7. How Long Does Depression Last? Measuring its Severity Using a Muffinometer
I have recently surfaced from what was my most significant brush with depression since first being diagnosed in 2008, and since coming off all medication in March 2011, I have been lucky enough to have a stable two year run, free from anything more serious than occasionally feeling a bit fed up. Like everyone I've had my off days and days when I've felt pretty down in the dumps, "manageable doldrums" as Wiiliam Styron describes them, which pass within a day or two. But this time was different and I knew it. It lasted about 7 weeks.
It's a funny thing depression, you really don't know
that it's happening to you the first time, but this time I saw it coming and was able to do something about it. The difficult bit was knowing how long to carry on trying to manage it myself, without risking sliding to the point where it is possible to lose sight of how ill you are or simply don't care anymore. I couldn't really tell how far from that point I was.
Depression is a difficult illness to judge or assess from within. If you cut your hand, you can watch it either slowly get better, or become infected and worsen, but with depression it's as if you are the illness and so it is very difficult to gauge by yourself. A sensitive friend or partner, especially one who has survived it with you before, will recognise the early signs even before you do, and help you both avoid a crisis. But if you're on your own you have to get some sort of early warning system in place, easily recognisable by you as being just that, and something which you will have "agreed" with yourself to respond to should it become apparent.
Practice makes perfect and so I make time occasionally to look back and to think about how I felt when I was depressed and the changes in my behaviour and personality. I learn something new each time I look back, and note all those signs and symptoms which, although unoticed at the time are now very obvious to me that all was not well. These have become my alarm bells, my depression sensors, and they may just have enabled me to avoid another major depressive episode.
Depression is a difficult illness to judge or assess from within. If you cut your hand, you can watch it either slowly get better, or become infected and worsen, but with depression it's as if you are the illness and so it is very difficult to gauge by yourself. A sensitive friend or partner, especially one who has survived it with you before, will recognise the early signs even before you do, and help you both avoid a crisis. But if you're on your own you have to get some sort of early warning system in place, easily recognisable by you as being just that, and something which you will have "agreed" with yourself to respond to should it become apparent.
Practice makes perfect and so I make time occasionally to look back and to think about how I felt when I was depressed and the changes in my behaviour and personality. I learn something new each time I look back, and note all those signs and symptoms which, although unoticed at the time are now very obvious to me that all was not well. These have become my alarm bells, my depression sensors, and they may just have enabled me to avoid another major depressive episode.
Depression is a state of low mood which has advanced to the point of disrupting your social functioning and day to day life. One of the symptoms of depression is that activities you normally enjoy are suddenly no longer pleasurable, or you no longer feel capable of doing those things. The first time I was depressed I stopped doing everything, even the things I previously used to love doing, but it never struck me as odd that they no longer interested me and before I knew it I had sunk so low that taking my own life seemed the only possible solution to my misery. Depression is a frightening and serious illness, and without treatment it can prove fatal.
The first time round I had no idea that I was actually clinically depressed, although I knew I wasn't my normal self. Occasionally I would try and do something to make myself feel better, usually without success but at least I could say I had tried. I would set myself a challenge, like making a cake, based upon a theory whereby I thought that by forcing myself to do something I had once enjoyed, I would derive so much forgotten pleasure from it that the following day I would get up from my bed fully restored to my former self by the joys of baking that one cake. It simply didn't work, the things I had once enjoyed had become burdensome chores which demanded skills way beyond my capabilities at the time. I was just too ill.
For me, the prospect of going through again what I went through before is out of the question, I know I would never survive it. The thought of ever being struck that low again terrifies me, but once again just a few weeks ago, I sensed the old feelings creeping back, the knotted guts, the early waking and the sense of feeling totally overwhelmed by everything to the point that my first thoughts on waking each morning were ones of dread of the day that lay ahead. I was pretty sure that it was probably time to let somebody know how I was feeling, but I wanted to be certain that I really needed help before asking for it. I was confused and didn't know if I was really slipping into depression again, or "simply" anxiously anticipating its return. I certainly didn't want to waste anybody's time by crying "wolf" or portray myself as some neurotic headcase, and if I did decide to cry for help I needed to be sure it would be taken seriously. I needed to find a way of assessing my mental state without involving anybody else.
