Tackling depression may positively affect disability

(I'm temporarily having trouble uploading images to the site so excuse the bland text for now.) This story from Vhi healthcare doesn’t state any new information that a person suffering from depression wouldn’t know but simply recommends that people suffering from a mild form of depression are better off with therapy than medication. David Axelrod, a political consultant in Chicago, has written a moving piece on his father’s suicide in the Chicago Tribune. A choice quote: “…my dad still was impacted by the sense, so prevalent in our society, that depression is somehow a character flaw rather than an illness.” A quote like that warrants a standout because I often fall prey to this belief myself. Mental illness runs in my family (more of the schizophrenia and paranoia) and I often beat myself up because I think depression is a fault. Some of the things that I do emerges as a character flaw – selfishness for one – but depression in and of itself is not a flaw and I need to stop beating myself up about it and work to get the treatment I need. According to the Contra Costa Times, Eminem has been dealing with a bout of depression. No doubt: he lost a close friend, Proof, from his band D-12 and divorced his wife, Kim Mathers, for a second time. If I lost my best friend and my husband in the span of two months, I’d be depressed too. Sources say that he is fighting through his depression without antidepressants. I say Eminem’s bout of depression is normal – the kind that most people experience when they lose a loved one. He’s simply grieving; it doesn’t sound like a mental illness to me. According to the Times of India, scientists at the Central Drug Research Institute have developed a landmark drug to control and cure depression. The drug, ‘sent propezene,’ was tested on more than 250 patients who were said to have shown “remarkable results.” A senior CDRI scientist said the new drug is safer than existing anti-depressants and is free of side effects. The CDRI has obtained an international patent for sent propezene, which is expected to hit the market soon. (This could be one to watch out for.) Novelist Ned Vizzini, who struggles with depression, is featured in this AP article. Thankfully though, he says he’s not longer suicidal and that option has been “crossed out” for him. He’s written a book, “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” about a young man who goes from being exceptional in an average high school to being average at an exceptional high school. It seems like a read worth checking out: “That’s really what this book is about, making that decision to live,” Vizzini says. The San Francisco Bay Times has an opinion column that addresses depression in the gay and lesbian community (LGBT). According to the writer, gays are four to five times likely to get severe depression than heterosexuals. A 2000 survey found that gay men cited depression as their number one health concern after HIV and lesbians cited depression and mental health as their number one concern overall. Another study found that gays and lesbians were two to three times more likely to attempt suicide than heterosexuals. Why the stark trend? It seems that a “homophobic environment, suppressed anger, a self-imposed limitation on awareness of feelings and a lack of emotional nurturing” for their homosexual identities puts the LGBT community at a greater risk for depression. This revelation seems to make it possible that depression can be caused not only from a genetics or a hormonal imbalance, but also as a result of external factors. Medindia.com has an article that suggests depression and chronic pain can cause disability in women. Maybe it’s just me, but I think this finding is sort of “duh.” If people have chronic pain, there must be something wrong. The “aha!” finding here seems to be that pain-related emotions can produce pain-related behaviors. So apparently, if doctors can tackle a female’s mental health then her physical well-being is expected to improve. If you didn’t know, now you know. I think this finding is pretty much common sense, however. Recently, more light has been shed on postpartum depression because of Brooke Shield’s admission. According to the Exeter News-Letter, postpartum blues affects 50 to 85 percent of new moms. Dr. Patricia Kincare writes, “Common symptoms include rapid shifts in mood, anxiety, irritability, tearfulness and poor sleep and appetite.” The blues typically is viewed as depression after two weeks of the same symptoms. About 10 percent of new mothers experience PPD. Women with PPD are extremely worried about their infants, are unable to be reassured that their child is okay and can even feel suicidal. Postpartum OCD seems to be somewhat more severe – with the mother thinking of their child being harmed in some way. To treat this mental illness, Kincare recommends counseling and/or antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication. My fear of developing either PPD or PPOCD is often what keeps me from wanting to have children. I’m already afraid of dropping my child down a flight of stairs or tumbling down them myself so the possibility of developing either one of those illnesses is probably very high for me. Women who are thinking about becoming mothers should discuss with their doctor how to approach treatment should they have an onset of postpartum depression or disorder. And the debate over pregnant women using Seroxat continues to rage. Sophie Corlett, policy director of mental health charity Mind, said: “The science on Seroxat and pregnancy isn't conclusive either way.”

