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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
[email protected]Shown: posts 1 to 12 of 12. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
Going to see family for the holidays is sometimes a bit of a mixed bag, and I often return home feeling ambivalent. As luck would have it, this Thanksgiving was nice. Maybe it’s not luck, but progress. Much has happened since the beginning of the year. There have been many more open discussions, many more things revealed, many hurts that are hopefully in the process of being redressed. Sometimes things are tense. But improved, greately. I wish I knew them all better (my parents, esp. my father, my siblings, alike and also very different than me). I do love them. I found a sample box, sitting in a drawer, empty but for some reason not discarded: Celexa (citalopram HBr). I wondered whose it was. I want to be told without asking.I went searching for an old textbook I couldn’t find, discovering in the attick old boxes filled with junk I had accumulated long ago. In one was a bag of letters I had forgotten I had saved, many from friends since neglected. I found some from an ex-girlfriend I had dated off an on even lived with for a while . Often the tone of the letters was conflicted, sad, cautious. One letter struck me like a blow: “I keep hoping something will trigger a revelation...It hurts to see you hurting so and to know I can’t do anything about it. It hurts to think that if these issues were resolved, we could (if you wanted) have a wonderful, intimate relationship on several levels...Whatever happens, I just want you to be happy. I love you.” I was 23, she 22.
A simple message, repeated many times by someone who waited long for me to grow and to be able to express again even some of the joy we both felt when we first got together. Nothing in the end could be helped; there simply wasn’t enough of me to give back what she needed. And, as feelings of self-hatred and despair seemed to grow, I sometimes couldn’t help being angry, even when her frustration was meant to heal and not hurt. “I’m opening a door for you,” she said once, “and you won’t go through it. Why?” So it ended. Nothing, really, was saved. I thought I had discarded every momento. I couldn’t bear to be reminded.
I wanted to forget, but I guess I didn’t. And the process of healing, both of my depression and my family, only makes some of the memories of the things I cannot heal more poignant and even brutal. Something got stirred up again, and maybe it needed to be. I drove home tonight tired from a day hike with my parents, my mind open to old images, voices. I had a memory of her sleeping. As corny as it sounds I did just watch her sleep sometimes, and thought she was the most beautiful creature on this earth. She exceeded me in every respect.
It’s times like these that are so difficult. I look back and cannot help feeling such a sense of loss, of things marred or ruined by my illness. I do feel so fortunate to have finally found something that works. But also there is very deep sadness and regret that I could not have found it sooner. I missed many things. I realise I miss her. I miss her so much. I cried half the way home. And there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could go back and tell her how much she meant to me. I lost the dearest thing in my life, and I fear it was to depression. It just killed me. It just kills me.
I’m sorry. Brevety was never my strong suit. I guess that, perhaps, some of you might know how I feel, or have felt. I’m crying as I write this. I can’t help it.
Posted by Noa on November 29, 1999, at 3:00:53
In reply to Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
Wow, Adam. You expressed yourself so beutifully. Yes, I understand the feelings of loss, and for me, there is anger, too, at how much my depression has interfered with my life all these years, and that it isn't possible to go back and change anything. For me, the anger and grieving is so hard to allow myself to feel, because it often feels so futile. I am just now beginning to allow myself to feel the anger. Anger with no target. If I believed in God, maybe I would be angry at God. But so much of my life has been disrupted because of the depression. Sometimes when I am begninning to feel this anger, a voice in my head tells me not to be so self indulgent, that other people have it much worse, etc. But I am trying to ignore that voice, because I think I need to grieve.
It sounds like you handled the holiday well, even the stirring up of feelings from reading the letters. From your eloquent description, I could imagine sitting there, wondering about how different it could have been if your had received treatment much earlier on.
