Dependent

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• December 4, 2016

Whenever a friend, or stranger, has told me they’re on medication for depression, I have never judged them.  The opposite is true, actually.  Their decision to get a grip on the darkness that comes with depression is admirable.  And yet, the idea of ME taking medication for depression was out the question.

See, I’m the exception to every rule.  This is probably because I’m wildly narcissistic.  I don’t even think certain laws apply to me.  They apply to the majority, because the majority are mindless, dim sheep, but I, Lori Palminteri, am above this.

With this self-centered mentality comes a certain self loathing.  Because I hold myself to higher standards, I often feel inadequate when I inevitably fall short of my near impossible expectations.  For example, objectively, my comedy career is fine.  If I were to look at someone else who was in the exact same position as me, I’d think, “wow, they are exceedingly productive, and doing quite fine, and might actually make it.”  But because I’m me, I often think I’m pursuing a lost cause, and I think about quitting so much, I’m unsure I can keep that thought at bay much longer.

Depression is not sadness.  Not to undermine others experiences, but sometimes I find myself in a conversation with someone about depression who has never been depressed, just through a break-up, or family death, or something tragic, which is painful, no doubt, but that’s not depression.  Depression slips into your deepest conscience and prevents happiness and warmth from the things/people that usually cause you to be besotted with.  Depression’s icy finger contorts your brain into a certain misery, until you’re begging for that feeling to go away.  Then, depression takes a blow torch to everything in your head, so there are no more good or bad feelings. Just ash.  It is here, in this insidious numb state at the bottom of the rabbit hole, where living is a meaningless chore.

Even when you’ve come out of this, which, you’re convinced you never will, it takes a part of you which will grow back, given enough time before the next depression comes.  It had become more than obvious major depression was cyclical for me in my early twenties.  Just as well, I knew this was probably for life.  I did, though, believe I could handle it.  Whatever black mood came my way, I could and would deal with it, and I’d get through it, with no help whatsoever.  Ever independent.  Never a burden on others.  This, above all else, is what I was proud of.

I’m lucky in the sense that I had a glowing childhood, and I’ve found my passion at a young age.  Without the foundation of a great family, I surely would not have the strength or will to keep it together during my most unstable moods.

I’m surrounded by artists who are not only open about their own demons, but also far more accepting to hashing out issues my suburban upbringing had taught me to bury. People whom I admire and trust opened up about their own depression, and encouraged me to try medication.  I’m not a doctor, but I’m well read in psychology, and had I not been me, I would highly suggest someone with my temperament to try medication.  Trying, at least. Because, at 27, I’m unsure how many more blackout depressions I can weather.

This idea of being dependent on a drug for stability is terrifying to me, even now, that I’m taking them.  There’s a part of me that hoped it would fail.  There’s a part of my brain that wants to slide into a depression, so I can say, “I tried meds, and they didn’t work for me.”  Rooting against my own happiness and peace of mind is batshit insane in itself.

Honestly, every person I’ve ever talked to who has taken medication for their sanity goes through the same anxieties.  I’m far from alone on this.  Yes, sometimes melancholia is the result of a situation and/or environment.  Yes, our society has become a pill popping, fast fix nation.   But I really do like my life, and that still isn’t enough sometimes.  Wasn’t I staunchly aware of the chemical malfunction in some brains that causes people to go mad?  In some cases, the swings from low to high, high to low, were completely out of the individuals control?  Was this my issue?  The issue of control?  Of being less me?  Or imperfect?  Or having my creativity clouded by joining Prozac nation?

Because once again, I’m the exception to all the rules.  Fiercely independent, my past has proved that whatever comes through the door, I’ll see it face to face.  I want to do everything all by myself.  However, after what was a hellish few months at the start of 2016, the summer brought a respite from hopelessness and the realization that not only did I have no desire to return to the bottom of the rabbit hole, I was actually terrified of falling so low again.

So I took the advice seriously about getting on medication, and thought hard about what this meant.  The conclusion?  I’m weak.  I’m a weak person.  I’ve fallen short of everything I thought I was.  These were the thoughts at the surface, but when pushed aside I found something else… I am quite dependent on many things.

Wasn’t I dependent on my family for love and stability?

Wasn’t I dependent on the ocean for peace of mind?

Wasn’t I dependent on comedy for passion and a sense of fulfillment?

Wasn’t I dependent on my friends for companionship, fun, and empathy?

Wasn’t I dependent on my nephew’s laugh to remind me that life is silly?

Wasn’t I dependent on music and good story telling to get me through reality when it’s too mundane?

Wasn’t I dependent on the sun to chase shadows out of my head?

Wasn’t I dependent on the drugs I’d already been using to self medicate for years?

All of these things have saved my life, at one point or another.  I could live without them, sure, but I haven’t the slightest desire to. So maybe, Lori, the fiercely independent, is just mildly independent.  And maybe, just maybe, life is better that way.

That being said, in a month, I could be writing a blog about how medications are the worst thing that ever happened to me.  But I write this because for four consecutive years, November had always brought with it a miserable depression, and in 2016, the trend has been broken.  And while I’d like to take all the credit for this, I deserve almost none of it.

For my friends and family who were steadfast when I was lost, I’m eternally grateful.