An ongoing series about my experience with depression and medication. Because sometimes it’s hard to just think positive thoughts.

Part 1

In which cartoon faces speak to me and say “Go on meds already, you moron.”

While on the island the other week, I packed a booklet of Yoshimoto Nara postcards with the intention of writing to a few friends. At the top of the pack was a portrait-style painting of a cartoon girl’s face. She had thin, curved-lined eyes closed downwards and a slight, peaceful smile, in a moment of serenity. The painting was titled “Well” and it made my heart lurch.

That was how I wanted to feel. Unfortunately, I was far from it.

Rather than live with that fact, as I have for a loooooong time, I decided it was time to do something about it.

I’m currently taking a journey into the land of balanced serotonin levels. After nearly 32-years, two diagnoses, and more downer days than non-downer days, I’ve decided to go on meds. I really have done everything I could to not go down this path, but I was quickly unraveling. There’s nothing more frustrating than being a physically healthy adult and not having the power in you to get off the couch because your head is too clouded with thoughts of your demise.

The reason I’m choosing to be open about this is because hardly anyone else is. So I’ll take a chance and be that girl.

Here’s an unscientific anecdote: I have a friend who goes into rich people’s houses and reorganizes their space. He says 99 per cent of clients he deals with own a) sex toys b) pot and c) meds. There we go. We’re all stoners, we all have sex and we all deal with depression.

Yet, when I wanted to talk to someone in-depth, aside from my doctor, about the idea of starting, I was hard pressed to come up with many people.  I wanted to know what to expect every step of the way and what were the benefits and the downfalls. Kind of like those pregnancy trackers, but for my brain on meds.

The Internet didn’t offer up the help I was looking for. Every time I searched for antidepressant forums, outdated message boards in Comic Sans font would come up with poorly worded responses and waaaaay too many sad emoticons for my taste.

I finally caved in to the idea of meds when my depression started to affect my work. As a freelance writer, everything comes down to me. And the idea of relying on myself lately had been way too much to handle. I lost my drive, my ambition and my goals. Basically, I was losing myself. If my life were a soap opera, this is where the distractingly dramatic music would come in.

On July 29^th, I took my first antidepressant. It’s a low dose, half of the lowest dose available, so I got a complimentary pill cutter from the nice pharmacist. My mother, who had flown out from Toronto to coddle me for a few weeks, watched me swallow it down.

“Feel any different?” she asked, the second I put my glass of water back on the kitchen table.

The first day, I suspect the placebo effect kicked in. I felt clear-headed, inspired to write (about depression) and managed to get out of the house to look for tops.

At my favourite consignment store I came across an oversized white t-shirt with a clown’s face on it.

His eyebrows are slightly raised but his eyes are dead. His mouth is a thin line, a lazy, slight sneer inside a smile-shaped red triangle. There was a lot going on with this clown and none of it was good. I could totally relate.

I bought the shirt to symbolize what I intend to outgrown on my new journey…er, adventure…way of life? I’m not sure what to call it. All I know is that I want to leave the disturbing clown face behind and grow into something more along the lines of “Well”. Wish me luck.

Hey reader! Please send this along to someone you know who might benefit from this kind of chatter. Also, if you’re on meds (and I know you are), let’s talk. I’d like to hear your experience. Leave a message below, if you’re feeling bold, or email me at write@eliannalev.com

I had a Spadling Gray moment recently and it didn’t involve me being behind a desk.

When I got home from a visit to the island last week, I called my friend who had met up with me for the getaway.

I told him that when I got on the ferry to go home, I felt so dark inside I’d imagined what it would have been like if I’d jumped off the side of the giant boat. In my head, it was a beautiful image. Me, floating down slowly, with my hair cascading behind me. For some reason I imagined myself wearing a flowing white dress. It’s a beautiful image, something out of a Swedish fairy tale or something. My imagination stopped, though, before I hit the water.

My friend is no stranger to darkness. As a teen, he lost his parents in a car crash and had to identify their bodies. Then, in the last few years, his (now ex) wife told him he was pregnant, with her lover’s child. He’s not had it easy.

So I was completely surprised to hear that he’d never had these kinds of thoughts before, not even remotely.

“I don’t think like that,” he shrugged. “Because no matter how bad things get, you can always, I dunno, go get noodles or something.”

Though he lacked some serious empathy, I got what he was saying. No matter how bad life is, there’s always something worth living for. Even if it’s only noodles.