Personal update

My depression has been at bay for some time. After a serious two-year bout when I was on and off antidepressants and not able to get out of bed, I’m happy to say I’m at a content place right now. I find – for myself – that external factors seem to make my moods go up and down. Being the perfectionist that I am (which I am working on), the external factors, for the most part, have been to my advantage or liking. My trouble comes when external factors are not to my liking – this is when I will be tested. I am very fortunate. I am originally from New York and now am a transplanted Pennsylvanian. (I don’t like to think of myself that way because I am so much NY love.) Pennsylvania and New York are very different, although I like to think of Philadelphia as NY Jr. or NY lite. It is much bigger than the 3-mile wide island called Manhattan and there is almost as much to do – possibly more simply because of its size. However, the attitudes are vastly different. Philly, the City of Brotherly Love, seems to have little Brotherly Love of any kind. Philly fans do not hesitate to boo their team when they are losing or do not hesitate to heckle any fan wearing a Terrell Owens shirt who’s probably “not with it.” I’ve learned a new way to order cheesesteaks. “With or without.” No mention of cheese, though. I’ve learned to love the Main Line, which is where I live. The towns are quaint, formed on either side of the SEPTA (Southeastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority) line. Many of them boast antique shops and design centers. (I’m proud to boast that my mother-in-law is a designer.) The Main Line is a quiet pocket of activity and style that many people in New York seem to miss. The prices can be comparable to or cheaper than New York and here’s a tip: tax is cheaper. Wawas have comfortably enveloped my heart like a good hoagie (7-11’s have now fallen out of favor with me.) and John’s Pizza (630 Lancaster Ave. in Frazer, PA) have the best cheesesteaks along the Main Line. If you’ve gone there, let me know. So I’m handling this transplanted Philadelphian thing quite well. I lived in Kentucky from September 2005-April 2006 and didn’t handle that transition nearly as well. But for a plethora of reasons other than the fact that it was Kentucky: worked a job when I never saw my husband, didn’t have any friends, never had time for myself, rarely saw family, etc. At one point, I ended up working 50-60 hours a week to get the job done. For some people, this is a normal occurrence, but I am not working in the medical or corporate field so that many hours were completely unnecessary. It was an experience I needed to have to put my life in perspective.

The many antidepressant uses

ON TRIAL: The cheapest antidepressant you can find? Semen. EVIDENCE: According to a NewScientist.com article, a study has shown that women who are directly exposed to semen are less depressed. While doctors still advocate condom use, the study shows that women whose partners did not wear condoms were generally happier than women whose partners wore condoms. The article says that the researchers took into account other factors that might affect the study such as oral contraceptives, intimacy frequency, the strength of the relationships and personality. "In fact, the results aren't a complete surprise because semen does contain several mood-altering hormones, including testosterone, oestrogen, follicle-stimulating hormone, luteinising hormone, prolactin and several different prostaglandins." The article quotes one doctor who suggests that semen could possibly affect the mood of gay males who have unprotected sex. The article seems to imply that the semen-mood-altering study is directly tied to vaginal (possibly anal) sex but hints that oral sex may provide similar benefits in the same way that an oral contraceptive could alter hormones. VERDICT: If you've got a male partner, in a monogamous, committed relationship and suffering from mild depression, go ahead and test this study out. (Everybody wins!) Otherwise, stick to the anti-depressants and use condoms. ON TRIAL: Prozac + anorexia nervosa = recovery EVIDENCE: Very little. According to a New York Times article, research shows that antidepressants can help people suffering from bulimia nervosa recover, but the benefits do not seems to transfer to anorexia. About three million Americans (mainly women) will suffer from anorexia and studies show that two-thirds of them are treated with antidepressants. "Dr. Walter Kaye, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Pittsburgh, said the new findings should not rule out the use of antidepressant treatment altogether." THE VERDICT: Antidepressants have a long way to go in targeting those who suffer from eating disorder psychoses. Further research needs to be done to show any significant value in antidepressant use. ON TRIAL: Pregnant women using antidepressants. EVIDENCE: According to medindia.com, Seroxat, an antidepressant linked to heart abnormalities, seems safe to use in pregnant women. Researchers found no increased risk to women or their babies. However, three abnormalities out of 119 women were reported with use of the drug: clubfeet, a large port wine mark and neck muscle spasms. In a group that did not use the drug, 25 out of 557 babies were affected. THE VERDICT: Pregnant women should cautiously approach using antidepressants and discuss the ramifications of using the drugs with their doctor. The studies seems to imply that babies can have an abnormality regardless of the mother using an antidepressant but caution still should be used. INFORMATION: According to a KLTV article, Mayo Clinic study has found that REM Sleep Behavior Disorder, which typically affects people in their 50s, is now being discovered in patients as young as 30. The link? Anti-depressants. The violent sleep disorder causes people to act out their dreams, which can result in serious injury to themselves or the person sleeping beside them. The recommendation? Don't stop taking your medication but see a sleep specialist right away.

