Depression afflicts millions of American each year, and many don’t know where to turn when it strikes. The author recalls the greatest struggle of his life. Jeremiah lamenting the destruction of Jerusalem, first binary option withdrawal from effexor Rembrandt, 1630.
I did not experience depression until I had pretty much solved my problems. I had come to terms with my mother’s death three years earlier, was publishing my first novel, was getting along with my family, had emerged intact from a powerful two-year relationship, had bought a beautiful new house, was writing well. It was when life was finally in order that depression came slinking in and spoiled everything. I was not surprised later when I came across research showing that the particular kind of depression I had undergone has a higher morbidity rate than heart disease or any cancer. According to a recent study by researchers at Harvard and the World Health Organization, only respiratory infections, diarrhea, and newborn infections cost more years of useful life than major depression. It is projected that by the year 2020 depression could claim more years than war and AIDS put together.
In June 1994, I began to be constantly bored. My first novel had recently been published in England, and yet its favorable reception did little for me. I read the reviews indifferently and felt tired all the time. In July, back home in downtown New York, I found myself burdened by phone calls, social events, conversation. In August, I started to feel numb. I didn’t care about work, family, or friends.
All this made me feel that I was losing my self. Scared, I tried to schedule pleasures. I bought things I had previously wanted and gained no satisfaction from them. I was overwhelmed by messages on my answering machine and ceased to return calls. When I drove at night, I constantly thought I was going to swerve into another car. If you trip or slip, there is a moment, before your hand shoots out to break your fall, when you feel the earth rushing up at you and you cannot help yourself — a passing, fraction-of-a-second horror.
I felt that way hour after hour. In September, I had agonizing kidney stones. After a brief hospitalization, I spent a vagabond week migrating from friend to friend. My book was coming out in the United States, and a friend threw a party on October 11th. I was feeling too lacklustre to invite many people, was too tired to stand up much during the party, and sweated horribly all night. The event lives in my mind in ghostly outlines and washed-out colors. I lay in bed, not sleeping and hugging my pillow for comfort.