The problem is, I was having a hard time seeing it that way. And I have a long list of things in my life that I’m grateful for:  My supportive and loving family, a remarkably cute dog, top shelf friends, a head of spectacular, voluminous hair.  I am often told by people I admire that I’m a talented writer with a big future. And sometimes it really feels that way.

But despite all of this and more, there’s a darkness inside of me that seems to get in the way. It makes me incapable of feeling good things about everything I have in my life, which is where the jumping off the ferry thoughts have come in.

I try to do everything I’m supposed to do to be a happier person – I volunteer, exercise, write lists, go to therapy. Sometimes I force myself to be social, even though connecting with people is increasingly difficult.

Despite it all, I still feel so dark inside.

While telling this to my friend, he bluntly pointed out to me that I’m having suicidal thoughts. They were just images in my head, I argued. I didn’t genuinely see myself taking my own life.

“It will get to that if you don’t get help,” he said and made me promise I would.

I agreed and then started to cry.

*

Last December, a restaurant near my house called Sha Lin caught on fire. Their specialty was handmade noodles and it was a regular spot for myself and the majority of my friends. We’d regularly go there in groups. Or just as often, I’d go alone. Aesthetically, it wasn’t anything special. The walls were speckled in grease and the florescent lights were unflattering. Giant red poster boards lined the walls with pictures of dozens of the dishes on their extensive menus. The food itself was greasy and not terribly big on flavour, but it was hearty and plentiful, comforting and fun.

Children would press up against glass-windowed kitchen and watch as the cooks expertly made the noodles. It was a spectacle. Sometimes they’d swiftly pare slabs of dough, sending finger-thick pieces diving into a boiling pot. Other times they’d pull the slabs through their fingers, and stretch it back and forth like it was wiggly strands of yarn.

So when news of Sha Lin’s demise hit nearly eight months ago, I felt it in my heart. It was the only thing in my life, aside from my dog, that consistently brought me joy.

I’d walked by it often in the past months to check in. Newspapers lined the windows and its ceiling was mangled. There was no notice saying what had happened or when, if ever, it would reopen.

Last Saturday, my neighbour texted me to say she’d heard rumblings that Sha Lin had reopened. I had forced myself to get out of the house that day to check out a street festival. Turns out, nearly every person in the city who I had a bad or awkward history with was also there and I left a few hours later, feeling disconnected and numb.

As I walked home, I was overwhelmed by sadness. Something was going to have to change within me, but I had no idea what. It was hard to think of the future. Everything in my life just felt uncertain. I wondered how much further I was going to have to unravel until I was going to change.

It also didn’t help that I was hungry.

Since I skipped lunch, I decided to see if the rumours were true, and walked by Sha Lin.

The door was open, and a sandwich board with the restaurants’ name stood outside. I peaked inside. The space was the same, except brighter, with a fresh coats of paint covering the grease-stained walls, and brand new tables and chairs. I walked in and was cheerily greeted by three waiters who were standing at the back. They looked anxious to get to work. I took a seat.

I ordered my usual – fried cutting noodles with veggie and tofu and a side of onion pancakes. I thought to text a few friends to join me but decided not to. I wanted to experience this alone.

I watched as groups of families and friends slowly filled the place up, all ecstatic that their joint was back. Everyone, including the staff, was so happy to be there.

When my dish arrived, I covered it in vinegar and got to work. It tasted exactly how I remembered it. Thick, greasy noodles, with bits of spongy tofu, crunchy broccoli and sprouts. I was comforted.

In the middle of my meal, I looked out the window. A bus had stopped and on its side was an ad for a Honda dealership. On top of a pile of sad faces, a bright yellow happy face was winking at me.

And that’s when it hit me.

No matter how bad life is, there’s always something worth living for. Even if it’s only noodles.

Statically, I know I’m not the only one who thinks and feels this way. I wanna hear your stories on how you cope. Leave me a message or email me at write@eliannalev.com

“Be careful of the roads here, they can buckle beneath you at any time.”

I’m driving through Hollywood with my friend Enos. We speed over a fracture in the road and shift slightly in our seats. I look back at the giant crack and assume it got there as a result of an earthquake. Oh well, I think.  It’s my second day in town and I am feeling this city, cracks and all. I came here on an inspiration vacation and so far, it’s been entirely successful.