Posted by CarolAnn on November 29, 1999, at 12:56:48
In reply to Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
I have the same type of regret as well as the same type of anger. At 35 yrs old, I have alot in my life, but not nearly as much as I would have if I'd never suffered depression. I missed my whole late teen's, all my twenty's, and lots of my early thirty's. Consequently, it is very, very hard to accept the process of aging, having never gotten to "experience" my youth. I have to be extremely careful about even thinking of all my unfulfilled potential, because the anger is overwhelming, and increases my depression. It's all so unfair though, in my teen's people started raving about how "beautiful" I was, but I could never see it and truly thought myself fat(at 105lbs.) and ugly. The year after highschool I gained 65 pounds actually becoming fat and ugly, which started me on the yo yo dieting rollercoaster where I will probably be forever unless I find an AD that really works. You know, to live with the curse of depression is one thing, but what's worse is the knowledge of the incredible person I can never become and all the dreams that can never come true, because it's just too late!CarolAnn
Posted by Andy on November 29, 1999, at 14:14:16
In reply to Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
I am genuinely moved by your, Noa's and Carol Ann's posts.
I too am depressed. I've missed things and botched things I wouldn't have if I had not been depressed.
I'm in reasonably good shape at the moment. I attended some family events this weekend and couldn't help but think about how much unnecessary tension there has been at times past on account of my depression.
BUT--You play the hand you're dealt. You are who you are. I can think of all sorts of ways my life could be better if I were only me with some modification (not suffering from depression would be one of those mods). But that is not an option, I am who I am. And I'd rather have the life I've got than none at all.
Thinking about how things would be better if you were not depressed is sure to get you depressed. Look ahead. What can you do to enjoy things today, to make things better for yourself tomorrow. Carol Ann, you're 35 years and probably reasonably attractive. You're not even at the half way point.Try to think positive guys.
>
> Going to see family for the holidays is sometimes a bit of a mixed bag, and I often return home feeling ambivalent. As luck would have it, this Thanksgiving was nice. Maybe it’s not luck, but progress. Much has happened since the beginning of the year. There have been many more open discussions, many more things revealed, many hurts that are hopefully in the process of being redressed. Sometimes things are tense. But improved, greately. I wish I knew them all better (my parents, esp. my father, my siblings, alike and also very different than me). I do love them. I found a sample box, sitting in a drawer, empty but for some reason not discarded: Celexa (citalopram HBr). I wondered whose it was. I want to be told without asking.
>
> I went searching for an old textbook I couldn’t find, discovering in the attick old boxes filled with junk I had accumulated long ago. In one was a bag of letters I had forgotten I had saved, many from friends since neglected. I found some from an ex-girlfriend I had dated off an on even lived with for a while . Often the tone of the letters was conflicted, sad, cautious. One letter struck me like a blow: “I keep hoping something will trigger a revelation...It hurts to see you hurting so and to know I can’t do anything about it. It hurts to think that if these issues were resolved, we could (if you wanted) have a wonderful, intimate relationship on several levels...Whatever happens, I just want you to be happy. I love you.” I was 23, she 22.
>
> A simple message, repeated many times by someone who waited long for me to grow and to be able to express again even some of the joy we both felt when we first got together. Nothing in the end could be helped; there simply wasn’t enough of me to give back what she needed. And, as feelings of self-hatred and despair seemed to grow, I sometimes couldn’t help being angry, even when her frustration was meant to heal and not hurt. “I’m opening a door for you,” she said once, “and you won’t go through it. Why?” So it ended. Nothing, really, was saved. I thought I had discarded every momento. I couldn’t bear to be reminded.
>
> I wanted to forget, but I guess I didn’t. And the process of healing, both of my depression and my family, only makes some of the memories of the things I cannot heal more poignant and even brutal. Something got stirred up again, and maybe it needed to be. I drove home tonight tired from a day hike with my parents, my mind open to old images, voices. I had a memory of her sleeping. As corny as it sounds I did just watch her sleep sometimes, and thought she was the most beautiful creature on this earth. She exceeded me in every respect.
