Marchenko - Still life: a memoir of living fully with depression

Dont try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night.

Philip K. Dick

I stare at an episode of Hoarders on Netflix and check Facebook, back and forth, back and forth. Depression has landed me in bed for about a week. My old trickssleep more, watch television, hold on for dear flipping life waiting for it to passarent working this time.

I cant sleep my mood off or wait it out. It possesses unshakable power over me. I stand on the edge of a cliff in my own bedroom. I must keep still. Otherwise I will plunge to my death. Please God, take this away, I pray when I can, and then I lower myself into a steaming bath to abate the ache of my limbs. My thoughts muddy. I shiver. I sleep for hours and wake up exhausted. Always exhausted. No amount of sleep reenergizes me.

Years ago I decided that a stay-at-home mom succumbing to daytime television equaled rock-bottom living. I would turn on The View or another morning show while cleaning the living room and turn it off a half hour later. A productive person doesnt watch TV during the day, right? But today? Right now? This is nothing new. Ive been hiding in my bedroom watching bad television and sleeping on and off for days. Weeks? Months? I dont know.

I click on Facebook, the opposite of Hoarders, because Facebook is like the giant neon sign of life: Look at me! Isnt my life great? The folks on Hoarders would rather you look at the pile of used plastic bags theyve gathered around them than at them.

I lie on top of stale, tousled black sheets in the room I share with my husband. As I scan my feed, my eyes key in on an advertisement on the right side of the screen. Do you struggle with feeling down? Call this number and see if you qualify to participate in an exciting new clinical trial. The experience includes monetary compensation, free psychiatric care, and the opportunity to help individuals like you who fight depression by sampling a new drug that could become available on the market in the future because of your participation.

My skin awakens. The sensation reminds me of a time when a childhood friend got ringworm in grade school. I walked to her house after school for a chance to see a worm under her skin moving around and around in circles, but when I got there there was only a red, raised surface on her arm. You see the worm? Its right there. She kept trying to convince me. Little swirls now cover my body. A few words in the ad pique my interest. I sit up in bed and adjust the laptop on my legs.

I cross and recross my legs at the ankles and move around the laptop again. I imagine my familymy husband, Sergei, and our four daughtersand wonder what they are doing right now: the kids are at school, perhaps working on math problems or running around in the gym, and Sergei may be hunched over his computer next door at the church where he works. Im home alone, but I look around anyway, afraid someone will see what I clicked on as if it were something embarrassing like porn.

We dont have a lot of money. I want the compensation to fund my dream of publishing the memoir I wrote about my third daughter Pollys diagnosis of Down syndrome. Chilled, I hug myself. The hair on my forearms stands up, urging me to pay attention. I consider the other words in the advertisement that caught my eye.

A psychiatrist. Someone who specializes in the human psyche. Ive never been to a psychiatrist for my struggles. The few times I took medication in the past, my primary care doctor prescribed them, and Ive often wondered if she knew her job. Oh, Prozac isnt working that great anymore? How about Zoloft? Cymbalta? Paxil? My childhood friend Carol says that taking medication is like playing Yahtzee. Put a bunch in a cup, shake them up and roll the dice. If you are lucky, you get a winning hand. More information about myself, medication and mental illness in general would be helpful, right? Could a psychiatrist help?

This is problematic. Do I fight depression?

Historically, I wouldnt claim depression as a diagnosis. Sure, Ive had difficult times in my life, but up until these last few years my struggles with mood revolved mostly around having babies. Although I was prone to melancholia and brooding, my more serious strugglesthat is, the times I couldnt get my crap togetherwere all tied up with the kids. I experienced postpartum depression after three births and then again after we adopted Evangeline, our fourth daughter, from Ukraine. Polly and Evie both have disabilities. Sergei pastors a small church where shoveling snow, cleaning up spills and moving the chairs around are all as much a part of his job as preaching. My older girls, Elaina and Zoya, are young women, complete with mood swings and preadolescent angst. Its a lot, right? So is it depression or a challenging life?