I was swamped with work, spending weekends just sleeping. Wake up, back to work tomorrow—that was my life.
I grew up in a family of five. I think it hit when I was 32. As a woman, I had debt from past mistakes, and with a poor household, I had to fend for myself.
Monthly bills, no days off, relentless work. Coworkers ignoring rules or deadlines piled on more stress, hitting max levels. For a while, my appetite shot up—looking back, that might’ve been a sign of the long struggle ahead. One day, after a heavy lunch in the employee cafeteria, waiting five minutes on the line, nausea hit me out of nowhere. That was the start of my pain.
I rarely vomit even when nauseous, and that hasn’t changed—though the nausea still pops up. At first, I thought, “Oops, ate too much,” but it dragged on for days, then a week, messing with my work.
I’d wait in the break room or leave early, feeling guilty and adding to my stress. Still, I dragged myself to work daily. But in the car commute, tears would fall, and I’d even think, “If only an accident ended this.”
Soon, I was obsessed with thoughts of escape, just wanting relief. With over 80 hours of overtime each month, it’s no wonder I nearly broke. My health kept worsening—nausea, stomach pain, diarrhea, dizziness, headaches, plus extreme tension and panic. Even breathing felt hard.
I skipped a Saturday shift to see an internist, but they kept saying, “Can’t find the cause.” Even an endoscopy showed mild gastritis but nothing to explain it. Test after test at different hospitals yielded the same—just losing money and time.
Finally, at the local public hospital, they said, “This has to be mental,” and it hit me.
By then, getting up was a struggle, so I quit my job. I spent days just lying down.
Even a glass of water was hard to swallow. I’d cry alone, wondering if I’d fade away.
My strict mom scolded, “Quitting over a little discomfort! How will you manage? I can’t support you!” But seeing me like that, she worried and bought pricey nutrient supplements to help.
It didn’t work. I mustered courage to call a psychiatric clinic, but wait times were a month—too long. Desperate for help, I found one that could see me the next day.
Driving or taking the train was unbearable, so I took a taxi. Walking in, a scent—like aromatherapy—triggered nausea. Fewer patients than expected, and I was called quickly.
The doctor said, “It’s depression.” Hearing that was a relief—finally, a name after all the “we don’t know” answers.
I hoped for a cure, but after two years of visits, my condition fluctuated. The same med, Dogmatil, stayed unchanged—no reduction. Side effects hit: my period stopped, and I even lactated.
Sessions were short, just a minute of listening, then out. Doubts grew. Later, marrying and moving led me to switch clinics. The new doctor questioned that med and adjusted it. Trying various drugs, I struggled with side effects until Paxil clicked—no period issues, and pregnancy was possible.
They checked my autonomic nervous system too—exhausted, earning me a autonomic dysfunction label. After a year and a half, they said I was okay to stop, but…
Recently, diarrhea, nausea, and loss of appetite returned. I’ve heard depression lingers, and it’s true.
My current stress? My husband (laughs). But I think I’d feel stress anywhere, with anyone.
Others might handle or vent it better, but I’m bad with people. Breaking down at 33 from that job made me quick to shut down. I’m restarting visits this week.
Depression can hit anyone. If you ever feel like giving up, don’t push yourself.
I clung to “I can’t take time off now,” but maybe that was wrong. Realizing “someone else can step in if needed” might’ve been kinder to my mind. Overloading yourself leads to this.
It’s hard to get, so the struggle feels solo. Some still call it a “laziness disease” despite it being real.
Depression isn’t laziness. It’s the heart of someone who’s tried too hard begging for rest. Ignoring that sign leads to long suffering.
The best “medicine” is finding the cause and removing it—tough, but key.
Please, family and friends, don’t judge those with depression.
My parents once said the doctor was scamming me with that diagnosis, struggling to accept their daughter had a mental illness. It hurt, feeling even they didn’t get it.
They understand now, and my husband knew this when he married me. I feel bad knowing I stress him, but once broken, I’m fragile.
To spare loved ones this, I recommend early checkups and rest.
※本記事は個人のうつ病体験談です。体験内容はあくまで個人の体験であり、医療アドバイスではありません。専門的なアドバイスを希望する場合は医師へ相談を。
※This article is a personal depression story. The content is solely based on personal experience and is not medical advice. Consult a doctor for professional advice.