Hoping for Hope

Dear John,

 

There's nothing new here. The windows are still open, I have a lap-full of scared dog when the occasional fireworks go off, I'm still depressed and anxious. There's been an all-day NCIS marathon today. We're supposed to have storms tonight, and it looks and feels like it.

 

The worst thing about depression seems to be the hopelessness. It wouldn't be nearly as bad to feel like this if I could hold on to the hope that one day I'd feel better. My head tells me that I will - the drugs all take a couple of weeks to reach a therapeutic blood level. But that's a little, tiny voice squeaking in the vast darkness inside me. And I know that there's a chance that this drug won't work; I may have to try another, and another, and another before I find one that does.

 

I've continued to read through all my letters to you. I'm finding some hope in them because it's plain that I was feeling better then than I am now. It's so easy to think that all that is wrong with me is grief, but those early letters show me that it's much more than that. Sadness and depression are two very different things.

 

And the more I read those letters, the clearer it is to me that this depression coincides with my insurance-forced Cymbalta withdrawal. It isn't my circumstances, isn't exogenous. If insurance had cut off my Cymbalta while you were alive I'd still have had to go through severe depression. It's harder without you - everything is. But I'm not depressed because of your death, so please don't think that. My body is adjusting to the withdrawal of an extremely addictive prescription drug. I told you at the beginning that fewer than half the people who try to come off of Cymbalta actually come off permanently. Those that do, go through a lot of suffering in the process. The maddening thing is that all of this was known and covered up before the drug was approved. A pox upon them.

 

So please keep praying for me - that this drug helps, that I can be stubborn enough. And anything else you can think of. All prayers are welcome! And, if you can manage it, a visit would be lovely. Or maybe just come and get me?

 

Ready to join you,

Joan.