>
> It’s times like these that are so difficult. I look back and cannot help feeling such a sense of loss, of things marred or ruined by my illness. I do feel so fortunate to have finally found something that works. But also there is very deep sadness and regret that I could not have found it sooner. I missed many things. I realise I miss her. I miss her so much. I cried half the way home. And there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could go back and tell her how much she meant to me. I lost the dearest thing in my life, and I fear it was to depression. It just killed me. It just kills me.
>
> I’m sorry. Brevety was never my strong suit. I guess that, perhaps, some of you might know how I feel, or have felt. I’m crying as I write this. I can’t help it.
Posted by Jane on November 29, 1999, at 17:41:23
In reply to Look Ahead, posted by Andy on November 29, 1999, at 14:14:16
i can understand how everyone can empathize the feelings of loss although i admit ive not really thought about the years i've lost due to depression - since i've been off my antidepressant (about 4 months ago) after completed the one-year of suggested regimen for a first time treatment patient, i still marvel at how i am able to feel more at peace and happy with myself than i could ever remember even as a child. i dont see those years as losses because those were times that shaped me to be who i am today, and the hard times helped me gain strength even though many of those times i doubted i can carry on. in many ways ive come to respect my inner strength alot more because of what i had gone through and knowing that i pulled through it and still came out a basically decent person. so there are never any losses - things always happen for the right reasons that we may not see right now because we're deep inside it. hindsight is always 20/20 right?
jane
Posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 23:48:45
In reply to Re: Look Ahead, posted by Jane on November 29, 1999, at 17:41:23
Hey,
Yeah, it may not be of much use to dwell on regrets. I kind of picked the title of
the thread as an anti-quote of sorts of an old Edith Piaf song, "Non, je ne regrette
rien." The words (copying from my CD cover) are, in part...Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal
Tout ça m'est bien égal
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
C'est payé, balayé, oublié
Je me fous du passéI think it means:
No, nothing of nothing
No, I regret nothing
Neither the good that's been done to me, or the bad
It's all the same to me
No, nothing of nothing
No, I regret nothing
It's paid, erased, forgotten
I could care less what has happenedOr something like that. If anybody had a rough beginning, it was Edith Piaf. I guess
she was abandoned by her parents to be raised in a brothel, was later reclaimed by her
father, who put her in the streets to sing for food, ran away, got pregnant at 16, lost
the baby soon after, etc., etc. Her true love, I heard, died in a plane crash. I
suppose my troubles pale in comparison, and I do have a lot to be thankful for. I have
tried to look to the future as much as I can. I've dated other people since. But it was
never the same. Anyway, finding old reminders, seeing familiar handwriting, actually
holding something in my hands like a letter and a picture, something I hadn't done in
a few years, did something. I don't know. I hate to evoke the idea of repressed memories,
because I'm not sure there is such a thing.But, I remember, when my mother died, my father essentially shut off. I didn't go to the
funeral (too young, he thought), I didn't talk about it for years afterward. So many people
commented on how mature I behaved, and how well I was dealing with it, even though I was
only about eight. Then, when my grandmother died, she was buried next to my mother. It
was the first time I had seen the grave, and my response was totally unexpected. I saw the
stone; it was just a stone, but my heart started pounding, I saw her name and the dates,
and I couldn't breath. I almost fell over. I was shaking, I guess I turned white as a sheet,
tears were just streaming out of my eyes, though I was quiet as a mouse. I had no idea
being there would cause such a reaction. I just lost it.So I found this bag, lots of letters, pulled a few out, and there some of them were. In one
was a picture, us, together in the Isabella Stuart Gardener museum (illegal photo), young,
smiling. My heart actually started pounding. I read that letter, and, I don't know, I just
couldn't deny the way I just ached, just physically hurt at that moment. How can I not feel
sad? How can I not feel robbed? And how can I not feel so incredibly sorry for the times I
got angry or pushed her away, or belittled her desires for marriage and kids b/c I was just
too down on myself and life to comprehend what an incredible gift I was being offered.I guess maybe it's like that time at the grave. Unfinished business, perhaps. I don't really
understand it, years after the fact.But in a way, I'm sort of glad. I mean, why shouldn't I feel horrible? It's almost refreshing
to just hurt without wanting to die at the same time.Hindsight is 20/20. But much of what I see is needless suffering and loss. If these things
happen for a reason, damned if I can think of what that reason is. It seems mostly senseless
and pointless to me. I don't know what I've learned, but I do have a hope, and that is if I
am ever fortunate enough to have something so good again, I hope my hands are big enough to hold
it.> i can understand how everyone can empathize the feelings of loss although i admit ive not really thought about the years i've lost due to depression - since i've been off my antidepressant (about 4 months ago) after completed the one-year of suggested regimen for a first time treatment patient, i still marvel at how i am able to feel more at peace and happy with myself than i could ever remember even as a child. i dont see those years as losses because those were times that shaped me to be who i am today, and the hard times helped me gain strength even though many of those times i doubted i can carry on. in many ways ive come to respect my inner strength alot more because of what i had gone through and knowing that i pulled through it and still came out a basically decent person. so there are never any losses - things always happen for the right reasons that we may not see right now because we're deep inside it. hindsight is always 20/20 right?
