The unexpected fall-out of the knee injury
I was twenty when a medical professional and a counselor reluctantly agreed on a loose diagnosis of borderline depression for me. Reluctant, because the counselor thought it was worse and the doctor's ten-question survey didn't seem to satisfy anyone, including the doctor. Loose, because it turns out the way they decide if you really suffer from clinical depression is to put you on meds and see what happens.
No, thank you. That seemed like overkill. On the suggestion of some sources I trust, I skipped the Zoloft and tried some St. John's Wort. That is . . . more than sufficient. I generally only take it if I'm going through a bad patch or if it's winter in a cold climate with little sunlight. And I don't always take a full dose. It can result in my feeling like I'm dealing with the world through a thin layer of gauze.
Most of the time, it's enough to know. To understand that what's going on inside my head and heart is partly chemical. I can understand that I feel awful now, but I'll feel fine tomorrow. Only sometimes, I don't feel fine tomorrow.
Over the past 72 hours, I've realized the depression is rearing its ugly head again, in a way it really hasn't in some time. The impetus for its being out of control is most likely lack of exercise due to the lingering knee injury. Without getting the metabolism going and the seratonin levels up, all kinds of unpleasant reactions can run unchecked through my body. The secondary cause is, of course, stress. And I've been blaming my symptoms on stress, but real honestly, stress isn't enough to cause this on its own. It works in tandem with the lack of exercise.
I'm . . . mostly really annoyed that it took me this long to catch on. I can really only blame the fact that I haven't had a patch like this in some years. There are all kinds of symptoms: fatigue even though I sleep, trouble sleeping, depressed immune system (even more than usual), trouble managing my diet. But the most telling one, the one that should have clued me in sooner than this, is the searching.
I get to this point where I'm searching for something. Sometimes, it manifests as hunger, but that's not really what it is. I'll do things like go through all the kitchen cabinets, restlessly, without finding what I'm looking for. Because what I'm looking for isn't something to eat. It's something to satisfy me. Something to make me happy.
Of course, by the time I clued into this, I'd re-gained five pounds and wandered around work like a zombie far too many times in the last week or two.
The good news is, now that I know what's going on, I know how to treat it. So I'm back on the St. John's Wort for a couple of months. The better news is, As of last week, I've begun walking again. Short walks, at first, and with the knee brace on. But today, I was able to walk in the middle of the day, before the knee begins to ache. And I did my full 1.3 mile loop without a brace. Thank the gods I'm finally healing.
I wrote a poem while I was doped up on too much St. John's Wort, once. I've written many while depressed, though there's one I consider most indicative. In fact, I really only write poetry when I'm depressed or in love, which means that with emotional health, I lose my muse. As trade-offs go, I can live with it. I'd rather write fiction. It's less . . . wrenching.
Perhaps I should post those two.
No, thank you. That seemed like overkill. On the suggestion of some sources I trust, I skipped the Zoloft and tried some St. John's Wort. That is . . . more than sufficient. I generally only take it if I'm going through a bad patch or if it's winter in a cold climate with little sunlight. And I don't always take a full dose. It can result in my feeling like I'm dealing with the world through a thin layer of gauze.
Most of the time, it's enough to know. To understand that what's going on inside my head and heart is partly chemical. I can understand that I feel awful now, but I'll feel fine tomorrow. Only sometimes, I don't feel fine tomorrow.
Over the past 72 hours, I've realized the depression is rearing its ugly head again, in a way it really hasn't in some time. The impetus for its being out of control is most likely lack of exercise due to the lingering knee injury. Without getting the metabolism going and the seratonin levels up, all kinds of unpleasant reactions can run unchecked through my body. The secondary cause is, of course, stress. And I've been blaming my symptoms on stress, but real honestly, stress isn't enough to cause this on its own. It works in tandem with the lack of exercise.
I'm . . . mostly really annoyed that it took me this long to catch on. I can really only blame the fact that I haven't had a patch like this in some years. There are all kinds of symptoms: fatigue even though I sleep, trouble sleeping, depressed immune system (even more than usual), trouble managing my diet. But the most telling one, the one that should have clued me in sooner than this, is the searching.
I get to this point where I'm searching for something. Sometimes, it manifests as hunger, but that's not really what it is. I'll do things like go through all the kitchen cabinets, restlessly, without finding what I'm looking for. Because what I'm looking for isn't something to eat. It's something to satisfy me. Something to make me happy.
Of course, by the time I clued into this, I'd re-gained five pounds and wandered around work like a zombie far too many times in the last week or two.
The good news is, now that I know what's going on, I know how to treat it. So I'm back on the St. John's Wort for a couple of months. The better news is, As of last week, I've begun walking again. Short walks, at first, and with the knee brace on. But today, I was able to walk in the middle of the day, before the knee begins to ache. And I did my full 1.3 mile loop without a brace. Thank the gods I'm finally healing.
I wrote a poem while I was doped up on too much St. John's Wort, once. I've written many while depressed, though there's one I consider most indicative. In fact, I really only write poetry when I'm depressed or in love, which means that with emotional health, I lose my muse. As trade-offs go, I can live with it. I'd rather write fiction. It's less . . . wrenching.
Perhaps I should post those two.
posted by Journey | 4:46 PM
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