Here’s how my journey with seasonal depression ended with a clinical depression diagnosis.
Seasonal affective disorder, or SAD, is a type of depression that occurs during certain seasons of the year, usually fall or winter but summer SAD exists as well.
According to Johns Hopkins Medicine, it is believed that shorter days and less daylight may trigger chemical changes in one’s brain.
Growing up in New York, every winter, the sun was down by 5:30 p.m. and the temperatures would drop drastically, bringing a confusingly annual feeling of dullness.
Outside was always gray; even my skin would turn gray since it was depleted of vitamin D. It felt like I was fading away.
If you have a mood disorder such as major depressive disorder or bipolar disorder and live in cloudy regions or somewhere with less sunlight during the winter, you are at higher risk of SAD.
As the days got shorter, my naps got longer. I spent much of the daylight asleep, only to wake up once my parents had gone to bed.
I felt like a waste of time. Not only did I miss spending time with my parents but I missed dinner most nights and would not have any of my homework done, leaving me up till 3 a.m. to complete it.
According to the Cleveland Clinic, those with SAD will experience mood changes and some symptoms of depression such as anxiety, extreme fatigue, trouble concentrating, irritability and feelings of hopelessness.
I will never forget waking up at 7 a.m. and it still being pitch black outside.
Every morning felt full of dread. I’d be exhausted as soon as I opened my eyes and getting out of bed was nearly impossible without the help of my mom flickering my lights, tickling me and pulling off my blanket (with love of course).
At first, it was confusing, each year I would fall into a funk and feel hopeless without even realizing it. I felt disassociated from my surroundings and became unmotivated to complete my responsibilities. It was like I was on autopilot every day.
Ever since I could remember I would get myself ready for school and think, “I can’t wait for summer.” I did not think much of it though, since everyone wants it to be summer.
Yes, summer means no school, tan skin, hot weather and time to hang out with your friends; but for me, it was so much more than that. I knew all my problems would be solved as soon as the days were back to being long.
The day before my first day of ninth grade, I went to the emergency room for my first panic attack. By tenth grade, I had already seen and ghosted two therapists.
My diagnosis was always the same, OCD and seasonal depression. Perhaps that is because I never went to seek help until I was at my worst, which tended to be in the winter.
At that age, I didn’t understand how to explain my feelings. Most of my issues didn’t seem like issues to me, instead they were my norm.
All I talked about at my therapy sessions was the weather, being anxious in school and how unorganized I felt when my handwriting was messy.
When therapists would ask me “How was your day?” at the start of a session, I would respond with “Good, how about you?” not realizing that their question was more than a formality.
It wasn’t until I met my high school psychologist, Dr. Matthew Morand, who got me to speak about what was bothering me without making me think about it. He went on to refer me to a couple of different therapists and psychiatrists.
By the start of my junior year, I landed on Carly. She was a young, sweet five-foot blonde who acknowledged my issues and forced me (comfortably) to dig deeper.
After our first session, she knew that my issues went deeper than what had been diagnosed, especially since I could not mention details of my parent’s divorce without getting choked up.
I began seeing a psychiatrist and with the combined efforts of her and Carly, I was given an onslaught of diagnoses, including clinical depression.
This felt like somewhat of a relief as a part of me always felt invalidated by “seasonal” depression. Perhaps I did not understand the seasonal aspect since the empty feeling lingered throughout all seasons. I just did not acknowledge it in the summer since I was too busy soaking up the sun.
Overall, going through a series of diagnoses and therapists was worth it to get to where I am now.
I know I still have some more work to do (and maybe more diagnoses, who knows) but asking for help has always worked out for me in the end.