When it comes to regret, I think I’ll always worry more about what I haven’t tried than what I have. My eclectic career path is a great example: from the front desk of a southern Illinois coal mine to artist-in-residence for Oldham County Schools, there’s no doubt that I’ve lived out Erma Bombeck’s quote and used every bit of talent I have in the wide array of jobs I’ve held.

Perhaps the only thing broader than my resume is the list of things I’ve used in an attempt to heal my depression. I suppose my theory is if I can’t find relief, then at least I can say I tried (God knows, I’ve tried), that I left no stone unturned. Otherwise (and this is self-imposed) I’m not allowed to complain. This basically means I’ve purchased a lot of magic beans over the years. My youngest still uses my Himalayan salt lamp as “mood lighting” in his room, so I guess that wasn’t a waste. But my latest grasp at getting better appears to have been a huge waste of time and money, not to mention how much hope I’d pinned on this therapy.

Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) – 36 appointments, 3,000 pulses delivered at each appointment, all in the hope of stimulating areas of the brain that are underactive in people with depression.

There are days I feel like maybe it took the edge off, but I never felt the cloud lift, it just shifted to the side and I’ve seen that a good strong wind can still blow it back in place. It also didn’t replace the medications I’m on, which come with their own crappy side effects. And the whole experience felt like going to a tanning salon, where a very nice person has been trained to use a powerful machine but has no actual education in mental health. She answered my questions with anecdotal information from other clients or pointed me to the book 3,000 Pulses Later, written by someone who had success with TMS and has since become a patient advocate.

108,000 pulses later, I was sent back into the world. No final evaluation by a doctor to assess my progress, just an invitation to write something they can post on their wall of success stories. Needless to say, I had nothing to contribute, but smiled politely and said I’d try to come up with something and bring it back another day.

It’s hard not to feel like something’s wrong with me, considering there is a wall filled with comments like “I got my life back!” But I guess someone has to be the other percentage when they report 83% experience measurable relief and 62% experience full remission of depression symptoms.

Please don’t read this as a plea for pity. I’m sharing because this is part of my path and knowing this about me adds context to the rest of what I write. I want, no need you to know that I’m still living with depression, but I haven’t stopped trying to get better. At the end of my life, no one will be able to say I didn’t try.