For the past two weeks, rate each statement as "never" or "sometimes" or "always or nearly always".
1. I felt miserable or unhappy.
No, not really. What I feel is afraid. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by it. Fear that my life is about to crash. Fear that disaster looms, and that I've caused it, or that there is nothing I can do about it. Sometimes.
2. I didn't enjoy anything at all.
No, not true. There were many things I enjoy. It's only in those quiet moments, in between, or when I wake up at 1 am, that I'm afraid. Never.
3. I felt so tired I just sat around and did nothing.
I wanted to. But I forced myself to do things anyway, knowing that it would make me feel better, even if just for a little while. Because if I didn't, I'd be left behind, left alone, and I hate that. Never.
4. I was very restless.
Not me. Well, sometimes. THere are those times I wake up at 1 or 2 am and can't sleep. I have to get up. I have to do something. So I write. Does that count? Sometimes.
5. I felt I was no good any more.
Hah. Well, there it is, ding ding. I can't make it go away. It's persistent, this feeling that I'm less competent, less worthy, less accomplished, than everyone I know. I feel worthless. I feel flawed. Who could stand to be with someone like that? Nobody. Always.
6. I cried a lot.
Sometimes. I try not to. It bothers him. So I wait until I can do it alone. Sometimes, when things are bad, I will mention it, just a little to see how it goes over, but I don't get much reaction, so I suck it up and try to forget about it. Most of the time, I try to distract myself with something, so that it goes away. But I notice that I cry easier, like at sad movies and even commercials, than I used to. It's not easy to make me cry, but it's easier than it used to be. Sometimes.
7. I found it hard to think properly or concentrate.
No. This is my salvation, my work, it takes my mind off all the awful feelings, the worry, the worthlessness of being me, when I work. I actually feel better, too, when I work. Never.
8. I hated myself.
Does fearing myself count? Does it count that I secretly worry that I'm a fairly worthless person? Does the fact that even after losing nearly 40 pounds, and not being able to see the difference in the mirror, count? Does the fact that I feel like I'm surrounded by people more successful, faster, more accomplished, more talented, more attractive, more interesting, more stable, count?
I would hate me if I were anyone. I would look at my misery and fear and worry, and all of the things about my life that are completely wonderful, and hate me. I would loathe the self-indulgence of it all. Just another upper middle-class woman, alone in her thoughts, feeling sorry for herself, who needs a hobby. Nyah.
Always.
9. I was a bad person.
Sometimes. I think of things that I should be doing, and am not doing. I think of what he said about "being allergic to making money" and how I shouldn't have quit my job 2 years ago. We've been in financial downward spiral ever since, and it's my fault. Always.
10. I felt lonely.
Depression and anxiety are the most self-indulgent places one can imagine. I imagine that everyone is sick of hearing about me, and my problems. I imagine that he's sick of it. So I put on a happy face, so that people won't be sick of it. So that he won't be sick of it. So that nobody will accuse me of being a drama queen. I hate drama queens. As a result, I have nobody to talk to about it, not really. Sometimes in the middle of doing something mundane, like watching TV, I'll suddenly be overwhelmed with sadness - my chest aches, and I come close to crying. Then I either get up and fuss around in the kitchen or go to the bathroom or something, so that nobody sees.
I feel desperate. I wonder if this feeling of isolation will ever go away.
This is my life, this fucked up sadness and worry and loneliness that has no place to go, or to come from.
God, I'm pathetic. I wouldn't want to be with me.
Always.
11. I thought nobody really loved me.
Not often. But in the really bad times, the really, really bad times, I wake up and feel like it's all slipping away, everything, my marriage, friendships, and that nobody truly cares about me; they're just going through the motions to be polite. At those times, I feel like he's with me out of obligation. Again, I know it doesn't make sense. But I can't will it away.
I also feel like I'm essentially not worthy of being liked. I feel like I'm viewed as less valuable than others. I know it's fucked up. But there it is. I try to get rid of it, and tell myself it doesn't make sense.
During those times, I get this feeling of coldness, and a sick feeling in my stomach. I wake up with a feeling of dread and fear that it's all falling apart. I try to will it away. Then I take a half of Xanax, and it goes away, finally, but I'm left with the hopeless of it, and that thought that maybe it will never stop. I'll always have it. I'll never get rid of it.
Is that what people think about before they consider suicide? I don't consider suicide, but I worry that none of this will ever go away, that this is it.
Sometimes.
12. I thought I could never be as good as other people.
Always.
13. I did everything wrong.
Never. There are some things I know I do right, and these are the things I hold onto during the worst of times. I know that there are some people who have done things because I've made it seem possible. I know that there are people who have hope because of the things I have done. I know that I write well. I know that I'm a top-notch diagnostician.
Score: 15. Likelihood of major depressive episode: at least 80%.
So much for antidepressants. It's ironic that this screen has 13 questions. I'm not superstitious. But others are. I wonder what they think about the number 13?
I wonder if this will ever get better, or if, god forbid, it can actually get worse.