Relationship

My husband has been the most effective tool in helping me battle my depression. My husband has been caring, loving and unwavering throughout our marriage. My husband, who was my long-distance boyfriend during my worst bouts of depression, provided emotional and physical support, a listening ear, and generous advice. He offers encouragement when I don’t deserve them and is considerate when I am stubborn. He only thinks of me when I only think of my suffering. And in the end, he makes me a better person for who he is. Healthy relationships can aid a person in the road to recover. The transformation in my life since my marriage has been tremendous. But it requires persistence, faithfulness and unconditional love from someone who sees past the sufferer’s selfishness.

Religion

I began taking anti-depressants at 22 years old. My parents were reluctant to put me on medication as a growing teenager. In July 1998, I found something I thought would offer me a better chance at being happy: I became a born-again Christian by accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Savior. Some people find different ways of happiness and staying alive. Thinking that a big, divine God had kept me alive this long for a reason kept me going. Jesus Christ became my raison d’être: for eating, sleeping, breathing. I lived to worship God day and night and felt He had truly transformed me and saved me out of my depression. While He may infuse a life-changing transformation for some Christians on Earth, for me, my victory over depression would be short-lived. It soon became the “thorn in my side.” Close friends and family said that Christianity didn’t work for me. But through my faith, I found a need to continue living. I felt needed and had a reason to live for other than myself. Thinking that God has me here for a higher purpose keeps me going: I’m curious to find out what’s at the end. Faith in a higher purpose or a divine calling can bring some needed relief some depression sufferers.

Anti-depressants

Anti-depressants are a touchy subject for people who suffer from depression. Anti-depressants help some people, cause no change in others or, in some instances, can even harm. I went through Paxil and Lexapro before my doctor recommended Zoloft. None of those medications helped me with depression. Paxil didn’t hesitate to add weight, jittery nerves and increased anxiety; Lexapro helped to spin me deeper into depression and suicide — to a point where I couldn’t get out of bed. Once my doctor handed me a prescription for Zoloft, I realized that my end-all-be-all cure for depression could not depend on medicines. I received the argument, “Try all you can before stopping medication,” but I had done all I could on medication. My life was spinning out of control and it nearly cost me— I almost failed to graduate college and nearly lost my summer job at a prestigious magazine. While preparing for a wedding — one of the most stressful events in a person’s life — I quit taking the medication. Some people are better with anti-depressants than without them, but for others, anti-depressant just can’t and won’t do the trick.

