Running Thoughts not just a column (crazy) 2.22.02

I was hanging out with my "book club" friends Thursday night drinking copious amounts of "tea" and "promising" them that nothing we talked about would end up in this column today when it suddenly occurred to me that my life is an open book.
"My life is an open book, ladies," I said. "And this is my life."
"It's our lives, too," said one of the more precocious members who wished not to be identified lest her husband discover she was not talking about "Little Women" but downing "tea" after "tea" while we shouted "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"
"What's your point?" I asked.
Because really isn't that what most things come down to? What is the point? Life, death, work, security, patriotism, art, writing, production, love, death, marriage, fear and loathing. It's all enough to make one quite depressed.
That is life in modern America and some pundits have suggested that depression is merely a reasonable byproduct of unreasonable times. Since Sept. 11, fewer people doubt that.
I learned the hard way after years of guilt-ridden miasma that you cannot live your life in a prison of your own design.
I discovered about eight years that chief among my many problems was chronic depression. It was no one's fault I had this condition, but we live in a society that has certain opinions about such maladies and likes to place the blame, as it were.
Problems that present themselves with symptoms of a mental nature are viewed with as much suspicion and fear as witchcraft.
In fact, witchcraft was often blamed for everything from obsessive compulsive disorder to schizophrenia at one time. And why not? Bad chemicals, touchy brain functions and unbalanced hormones might as well be demons, imps and witchery to this day for us much as most people are willing to understand them.
You see, "craziness," as it turns out, is just another symptom. When you break your leg and roll around on the ground screaming and crying, no one goes "what's wrong with that guy? He must be crazy!" Of course not, that would be ludicrous in the extreme.
Yet we tend to view people who are even just clinically depressed with suspicion as if what depressives have is a mystery best not to thought of. In many ways, it is still an unsolved mystery because as a society we aren't quite sure what to do with people with mental illnesses and the best way to treat different forms of depression is still up for debate.
But even as recently as the end of the last century, the best cure for depression was just shocking the hell out of a guy until he "snapped out of it."
It's like headaches. One century they're caused by evil spirits and in the next an aspirin stops that myth. One day, I hope to see most illnesses with behavioral symptoms to be as easily diagnosed and treated as a headache, but until that point, the best thing we can all hope for now is a little rational thought.
Depression is a sickness in its own right, but it is also a symptom of many other illnesses. I know, because I have been a chronic depressive since about 13.
In my case, my liver does not produce enough of a particular enzyme to regulate mood swings as well as most people. Just knowing this has made my life a lot easier. I try to keep an even keel like Mr. Spock on "Star Trek" so my hot Vulcan blood does not begin to boil. I eschew "getting too happy" because I'm like a ship without a rudder or a car with wonky steering on an icy road. If I keep it going straight, I'm cool, but if I start sliding and don't turn into the skid just right, I'll end up in the ditch.
Luckily, I don't have to worry about ending up in the Missouri River any more, but time was that was a major concern.
My first major experience with the kind of derailment depression could cause began in my mid-20s. My wicked liver was causing me problems one of which was called "running thoughts."
"Running thoughts" are thoughts you can't quite stop thinking about - a conversation, that guy who cut you off in traffic, a logic problem - until you upset yourself or at least waste an hour thinking about something most people would just "let go of."
For a writer, this is not the worst problem one can have if controlled. It leads to some great, realistic dialogue, at least that's what "Old Settler" author John Henry Redwood said about me. Just thought I'd throw that out there. Sniff.
Long story short, through medication, education and a rubber band around my wrist, I was able to retrain myself. I would get to thinking about something I shouldn't, I'd snap that rubber band and sing "Sunny Days," the theme song from "Sesame Street."
Sound crazy? Sure, but what my "book club" came to realize is that everything is relative. While those who seek treatment for their illnesses might get stuck with a nasty label, they are not necessarily any crazier than the average person who might suffer in silence from any number of maladies physical or mental.
Most people will see their doctor for a cold before they would see him because they heard voices. If you are depressed, not just bummed out because "Friends" might be canceled or the pizza guy forget your free crazy bread, see your doctor.
Because not going to the doctor would be REALLY crazy.
-Greg Jerrett is a Nonpareil staff writer. He may be contacted at 328-1811 ext. 279 or by e-mail at gjerrett@nonpareilonline.com.