A Small Electric Light

From the dark and murky cave that entraps me, I can see a small light that shines with intermittent clarity.  I have been gagged, restrained, and tortured by the three syllable word so commonly used by psychiatrists: depression.  But now I can see a glimmer of hope, and maybe now I will be able to conquer this condition that holds me hostage.  In a couple weeks I will begin Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) and my battle will begin.

My struggle with chronic depression emerged when I was a mere ten year old.  At the age of twelve I took my first psychiatric medication and by the age of fifteen I had tried them all.  Even though the various medications proved generally ineffective I continued to take some.  Now, at the age of 28 I take eleven medications regularly; over twenty pills per day.  My body's resistance to medication compiled by my body's desperate need for help led me, at the age of twenty, to my first session of electroconvulsive therapy.

At first ECT terrified me!  I mean, really, who wants to be put to sleep, electrified, then woke only to face the most severe headache imaginable?  The only thing I can say to this is: desparate times call for desparate measures.  As required by law, every part of the process, as well as all possible side affects was clearly described to me.  Various levels of memory loss, confusion and disorientation, head pain... the words were just white noise in the background; I needed help bad. 

I was first treated with ECT at Stanford Hospital which was later continued at Herrick hospital in Berkeley, CA.  To tell you the truth, I can remember barely nothing of the two years I spent as a human light bulb.  The headaches were bad but manageable, but the memory loss was both severe and tragic.  I was so taken aback by the damage that the help I received lay buried beneath tears of loss.  While my mother swore up and down that the ECT had saved my life, all I could focus on was the memories that were stolen and a now badly damaged brain.  While the ECT successfully kept me alive and safe from suicide, I struggled to mourn years of memories left behind.  99% of my childhood memories vanished and I would say around 60% of my older memories were gone.  In addition to the damage done to my long term memory, my short term memory was marred as well.  The only positive aspect of the memory loss was my new ability to watch and re watch fantastic movies as if each separate viewing was its first.  I eventually found the memory loss so severe I quit ECT altogether.

For the next five years I mourned the loss of my memories.  An analogy I would like to use is that of Johnny, a Vietnam war vet.  Unlike many soldiers he fought alongside Johnny survived, unfortunately however, an explosion left him without his legs and the ability to ever walk again.  Like Johnny, the depression did not kill me, but the ECT left me with few memories of the past and the inability to remember things using the photographic memory that once allowed me to excel in academics.  The brain that led me to study math and physics at UC Berkeley had been damaged.  While my sister was born with great looks and a body to kill for, I was blessed with smarts; and this gift, I felt, had been stolen.

So for years I fell into an even darker depression.  Unable to complete school, I drank alcohol and smoked pot in excess.  I wanted to die but was too scared of the repercussions that suicide would have on my family.  So I drank away the ideations and numbed myself with any high I could get.  I resented my mother for pushing the ECT onto me and blamed her for the memory loss that I was convinced had ruined my life.  For three years I wallowed in self pity; drinking, smoking, cutting... any habit that allowed me to forget what I had lost was welcome.

It was not until I reached the age of twenty seven that I was able to move past my losses.  I stopped drinking and began focusing on new academics subjects that were less dependent on memory.  Just like Johnny had the mourn the loss of his legs, I had to mourn the affected memory loss.  I can finally now accept the memories I lost and fear not any memories I may lose in the future. 

So now I return to the present.  I fear that the depression that now suffocates me may kill me, and I have too many people in my life to let that happen.  I have tried the new medications, but the depression just won't be beat.  And thus, ECT is the only option I have left, and this time I am ready for it.  My life has made me a stronger Michelle. Though I just might need to use lots of post-its and notebooks to aid my struggling memory, if I can do so with a smile on my face such consequences are worthy.

In a couple weeks I will resume ECT and I am ready to beat this depression that holds me hostage.  My loved ones refuse to give up on me, so I refuse to give up on myself as well.  I will beat this disease, even if I have to use electricity to do it.