faking happiness? Nobody really wants to be here. Let's all die. Please! I beg you, God. Give me cancer. Stop! You pathetic creature! Listen to yourself! Train your thoughts! Think positive. Blessings. Name them! I'm such a loser and failure. Why can't I train my thoughts? Why do I want to die so much? Stop! Be in the moment. Stop crying, Therese! Stop crying! You are looking like a moron! Stop!"

A year ago I was bawling because I wanted more than anything to die. And I was so thoroughly disgusted at myself for not being able to stop the suicidal thoughts and think positive.

The beauty of recalling it is that I see now how totally messed up my thinking was. Normal people don't have to train every single thought in order to not be suicidal. I wasn't a failure. I was sick. Really, really sick.

And today I'm not nauseated with that person who was unable to turn around suicidal idealizations and think happy thoughts during a dental check-up. I love her with a compassion that was born in my dark night.

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