> jane
Posted by Lula on December 2, 1999, at 23:29:24
In reply to Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
Thanks,now I really feel like jumping off a cliff.
P.S. Don't take me too seriously.
Posted by Adam on December 3, 1999, at 9:23:28
In reply to Loss, posted by Lula on December 2, 1999, at 23:29:24
> Thanks,now I really feel like jumping off a cliff.
Yeah, well...yeah.
Posted by Judy on December 3, 1999, at 11:55:35
In reply to Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on November 29, 1999, at 1:17:18
Adam,
I very rarely attempt to write a long, coherent post here because the 'word retrieval' problem which accompanies my depression is so bad that completing one sentence usually has me running for the thesaurus. However, I've thought so many times about your beautifully written Thanksgiving memories since I read them that I had to comment.
By the time I was halfway through your post, I found myself weeping - for your 22-year-old girlfriend who never truly understood your inability to cross the threshold of the door she held open to you; and for you, feeling better now, but left to sadly ponder how different your life might have been if not for your illness. Were the two of you 'meant to be'? Maybe. Maybe not. But the point remains that you will never know.
After reading Noa's and CarolAnn's responses to you, I was literally sobbing - for all of us! How cruel is this disease that we are all regretful, bitter and even angry at the lost dreams, the opportunities missed and never knowing who we could have been if only... To add insult to injury, we also seem to be lacking the mental ability to make lemonade from the lemon that fate has handed us.
I guess I was lucky that my depression didn't become severe until after I was married and my children were very young; but that doesn't lessen the sadness I feel every day that I have not been able to be a better mother, wife, daughter, friend. I can't tell you how many school events and family and social gatherings I've made it through on auto-pilot if I was able to attend at all. I once told my doctor, when my children were still small, that I would rather be dead than to subject my family and friends to the way I was. He vehemently cautioned me about how traumatic that would be, especially for my children. To this day, I wish I had gone with my instincts and left them way back then with only a dim recollection now of my untimely 'accidental' demise rather than have them forever clearly remember my sometimes mere vegetative existence here, unable to offer or show them the love and support I felt for them. (Hopefully, they don't judge me as harshly as I do myself...but I seriously doubt it.)
One final comment - which is off-topic and actually in response to another post on the current board: I couldn't help but think, while reading your thread and the responses to it, about Dr. P. Breggen's assinine theories. I haven't read his books, and I have absolutely no desire to, but I guarantee there is no chapter in them describing his years of suffering from a disabling psychiatric illness and his miraculous cure brought about by a brisk walk around the block and a rousing talk-therapy session. Statistics be damned! If he hasn't personally walked a mile in our shoes, he is absolutely ignorant as to what this is all about. Not a clue!
Thanks, Adam, for your moving words and for letting me know that I'm not alone.
