Getting Naked, Part 1

Hello world!  Newbie, here. Full disclosure, I am only so so at writing and I know shit about technology, but I feel strongly about what this whole site is all about so here I am!  Be gentle with me, I come in peace.  

I have hesitated to start this blog for many years, and for many reasons. You see, I am not really sure where to begin, plus it is a pretty vulnerable thing to put one’s thoughts down in a place others will see.  I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, though. I just need the right tools before I commit.  My husband is a beautiful writer.  You know the kind.  The one who writes an effortless novel in a birthday card which, after it’s read, gets passed around the room to a crowd anticipating greatness, all eager to be transmitted to another place. Yuck.  What’s more, he never disappoints.  I’m totally not jealous.  Anyway, I digress.  My husband, the writer who doesn’t write, told me once,  “The best way to get over a fear of writing is to just write!”  So, here goes.

I’ve put a lot of thought into how I want to structure this blog.  I’ve read some wonderful blogs that are like a daily journal of events happening, for the most part, in real time.  Other blogs are structured a bit like a “how to” for do-it-yourselfers wanting a challenge (guilty), or to just save a buck (also guilty).  Some just tell a story, made up or ‘based on real events’ that happened in the past.  Since I am an indecisive depressive, I figure I will take a stab at a few of these options.  For sure, though, I will not be giving lectures on “how to” anything, and I will not be giving advice.  I am a self-proclaimed non-expert in just about everything.  I even screwed up making a glass of water once!  So, I’ll start with a story.  I would say this story is completely true, but I didn’t write down the events at the time so some parts may get lost to memory.  I promise to do my best keeping it real.

As I mentioned earlier, I am a ‘depressive’. The term, depressive, is a borrowed word I am relatively new to hearing, but have now heard many times and I think it fits me just fine.  I first heard this term when listening to an audiobook called, Undoing Depression, What Therapy Doesn’t Teach You and Medication Can’t Give You (2021), by Richard O’Connor, PhD. (Highly recommend!).  I don’t like labels so I am choosing to not consider this word a label, per se.  I do like words, though.  And this word seemed innocent enough when I first heard it so…it stuck!  I am a depressive.  That is not to say I am a person in a depressive state.  That would be inaccurate because ‘being in a depressive state’ implies I am depressed all the time.  I am not.  In fact, right now I feel quite well.  That said, I have played with the dark beast (the “black dog” as Winston Churchill so beautifully refers to it), off and on, since adolescence.  Depression is something I know well and is what motivated me to create this blog.  

I guess the best place to start this first blog is with an explanation.  Why did I call this site, “Naked, Now What”?  Well, naked, to me, is just another wonderful, funny word.  But, like the word depressive, naked is another perfect word I now use to describe me.  First off, get your head out of the gutter.  A person can be naked while still wearing all their clothes.  In fact, as I write this I am wearing a casual, long-sleeved dark blue dress, and fuzzy light brown scrunchy socks to cover my always cold toes.  But, I am still naked.  

Having dealt with depression since adolescence, I am no stranger to anti-depressant medications.  I’ve tried many.  My first was Wellbutrin.  I was prescribed that with my first bought of depression at around the age of 16.  My depression at that time was diagnosed after I filled out a lengthy 5-6 page document answering questions on a liker scale on things like. “Question:  How often to you feel little or no pleasure in doing things;  Answer:  Never, Sometimes, All the time, etc”.  That particular bout was deemed cyclical, timed perfectly with my monthly menstruation.  I was on Wellbutrin for about 18 months before, at my request and after convincing my parents and doctor I was strong enough, I was allowed to stop taking it.  

My next drug was Zoloft.  I was prescribed that when I was diagnosed with depression again.  I didn’t have to fill out the lengthy questionnaire again since I had a previous diagnosis.  This time, my hormones weren’t a factor.  I was stressed over trying to decide what to do with my life (I had just graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Psychology which prepared me for absolutely nothing career-wise unless I wanted to go to grad school, I didn’t).  I was also stressed over how to help my then boyfriend deal with a stressful event in his life, one that left him lying helpless on the floor many days not wanting to live.  I took Zoloft only for about three months.  I didn’t like the side effects.  My own depression was usurped by my boyfriend’s worse depression.  I think that made me feel “pseudo” strong because, in my mind, at least I wasn’t as bad off as him and he needed me to not be weak just then.  It was my turn to be strong for him, so I was. And that was that.  

The “black dog”, as Churchill so brilliantly described it, visited me again when my first child was born.  And again with my second child.  Luckily, I did not need medication for my postpartum depression.  A VERY patient, loving, and supportive husband, and some much needed rest, helped me through those times in my life.  

After that, I had a nice long break.  Until my mother died.  Losing my mother was a personal hell I had never felt and hoped to never suffer through ever again.  Not so lucky.  Five years later, my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and married a money-hungry whore (long story, visit my blog titled “Pappy” for more on that nightmare) that very same month of his diagnosis.  That is an event that has held me prisoner to anti-depressant medications to this day, seven years later.  

Prozac was the drug of choice I was prescribed when my mother died.  I was able to come off of it about a year, and several therapy sessions, later.  It worked well for me.  Looking back, the best thing about Prozac was that it numbed the pain.  I wouldn’t say it “cured” my depression, but it certainly helped me function as a wife, as a mother, in my job, as a person. If any of you out there have lost a parent, my heart aches for you and I am so sorry for your loss.  My mother was everything to me. It was difficult admitting that to others I loved, but I think they understood that losing her meant losing an unconditional love that no one can replace.  Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.  I remember getting irrationally angry at people who asked me how my dad was doing.  ‘Who the fuck cares!,’ I would scream silently in my head.  ‘He get’s to find another someone to love him.  I don’t!’  The giant hole that losing my mother left in my heart, in my soul, created a pain unlike any pain I had ever felt.  It truly swallowed me whole.  Prozac helped.

Prozac got me through.  So, it only made sense to go back on it when my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimers 5 years later.  And I have been grieving his loss, and taking medication to dull the pain, this time, for seven years.  My dad is still on this earth physically, but his mind is definitely not what it used to be.  It is because of the people around him who continually and constantly try to take advantage of him in his state that I am (or was) still on medication.  But, I finally met my breaking point.  And now, I am free.  I am naked.

My naked journey started with This Naked Mind (2015), written by a brilliant and brave woman, Annie Grace.  She helped me free myself from the worst of many medications I was consuming each night just to get through the thick of it, alcohol.  Like Prozac, alcohol is also great at numbing the pain.  Or, so I thought.