I’ve slipped.
I haven’t gone down yet, but I certainly feel as though I am falling in slow motion.
I’m still not sure if I’ll catch myself or not.
The thing is, reaction to stress and fatigue can feel very similar to depression.
Regardless, I’m not doing well.
Seeing my Aunt Cheryl’s death certificate was a bit too much for me today.
I’m really not going to see her again in this life.
Grief is the price we pay for love.
-Queen Elizabeth II
I’m ready to be back home in Indiana.
I recorded this late one night after a particularly wonderful day. I’m so glad that I did.
The requirements were that we post a vlog about the story we have to tell and that it be under a minute.
Well, I think I got my story across, but the whole minute thing didn’t quite pan out. Sorry about that TV people.
Ah well, it’s not necessarily about the TV show. It’s about me (hello) and it’s about helping anyone I can with my story.
I spent most of the weekend on the verge of tears.
If not on the verge, I was generally in them.
But never from sadness, only tears of joy and appreciation.
I was me this weekend.
You know, the old me.
I cried because I’ve missed this me so much. I like this me. This me is easy to take out in public.
I’ve cried because I know this won’t last forever. That I could wake up tomorrow and this me could be taken hostage by the part of my brain I can’t control.
I’ve cried because for the first time in a long time I was able to look around and see beauty in every. single. thing.
Especially the people I am lucky enough to be surrounded by.
I have such good people around me. I sometimes feel I don’t deserve to be in the ranks of the friends I have.
I have such a good life. I couldn’t even name the ways.
This weekend I didn’t hide behind my camera. I used it to capture and hopefully hold on the the beauty that engulfed me this weekend, and hopefully I can lock this feeling away somewhere safe in my heart where my brain can’t touch it.
I’m so scared of when this me is going to go.
But I can’t live in fear of that moment. I must live in hope of this one, right now. Knowing with all my heart that it will return.
Hi.
I don’t want to be writing this one. I’m kind of embarrassed and ashamed about a lot of it.
You see, even though I talk openly about depression and infertility? I always harbored this silly little stereotype in the back of my head that said “depression is real, anxiety is not.”
Yep. I figured anxiety issues were for people who just couldn’t handle their own emotions. A sort of made up problem to get people out of social and difficult situations. Much like I used a “sprained” ankle to get me out of running in high school gym.
Awesome right?
It’s been over eight months since my first anxiety attack. And guess what kids? Anxiety is a completely real thing that sucks.
Right now I’m just hoping it will go away. Or maybe that it’s not even real, that it was just something I ate. Sadly the truth is that it was something I had shot into my butt.
Three times.
Lupron.
Why the hell didn’t I google Lupron? Why did I just listen to my doctor?
Why is it that I can google chapped lips to the point where I’m almost certain my lips are destined to fall off from some third world fungus but something serious such as permanently altering my hormones I don’t even type into that little search box up there?
Whenever I google Lupron now, I find stories very similar to mine. “Lupron Brain, permanent mood disorders, loss of cognitive ability.”
It’s both a blessing and a curse that my blog comes up as one of the only real accounts of Lupron.
After a complete meltdown (read: anxiety attack) at church today I wrote nine words to Cody that encompass almost every thought I’ve had lately.
“I wish I could be me a year ago.”
He understood exactly what I meant.
I feel like over the past month I have found part of myself again. Or at least brought to light the new me that I’m going to have to navigate through life from now on.
This girl is gone I’m afraid. (Crap. How great was her hair?)
But hopefully this new girl will find her place and kick some ass while she’s here.
You are not the only one who spends all day in bed, wakes up ten minutes before your significant other gets home and plows through the house attempting to give them some semblance of your productivity.
You are not the only one who hates taking that pill everyday.
You are not the only one who stops taking your medication because you hate what it does to you and why can’t you just feel normal on your own?
You are not the only one for whom medication does not work.
You are not the only one who has spent an inordinate amount of money in an attempt to make yourself feel better.
You are not the only one who wants a hug from your husband without him attempting to make a move on you.
You are not the only one with a significant other who just doesn’t get it.
You are not the only one that wants to crawl back in bed instead of walking with your kids to the park on a sunny day.
You are not the only one who wants to kick puppies and wield stabby objects when someone suggests you “pray harder” or “have more faith.”
You are not the only one who has gone into a shouty rage when asked “Did you remember to take your medication?”
You are not the only one that is afraid to write about your feelings on the Internet.
You are not the only one who worries how other people will perceive your so called “weaknesses.”
You are not the only one who spent years self medicating with alcohol.
You are not the only one who regrets their children on the bad days.
You are not the only one with a family who doesn’t understand “what the hell’s wrong with you and why on earth can’t you just get over it already?”
