In which I indulge in shameless autobiography in an effort to suggest to those whose suffering comes from inside themselves that I used to suffer a lot, and now suffer less.

I don’t particularly want these writings to be a confessional about me. But I do think there are some elements of my personal history that are useful to be shared to help understand my journey from where I started 5 years ago to where I am now. Maybe it will seem more worth listening to what I have to say if you understand that I’ve experienced my share of hopelessness. Maybe hearing what I can suggest about how people change will have more merit if you see that I’ve been able to change a lot about myself. Maybe you can see a little of yourself in my struggles, and can nod along to the parts you relate to. Please forgive some self-indulgent autobiography for a few posts here.

I was depressed my whole life. As a kid, I was alone and lonely and sad about it. As a teenager, I was alone and lonely and angsty about it. You get the idea. 

My depression is like anyone else’s. Anyone familiar with the experience will recognize it. I thought I was a fat slob with no self-control, a morose, ruminating sad sack who was just trying to be as comfortable as possible while waiting to die. Salient features included racing anxieties, deep feelings of inadequacy, dark thoughts making it hard to fall asleep at night, listlessness leading to sleeping away as much of the day as possible, and a fundamental belief that life was too difficult to be worth all this suffering, and that my friends and family would be better off without me. With every problem that presented itself, my default go-to was, “I wouldn’t have to deal with this if I was dead.” Above all, it felt like my life could never get better. About this, I was certain. 

At times, I did tackle depression like it was something I could improve – I had to, I was suffering so much. I experimented with prescribed medications. I certainly experimented with self-medication. I saw counselors and therapists – I even had a really good one, for years, who introduced me to some CBT that kept me off the ledge…until it didn’t. 

In January of 2012, I was in a bad place. My drug use was the worst it had been in my life – which was saying something. Dan and I had parted ways sadly, ending a nearly 10-year relationship. I was living by myself, which I had done only once before, and was every bit as big a disaster in 2012 as it had been when I was 19. I was working a soul-sucking job that sounded great on paper, but was making me miserable, and I was not doing well there. 

Long story short, one night I downed probably 12 bottles of beer, and swallowed maybe 50 klonopin in the hope that I would never have to wake up again. I wasn’t thinking about who would take care of my cats. I told myself my mom would eventually be better off not having to worry about me any more (honestly I don’t even know what I told myself, it all seems so unconscionable now). I was in so much pain, I just needed it to end. 

And then. I woke up.

I was crushed with disappointment. I couldn’t even kill myself right?? I had taken enough benzos to take down a horse. How on earth was this possible? It didn’t even really occur to me that violence might have been a better method, like slitting my wrists or hanging myself or something. I wanted the sweet release of permanent sleep. The only tool that occurred to me was more benzos. So I took about another 50 Xanax.

And then. I woke up.

Are you kidding me? This really beggared belief. No way could I have survived these extreme overdoses twice. That was it, I was out of ideas. Clearly having failed at even killing myself successfully, I grudgingly called my therapist, who advised getting to a hospital. I was in in-patient psychiatric treatment for a week, and outpatient for 3 weeks. It was a little like summer camp – a bunch of mentally ill misfits like me, lots of arts and crafts, but with more group therapy. I wouldn’t say that hospitalization turned my life around (a mental health professional told me for the first time that I had a substance abuse problem, which I dismissed – although I did attend my first addiction group. When I stopped being so depressed, I would quit drinking, duh). From there, steady improvements to my situation unwound one problem after another. My family moved to Portland, so I wasn’t living alone. I got a job that was miles better than my government job, where I excelled and experienced days full of self-efficacy for the first time in a long time. Within less than a year, my life improved dramatically.

After that, there was a long period of stasis – I wasn’t in crisis, but I wasn’t thriving. I think if you’d asked me then, I’d have said I was happy.  But I was certainly drinking heavily and binge eating every night. I was pretty stressed at work. I definitely wasn’t having experiences where I looked back and said with wonder, “I did that?” Still, much improved. 

My depression has responded to sudden and gradual improvements in my life. What I felt hopeless to change has actually responded. I’ve seen my mental landscape evolve along with these changes. Among the greatest positive contributions to my brain’s inner workings: meditation. Mindfulness meditation allows me to observe these thoughts coming and going, so I’m pretty familiar with how their character has changed. These days, my brain is a place full of friendly thoughts, where even uncomfortable or upsetting thoughts can be met with a laughing, “There you go again,” rather than a full-scale meltdown into a shame spiral.  My negative ruminating has been replaced, one thought at a time, with excitement about what I’ll do that day, thoughts of food (always), problems I’m trying to solve, feelings of connectivity to life. 

When I talk about meditation, it started with stress relief. But mindfulness meditation has totally changed my relationship with my thoughts. Some thoughts can be fatal if acted on. The negative thoughts I used to have carried the weight of certainty and truth. Unassailable. With enough meditation practice, their power seems limited to only this: Sometimes I act on my thoughts. I don’t always have to. If I don’t act on a thought, it goes away. 

I thought I was a helpless prisoner of my own mind, and for a long time, I was. No one is more surprised than me that the cruel prison guard of my mind became a dear friend. There’s a saying in the 12-step recovery world – “Don’t quit before the miracle.” They often mean that much more conventionally, that there is a God-powered revelation coming your way. But for me, the miracle was that I could ever feel better. I almost quit before that miracle. I don’t think about it every day, but pretty regularly, and when I do, I’m so glad depression didn’t kill me, despite my very best efforts. I am a better version of myself than I knew was in there. I never dreamed that I could have the kind of peace and joy I have now. Didn’t even think it was possible. 

In a way, trying to quit life – unsuccessfully – made it necessary to build a new life. I wish I could say my story of starting over begins with an intentional YES, with a new lease on life. But I limped along. I gradually built momentum. First one thing, then another, then another. 

I wouldn’t change much on my journey now, because I am so happy about where it led. My rehabilitation started from that lowest point. Anyone who’s known me for a long time knows that I spent most of my life as a shattered mess of profound depression and low self-esteem. I know there are people in front of these words who are suffering. If I can turn it around, I’m hopeful anybody can.