Shut the F*ck Up

It’s official. The depressive episode I’m currently experiencing (already seeming ominous by virtue of its classification as “Major Depressive Disorder”) can now add “Treatment Resistant” to its list of attributes. Super.

I’ve given it time, endured some truly hideous drug side-effects, switched medications, endured those hideous side effects (including “brain-zaps” and no, I’m not making that up—you can Google it). But because, despite my patience and perseverance, none of that was yielding satisfactory results (i.e. making me feel something akin to human), my doctor made some changes this week. In response to some unequivocally suckish feelings of not belonging in this world, of being somehow not “made right” to exist here in this world—feelings that had gone from overwhelming to intolerable—we increased the dose of my antidepressant and added an additional medication for anxiety. We did that knowing full well the increased dosage might exacerbate the side effects I was already experiencing or even cause some new ones, but I was willing to give it a try on the off chance it might be the magic recipe that would balance my unruly brain chemicals and help me feel right with the world again.

Day one with the new dose went pretty well. I did feel a little wonky and just a bit off-kilter—dizzy, headachy, not remotely hungry and yes, the brain-zaps did, in fact, increase, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Until I started hearing voices. That’s right, I said “voices.” In my head. Again, I’m not making this up, but I really wish that I was.

Did you know that hearing voices can be a symptom of severe depression or a side effect of certain antidepressant medications? It's true. And I have to say, it’s a crock of shit. At a point when you’re feeling unbearably sad, worthless, hopeless and guilty, a chorus of voices inside your own fucking head may just decide to belt out a few versus of “Hey, You Suck!” and invite their friends to join in. The horror of it is incomprehensible and the word “unfair” is far too anemic to describe it.

When I left work that night, I stopped at a local restaurant to get dinner to take home. It was loud in the restaurant and while I waited I became anxious and dangerously close to a panic attack (apparently my anxiety had also increased with the new dose of medication). But I managed to hold it together, pay my bill and make it to the car with my food. I began to cry the minute I shut the car door, but felt a huge sense of relief to be out of the restaurant and in the relative privacy of my car. I was taking a minute to get myself together before I started driving and that’s when I started hearing them. People were yelling inside my head. The voices were loud, critical, insulting, unkind and terribly persistent. So much for getting myself together.

I drove home with the yelling in my head, stopping at the drive-through pharmacy to pick up my anxiety medication (this seeming like the perfect time for it). I was literally sobbing the entire time the pharmacist was dispensing the medication and I became the teeniest bit concerned she would call 911. It probably wasn’t a rational thought, but who can form a rational thought with so much noise in their head?

I got home, took the anxiety medication and waited for the voices to shut the fuck up. But while I waited, I listened. Really listened. And while I listened, I realized something terrible. And what I realized may be the very definition of a rude awakening. (Truly, if you look up “rude awakening” in the dictionary, you might see my picture. I’ll be the one grimacing and holding my head.)

So here’s the thing: it turns out the voices are mine. Every last one of them. The voices I would have sworn were people close to me, people I love and respect, the voices I would have sworn were you, weren’t you at all. The words they were saying were things I’ve heard from others. Awful, hurtful, dreadful things, but the voice delivering the words was mine alone. My voice, cruelly turned up to 11 by a quirk of my brain’s faulty wiring.

Perhaps it makes a certain amount of sense that the voices are all mine. Because while the people who spoke the words to me are most certainly responsible for their hurtfulness, thoughtfulness and cruelty, I alone am responsible for hanging on to those words. It’s a character flaw of epic proportions and one I’ve spent a lifetime trying to regulate. And although I’ve made progress, this incident has provided a vivid (Technicolor really) example of how far I have yet to go. Those words are still right there, exactly where I left them, ready to hurt me again whenever my faulty brain allows it. And my brain will even deliver the words in my own voice. Damn it.

It should take about a week to see how this combination of drugs will affect me and whether or not the side-effects will subside. I’m willing to ride it out, but if you have the misfortune of running into me in the meantime, you might want to give me a wide berth. You can’t be sure right now how many people I might be carting around inside my head.

And while you’re giving me a wide berth, I’ll be working on some coping strategies. Before the kids left for their dad’s house, I took these pictures of them. I told them they were for an art project I was working on with no further explanation and after five days at their dad’s it’s unlikely they’ll remember to ask about it again. These pictures remind me why I’m here should I have a moment when I forget. They remind me that I am, in fact, “made right” for this world. And so are they. I have them taped next to my bed.

 

Maggie taped two lists by my bed as well. One reads: The Voices Are Wrong and lists people who love me. I am grateful beyond measure that the list is so long. The other is Things Lori is Good At (In No Particular Order). Obviously parallel parking is on the list, but some lesser-known skills are there as well such as lifting things, making beds and helping people see that they are important (I especially like that one). And finally, I taped a picture of myself next to my bed, all the way by the wall and kind of close to the floor where no one can see it but me. It’s a picture that Lucy took of me the last week with a two-year-old Valentine taped next to it. The Valentine is from a dear friend and I carry it with me all the time. It says, “Beautiful and Good.”

I figure if I’m going to hear voices, I might as well encourage them to say something nice. Because especially when it comes to voices in your head, if they can’t say something nice, they really should shut the fuck up.