The night before I’d met up with my friend and writing partner Ayma, who’s joined me on this trip, and gone on a platonic double date with two strangers – an aspiring actor named Austin and his gym buddy Matt, who’s a writer for a magazine I had wanted to pitch. Synergy!

Ayma had met the aspiring actor’s dad in first class on her stopover flight to Phoenix, enroute to LA. He’s the CEO of a jewellery company and was taken by Ayma’s giant eyes and infectious charm. They talked about inspiration, aspiration and success – the things Ayma is coming to find on her trip to LA. He shares a valuable lesson he learned on a similar journey to get where he is today: the only difference between anxiety and excitement is the outcome you predict. Then, the CEO called up his son in LA and told him to take Ayma out. Which is what he does the next night.

Austin admits that his dad tries to set him up with random girls he meets all the time, but this is the first time the girl has followed through. We go to a vegan restaurant named Green Leaves, which is unimaginative save for the pink vintage guitars randomly hung on the walls.  We get over our awkwardness quickly and talk about the city and its endless opportunities. Matt gives me pointers on pitching to the magazine he writes for and we exchange email addresses. I go home feeling excited, which is what I’d initially come here to feel.

In LA, people are outwardly friendly. Men notice you and smile when you walk into a room. Everyone is working on an exciting project. Everyone is working towards something. Strangers seem to want to help you out. I’m addicted to the feeling of possibility and I know this city can feed that.

*

After Enos’ warning, I keep noticing cracks in the infrastructure. On the sidewalks, on the roads and even on the freeways.  These sinister gaps are everywhere. Sometimes the street is so unlevelled, it’s slanted half a foot above the rest of the concrete. I wonder why the city doesn’t put more effort into fixing these cracks, and how often people trip on this crumbling infrastructure, break a limb and sue. Or maybe natives to this city don’t even notice them anymore.

*

I am staying with Enos in his beautiful guesthouse, which is surrounded by lemon trees. I had originally come to spend time with his boyfriend, who is my best friend. But as Murphy’s Law would have it, his boyfriend is in Vancouver, working on a gig, staying at my apartment. Regardless, Enos is like my family and he treats me like so. He is not afraid to tell me like it is. In my time spent with Enos, he continues to lose his patience with me, with my constant moods, with my negative outlook on life. He wants me to go out and experience LA, while I want to lie under the lemon tree and write. I tell him it’s hard to change my moods but I’m working on it—I have been for the last year. Apparently I’m not working on it fast enough, because he continues to weigh in on me and I begin to crack. I begin to crumble.

*

It is my second last night in LA. Ayma and I are out with her new friends, as her unflappably cheery demeanour and openness never fail to attract people to her, particularly awe-inspired men. We are at an overly crowded bar and Ayma’s new friends are asking me what I want to drink. I tell them I don’t drink but they keep pressing.

“Why not just for tonight?”

I am burnt out and irritated and majorly hormonal. I am in a mood. A mood I am very familiar with. A mood that is hard to fight.

These new friends try to talk to me, eagerly tell me I should give them my email address. I barely spit out one-word answers and slouch in a corner, visibly miserable. I remember what Enos, who’s lived in LA for six months and continues to master this town, told me the first night I got in: In Los Angeles, you always have to be on.

Okay then. I am failing miserably in this town.

I try to play a mood altering exercise with myself where I have to list five things that make me happy about the situation I am in. I look around the crowded bar, at Ayma’s new friends slinging back their drinks, clamouring to shower her with attention, and want to cry. There is nothing here that makes me happy and I hate myself for feeling this way. I truly hate myself.

*

I wake up the next morning feeling lower than I have in a long time. I feel completely depleted. My head is light and spacey and inside I feel black.

I’d come to LA to be inspired and I was about to leave feeling like a failure.

I choose to be kind to myself and spend the rest of the day lying under the lemon trees, napping, drinking water, and eating fruit. Ayma comes over and we do a bit of writing. I slowly ease back into myself. In the evening, we eat at a healthy restaurant called Tender Greens, point out names we recognize on the Walk of Fame and take photos in a photo booth. By night time, I feel okay again. Not quite inspired, but not quite eroded either.

*

Enos’ assistant arrives early the next morning to take me to the airport. We speed along the freeway, zipping over cracks in the Los Angeles infrastructure. Again, I imagine how they got there and how long it will take for them to be covered up. Or maybe, I wonder, they will just continue to crumble and eventually turn into something far worse.