Judy
Posted by Noa on December 3, 1999, at 12:42:09
In reply to Re: Non, je regrette..., posted by Judy on December 3, 1999, at 11:55:35
Judy,
I agree with the doctor who pointed out how important youare to your children. Even with the memories of your down times, and its effects on them, there are still many years for them and you to talk about those experiences and reprocess them, to continue to develop and build your relationship. That could never happen if you checked out when they were small.
Posted by Adam on December 3, 1999, at 14:15:13
In reply to Re: Non, je regrette..., posted by Judy on December 3, 1999, at 11:55:35
Thank you, Judy.
I do understand how you have felt. I lost my mother when I was very young. I don't advocate suicide because of
stories such as yours. There can be hope, there can be help, and if we are lucky, no matter how unhappy we may be,
there are some who will still love us and try to help. My mother was very ill, both with cancer and depression,
before she died. My father rather callously commented once maybe it was for the best in the long run, that she
died not by her own hand, and we were spared the trauma of watching her decay in other ways. I don't know. I do
know that she loved me, and told me so whenever she could (more than he had the courage to do until I was in my
twenties and obviously ill). She held me, she read to me, she cooked me dinner and put me to bed, as often as she
could. I know now that she fought, just as you are fighting, not so much for herself, but for me. I imagine she
knew when the ambulance took her away that she was not coming back. I believe she worried about what might become
of us.Your children love you, I'm sure of it. It will be hard for them, I won't deny that, but they do need you. You would
be mourned.
> I very rarely attempt to write a long, coherent post here because the 'word retrieval' problem which accompanies my depression is so bad that completing one sentence usually has me running for the thesaurus. However, I've thought so many times about your beautifully written Thanksgiving memories since I read them that I had to comment.
>
> By the time I was halfway through your post, I found myself weeping - for your 22-year-old girlfriend who never truly understood your inability to cross the threshold of the door she held open to you; and for you, feeling better now, but left to sadly ponder how different your life might have been if not for your illness. Were the two of you 'meant to be'? Maybe. Maybe not. But the point remains that you will never know.
>
> After reading Noa's and CarolAnn's responses to you, I was literally sobbing - for all of us! How cruel is this disease that we are all regretful, bitter and even angry at the lost dreams, the opportunities missed and never knowing who we could have been if only... To add insult to injury, we also seem to be lacking the mental ability to make lemonade from the lemon that fate has handed us.
>
> I guess I was lucky that my depression didn't become severe until after I was married and my children were very young; but that doesn't lessen the sadness I feel every day that I have not been able to be a better mother, wife, daughter, friend. I can't tell you how many school events and family and social gatherings I've made it through on auto-pilot if I was able to attend at all. I once told my doctor, when my children were still small, that I would rather be dead than to subject my family and friends to the way I was. He vehemently cautioned me about how traumatic that would be, especially for my children. To this day, I wish I had gone with my instincts and left them way back then with only a dim recollection now of my untimely 'accidental' demise rather than have them forever clearly remember my sometimes mere vegetative existence here, unable to offer or show them the love and support I felt for them. (Hopefully, they don't judge me as harshly as I do myself...but I seriously doubt it.)
>
> One final comment - which is off-topic and actually in response to another post on the current board: I couldn't help but think, while reading your thread and the responses to it, about Dr. P. Breggen's assinine theories. I haven't read his books, and I have absolutely no desire to, but I guarantee there is no chapter in them describing his years of suffering from a disabling psychiatric illness and his miraculous cure brought about by a brisk walk around the block and a rousing talk-therapy session. Statistics be damned! If he hasn't personally walked a mile in our shoes, he is absolutely ignorant as to what this is all about. Not a clue!
>
> Thanks, Adam, for your moving words and for letting me know that I'm not alone.
>
> Judy
Posted by Judy on December 4, 1999, at 12:46:10
In reply to Re: Non, je regrette..., posted by Adam on December 3, 1999, at 14:15:13
Noa/Adam,
Thank you both for your perfect responses. Most days I know you're right - obviously yesterday wasn't one of them.
Adam, your mother was definitely a strong, wonderful woman to have left you with those memories of her love and caring.
Judy
This is the end of the thread.
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