I remember very clearly the moment I realized I was actually in trouble. I was driving south-bound on our little borough's main road on a sunny afternoon, and in front of me, a squirrel dashed out into the opposing lane of traffic and was instantly hit by the oncoming minivan. My tears came immediately and flowed without stop for what seemed like hours as I blindly drove home and cocooned myself in my empty house, curled fetally on the bed, completely unglued.
My therapist had previously suggested antidepressants once or twice -- lightly, delicately -- but I hadn't realized until this moment just how far gone I was. My lack of appetite and inability to get out of bed during the week I had attributed to unbearable work stress at a job I had twice tried and failed to leave. The squirrel incident pushed me over the edge, broke my heart, and shattered my stubborn resolve that medical intervention wasn't necessary. I started on Wellbutrin within a week and, a year and two new jobs later, was all better.
It's been so long that I almost didn't recognize the jagged splinters in my brain for what they are. I'm not quite in that place -- that scary unglued place -- right now, but I can see it from here and am making occasional, brief forays to that barren land. After a tearful acupuncture session on Monday I had a tearful dinner with my friend Maureen, and had to admit to myself that no, I'm not okay. On Wednesday I ordered a SAD light and I started using it yesterday. My acupuncturist will continue to poke me in what she thinks are the proper places for healing. I'll do my best to eat healthfully. And hopefully this, too, shall quickly pass.