by TL Schlater

Created on: February 02, 2009   Last Updated: March 04, 2009

I battle depression everyday. And some days I lose.

That's why I see a psychiatrist. In another life, I would have referred to him as a "shrink" or "the doctor only crazy people go to." However, in this brave new world, I call him Dr. Even though a couple of other medical professionals wanted me to seek the guidance and care of a psychiatrist, I fought it every step of the way. I sought the advice of people I trusted: my friends and my mother. Because I believed that I was not depressed, I believed that I was not crazy. But I was only half right. I'm not crazy.

To refuse to seek out medical help when you need it is like walking with a broken leg: you can get by, but not very well. A very little known fact is that the head is connected to the body. Therefore, if the body gets sick, the whole body is sick. Illness affects more than one part of one's self. When the flu strikes, your head is congested, your throat hurts, your sinuses drain, your bowels cramp and your stomach refuses food. Infection attacks you and causes your body temperature to rise, thereby causing a fever. Just as antibiotics and a cracker and 7 Up diet fight the flu, so also do antidepressants help to balance the neural sensors of the brain.

There is always a root for every illness. Even depression starts somewhere. But I'm not really sure where mine started. I do believe though, that I have been depressed most of my adult life. Is depression genetic? Will we ever really know the answer to that question since no one likes to talk about it? Am I depressed because I can't function like I used to or is my inability to be mobile causing an increase in my depression? This conversation we are having is being expressed because like most people I know, I need people I know. I need you around me, I need you to hear me, I need you to know me.

We tend to bottle things up inside us and put on a happy face, a mask for the world to see, a mask that hides who we are. And when we look in the mirror we see only our reflection; the mask is real, the face is not. Admitting our pain and misery to ourselves is harder than it is to share it with others. Only when we remove the mask and behold the eyes do we get a glimpse of what is inside. Did my depression start when I was a little girl? We moved around a lot when I was growing up. When I made friends, I would have to leave them behind. So I stopped making friends. I retreated into the private world of loneliness. The library became my favorite place to be. I read everything I could get my hands on. When I read a book, I am there. I'm the heroine or the princess, the pirate or the pilot. And because I chose to hide, I ended up hiding from myself, too.

You can only see me when I write. My pen is my mirror. The ink is my soul. Whether you laugh or cry, mock or pity, matters not to me. I'd like to think that anyway. My armor is my faith and mere words can only dent, not penetrate it. But watch out, you may end up at the other end of my pen.

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