One of the things I love to do is baking, and based on my last experience with depression I knew that once I stopped enjoying whiling away the hours up to my elbows in flour and icing sugar, then I was probably heading for trouble. I knew that for me, baking had to be the yard stick with which I could fairly accurately measure whether or not I was deteriorating, and so the "Muffinometer" was born.
I began baking like a thing demented, my oven was permanently lit and my freezer was stuffed to the gunnels with cakes and muffins and cookies, enough to keep me in afternoon teas for months to come. I just kept on baking, as if I was afraid that I would surely miss the signs of another onslaught of depression if I stopped. I knew that once I couldn't be bothered to bake anymore that I was quite probably on my way down, but I could still be bothered, even if I wasn't enjoying it the way I should perhaps have been. Despite the reappearance of other symptoms of depression I was content in the knowledge that I was still "registering" on the Muffinometer, and as long as that was the case I knew I was still in the safe zone. Eventually I had to admit to myself that whilst I wasn't getting any worse, I wasn't feeling any better either, so I did something I didn't do before and that was ask for help.
So, how long does depression last? Personally I think it's a life sentence, something I shall undoubtedly have to deal with from time to time for the rest of my life, and I suspect it will eventually have the last word, but for the time being at least, it seems that this time I got the upper hand.
The first time round I had no idea that I was actually clinically depressed, although I knew I wasn't my normal self. Occasionally I would try and do something to make myself feel better, usually without success but at least I could say I had tried. I would set myself a challenge, like making a cake, based upon a theory whereby I thought that by forcing myself to do something I had once enjoyed, I would derive so much forgotten pleasure from it that the following day I would get up from my bed fully restored to my former self by the joys of baking that one cake. It simply didn't work, the things I had once enjoyed had become burdensome chores which demanded skills way beyond my capabilities at the time. I was just too ill.
For me, the prospect of going through again what I went through before is out of the question, I know I would never survive it. The thought of ever being struck that low again terrifies me, but once again just a few weeks ago, I sensed the old feelings creeping back, the knotted guts, the early waking and the sense of feeling totally overwhelmed by everything to the point that my first thoughts on waking each morning were ones of dread of the day that lay ahead. I was pretty sure that it was probably time to let somebody know how I was feeling, but I wanted to be certain that I really needed help before asking for it. I was confused and didn't know if I was really slipping into depression again, or "simply" anxiously anticipating its return. I certainly didn't want to waste anybody's time by crying "wolf" or portray myself as some neurotic headcase, and if I did decide to cry for help I needed to be sure it would be taken seriously. I needed to find a way of assessing my mental state without involving anybody else.
One of the things I love to do is baking, and based on my last experience with depression I knew that once I stopped enjoying whiling away the hours up to my elbows in flour and icing sugar, then I was probably heading for trouble. I knew that for me, baking had to be the yard stick with which I could fairly accurately measure whether or not I was deteriorating, and so the "Muffinometer" was born.
I began baking like a thing demented, my oven was permanently lit and my freezer was stuffed to the gunnels with cakes and muffins and cookies, enough to keep me in afternoon teas for months to come. I just kept on baking, as if I was afraid that I would surely miss the signs of another onslaught of depression if I stopped. I knew that once I couldn't be bothered to bake anymore that I was quite probably on my way down, but I could still be bothered, even if I wasn't enjoying it the way I should perhaps have been. Despite the reappearance of other symptoms of depression I was content in the knowledge that I was still "registering" on the Muffinometer, and as long as that was the case I knew I was still in the safe zone. Eventually I had to admit to myself that whilst I wasn't getting any worse, I wasn't feeling any better either, so I did something I didn't do before and that was ask for help.
So, how long does depression last? Personally I think it's a life sentence, something I shall undoubtedly have to deal with from time to time for the rest of my life, and I suspect it will eventually have the last word, but for the time being at least, it seems that this time I got the upper hand.
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