Suicide

I’d like to say, “Been there, done that,” but it’s not something I’m proud to dismiss. February 14, 1997 was the first time I attempted suicide: I tried to jump off a fourth-story balcony. But I’m a drama queen and like standard drama queen fare, I called my pals and left them goodbye messages. People call it a cry for help; I just can’t leave this world without saying goodbye. (I liken it to leaving home for a long trip in another continent You’d say goodbye to those you love and would miss.) It’s become a bad (or perhaps, good) pattern that has kept me alive. I’ve tried jumping out of cars, swallowing pills, slashing, stabbing, drowning, suffocating — and barely stopped short of hanging. I got as far as a chair and a noose until I couldn’t bear to imagine my father walk in the door from work to see his only child hanging from the ceiling fan in the hallway. I’m not happy to admit all this, but people can learn a lesson from a life as varied as mine. I’ve been to the depths of desolation and desperation and I know the feeling of not being able to “go on” or even wanting to “go on.”

Social Awkwardness

Being smart hardly puts people in the most popular situation. My geekiness gained me more enemies than friends. (Oddly enough, my rival Danielle turned into one of my good friends shortly after fifth grade.) Another friend I’d had since first grade — a person I’d considered my best friend — spread vicious rumors around school about me and caused me trouble with parents and college guys when I was at 12 years old. The unfolding years became no better as teasing from classmates and soon, teachers, intensified. By high school, I shut myself off from other people and making new friends. I built an armor of self-rejection around myself so the darts of rejection thrown at me could not pierce my skin. I continued to hope that my intelligence would garner social points but I quickly learned that my popularity immensely increased with tests and quizzes and then sharply declined until the next time. My social awkwardness continues to this day — in my head, I overanalyze the implications of a new friendship or conjure reasons why a stranger probably dislikes me. Such is the life of a perfectionistic, socially awkward, depressed person.

Perfectionistic Tendencies II

The principal at my elementary school ruled against me skipping a grade ahead and so I remained stuck in first grade with second grade reading skills. (It should be noted here that second graders didn’t like me either — I was the annoying kid who knew all the answers and raised her hand all the time. No one likes that kid. Ever.) As I got older, school, naturally, became harder. In third grade, a girl named Danielle, who was smarter and prettier than me, became my first intellectual competitor. (Side note: This was a futile effort as she’s been valedictorian twice in her life and graduated from college with a degree in biophysics or biochemistry.) Constantly failing to be the best annoyed me enough at this point. Instead of my father assuring me that my best was enough, I got, “What happened to 100?” I never grew up thinking or knowing that if I got a “90,” it was an “A” and if that’s the best I could’ve done under the circumstances, then it was okay. If I got a 98, I always heard, “What happened to the other 2 points?” It was always A+ or 100 — never “at least you tried your best.” I began hiding tests that weren’t perfect from my parents — setting me up for a livelihood of perfectionism.

Perfectionistic Tendencies

As the only child of Haitian immigrants (side note: As I write this, I’m making a note to check on the proper usage of immigrant/emigrant), pressure to make them proud was thrust upon me. Making them happy had never been a problem until I wrote my first book at 6 years old. My parents and school librarian marveled at my ability to grasp the concept of a beginning, middle and end with a clear conflict and climax at such an early age. My parents — namely my father — viewed me as a child prodigy in the area of writing. Talk ensued about me skipping a grade; peers envied me as I took second grade reading in first grade; my father strongly encouraged me to write a follow-up story. But, sophomore follow-ups don’t tend to be nearly as good as a debut. I wrote Lila’s Secret Hideout in second grade and poured my heart and soul into the book, which included endless revisions and drafts — with the help of my librarian. My father insisted that Lila’s Secret Hideout was nowhere near as good as my debut, Sarah’s Boots. I spent the rest of my life trying to win another Pulitzer Prize from my father. I’d continue to fail.

Who I Am

I am a 24-year-old black female who suffers from major depressive disorder (MDD). I can’t pinpoint the exact time it began, but it’s been at least 10 years. I remember attempting to cut myself as early as 12 years old. My self-deprecation tendencies — calling myself “stupid” in front of my teacher and classmates — date to about 8 or 9 years old. I have no problem admitting that I have perfectionistic tendencies. If something is not done right or to my liking — it’s not an A+ — then I am dissatisfied, upset, or worse yet, suicidal.