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My last post about depression had me talking a lot. I mean, I cut like 200 words out of that post to get it to a readable length and here I am still having things to say about depression.

So when I left off I was an unemployed mother of two who was going through some seriously taxing financial and emotional times. On a rare day when The Mr. and I had time alone (I actually think we had gone on a date!) I admitted to him and to myself that I was depressed. I started taking Prozac and feeling better. I felt better that it was a problem that was recognized and that I was finally able to take care of it.

No. 2 was about two and a half when I finally found a job (and just five blocks from home!); I continued on the Prozac knowing that it wasn't just being unemployed that was making me feel so miserable.

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Sixteen plus years of diabetes has left me with interesting personality quirks. Since I've never known a life without this disease, I can't really say that I'd be different or not if it wasn't here. But the fact is that it is here and that it weighed on my development, still weighs on my life, and will always be a heavy load upon my shoulders.

Diabetes created a strong need for control in my life. I've always been a bit of a control freak, type A personality (that may be hereditary considering my mom and eldest brother are type A's and my personality is all around more like theirs). But the relation between my need for control and diabetes didn't hit me until a few years ago when I read Diabetes Burnout.

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It's after 9 p.m. on Saturday night and I've just learned something that normally would send me straight to bed. Likely crying. But I'm wide awake and I can't help but wonder if it's the double dose of anti-depressants I took this morning.

I met with a psychiatrist yesterday for the first time ever. Iv'e seen counselors before, but never for depression.

I was looking forward to the appointment. I was anxious to talk about how I got to where I was, issues that I struggle with, and I think a little validation that what I was going through was real depression and not just a wacked out personality.

I connected with Dr. L pretty quickly and easily. I imagined she'd be around my age and she was. She was easy to talk to; straight forward and rather blunt at times, which I was fine with.

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It's been roughly two weeks since I switched from Prozac to a new anti-depressant. I think I thought I would miraculously feel dramatically different pretty quickly. But I don't. However, I have noticed some subtle changes.

There's generally less yelling coming from me. Part of that is because The Mr. is doing more around the house, but even if he wasn't I think my moods would be more stable.

I find myself able to relate to and joke around with the kids a lot easier. I've realized a number of times that I'm playing around with No. 2 and No. 3 whereas several weeks ago I likely would have had a "don't bother me" attitude when they wanted to joke around. And it feels good to interact with my family differently.

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This is a good news/bad news post. Sort of. This morning I had my last meeting with Dr. L. I really hate that it was my last meeting with her because we really connected. I always felt very comfortable talking to her, and she talked to me the way I imagine I would talk to my patients if I were a psychiatrist.

It’s been about six weeks since our last meeting, which was about four weeks after I had switched antidepressants (woah! math!). At that last meeting I told Dr. L that I felt better, but wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel much better since it had been so long since I felt good I wasn’t sure what “good” was supposed to feel like. So we decided to give it a few more weeks and if at that time I still felt like I needed to feel better that I should up my dose of antidepressants.

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If you've been reading me for any length of time -- particularly the last few weeks -- you'll know 1) that I'm depressed, 2) that I take anti-depressants and 3) that my new psychiatrist doubled my dose of anti-depressants when I saw her at the beginning of the month.

I didn't really expect much, but I did feel much better right away. I frankly thought it was a fluke or that it would be temporary or that I was still on sort of an adrenaline high from having finally talked to a professional about some things.

But what I've been going through lately really affirms that I am feeling much better most of the time (and wish I would have talked to someone sooner!).

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I was talking to a friend of mine today over email about the whole bipolar thing. She told me I was pretty brave to have put it all out there for the world to see. It didn't feel brave when I wrote it, but I guess in a way it was.

The stigma surrounding depression is lessening. More people are being diagnosed and getting help and being vocal about it. But bipolar is a whole different beast. And I think there are still a lot of misconceptions about it. Enough that it did take me almost two months to write about it here. Enough that I did hesitate before I told too many people because I didn't want to be looked at differently. I didn't want to be the "crazy lady."

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I’ve found myself emotionally exhausted lately. Mostly the last week. I primarily assumed it was because I’ve been at the ready being Nurse Michelle for The Mr. since he returned home from having gastric bypass surgery. There were several nights that I was up at least twice helping him to the bathroom or changing a bandage. I slept lightly those nights. And when he said he needed me, I was right there.

I tended to his needs during the day, too. Happily. But trying to take care of an adult, three children and yourself can be emotionally taxing. And me without sleep just is no good. And then there’s the part that’s like a blood sugar crash: you are so “on” for so long that a crash is inevitable.

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Nicole recently blogged about her late aunt's battle with the dual diagnosis of depression and diabetes, and wondered why -- with modern medical care available to her, and with prescriptions to deal with both illnesses -- her aunt took neither, allowing her body to destroy itself piece by piece, taking only the medications prescribed to her for pain.

While I don't presume to have known Nicole's aunt Margaret, I can see a number of issues that can complicate the combined issue of self-care and chronic disease in general, and diabetes in particular.

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I'm battling pretty severe nausea again this evening. I decided to stop the Metformin and just stay on the Wellbutrin until my body adjusted. But at this moment, I'm greatly reconsidering that decision and thinking that I might stop the Wellbutrin altogether. I'm not sure that it's the right choice for me or for the people who love me.

I didn't exactly plan to tell my mom this evening that I'd started the antidepressant, but it came up and I got exactly what I expected. A lot of shock and a lack of encouragement about being on them. She doesn't believe that my life is bad enough to warrant antidepressants (because in her mind, they are only to be used for extremely bad situations like the death of a child or a sick spouse or some other catastrophe).

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