You are not the only one who cries at silly things all the time.
You are not the only one who is tired all the time.
You are not the only one who never wants to have the sex.
You are not the only one who doesn’t want to have more children because you’re just not sure you could handle going through post partum again.
You are not the only one who has been in a hospital for depression.
You are also not the only one who has considered if a stay in the hospital wouldn’t be just what you needed.
You are not the only one who worries about passing this disease down to your children.
You are not the only one who feels this way.
But you know what you are?
YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE.
And if you keep insisting that you are for the sake of your own pride?
You are not going to get better.
God didn’t put billions of people on the planet for us to only take care of ourselves.
I am tired.
Emotionally and mentally exhausted.
But I don’t think you’d notice if you didn’t know me.
I can turn it on and off.
I can fake, oh, how I can fake it.
Imagine being hip deep in a thick muddy sludge.
You’re in a bit of a pickle, sometimes it could even be considered a funny pickle that you’re in. And if you stand there and look around you can make jokes with those on solid ground around you.
But you can’t stay in sludge forever. You have to get out. You must get out. You’re missing too much being stuck.
And so you lift one leg at a time, inch by inch attempting to move it forward. You can’t talk while you do it, let alone make jokes. It’s imperative you focus all of your energy on moving forward, even if it’s just millimeters.
You begin to think, “Hey, this sludge isn’t that bad, the sun comes out sometimes, I can still talk to my friends…why try so hard to get out?” It’s like Dorothy in the poppy fields, sure, the Emerald City is right there and she went through so much to get there…but just…a little…nap…a rest…
No.
You have to get to the other side. Out of the crap. Out of the slime. They have cupcakes, horses of a different color, hugs, reality television and comfy couches on the other side.
But most of all that other side has rest. Rest for your weary brain, mind, heart and body. A place where you can charge back up and prepare yourself for your next unknown trip into the sludge.
This is the slowest most unfair journey I’ve ever been in. And it may never end for me.
But I’m grateful that I can talk about it.
And that I know for a fact that other side is there, waiting to give me the rest I deserve.
**direct link to my article here.**
A long time ago I was asked to participate in an annual online rally for and in behalf of new moms on Mother’s Day.
The topic is postpartum depression and I was asked to write a letter to new moms about how “this too shall pass.”
There are 24 women participating, doctors, authors, nurses, social workers and most of all, moms.
The reminder email came while I was in an ugly place. I had intentions of writing witty prose about how you’ll look back at those days of PPD and pat yourself on the back for making it through.
But I never had time to pat myself on the back because I was thrown headfirst (no pun intended) right back into the depression I have always had. I’m afraid to go back and read what I wrote and submitted…it will go live later tonight (a new post is going up every hour all day.)
But after reading through the other submissions that have gone up this far I am proud knowing that I wrote mine when I did. The other women have written brilliant things. And it is going to help a lot of new moms see the silver lining, and maybe after reading 24 survival stories they will be able to keep calm, call their doctor and carry on.
My submission doesn’t have such a happy ending. Yes, postpartum depression ended for me, but the other depression, the one not induced by sleepless nights, colic and wacky hormones has not ended, nor will it ever end.
But what I learned is that my depression will never be the end of me. I will keep going.
Some days will be uglier and far more exhausting, and those days may turn into weeks.
But I will keep going.
Because I know, I KNOW, that even though I can’t feel it now? There’s happiness out there. And I will keep myself surrounded by those things that bring happiness until one day the outside and the inside click. And I will be able to truly enjoy my lovely little life without a giant black cloud enveloping my brain.
The articles are brilliant, a lot of the women you may already know. I will link mine directly when it goes up (here it is!) but until then, there are a dozen others already up, moms who get PPD and got through it. Once, twice sometimes even four times.
Happy Mother’s Day to all of you. But if it’s not so happy for you today, don’t feel guilty, because the happy isn’t all there for me today either.
xo
***So many of you have emailed with questions for Cody, how he manages my depression, what helps and what does not. I can say that it has been a very bumpy road and it has taken years for him to know how to best help me. I’ve never asked how he does it, I’m just grateful that he does. He’s very worried about coming across as insensitive, it’s a lawyer thing. The truth is he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. He gets me. And I can only hope that anyone that deals with this misunderstood disease can have a Cody in their life.***
My wife asked me to explain how I deal with her depression as her husband. I must first note that how I deal with my wife’s depression is not going to be the same for all spouses who deal with their spouse’s depression.
I had to learn and accept that my wife does not choose to be depressed. My wife cannot control her depression. She cannot just “get over it” as I had believed people could do prior to meeting my wife. I have learned to approach her depression from an objective standpoint. I cannot take her actions, inactions or thoughts personally while she is depressed. I had to learn that her depression is not a reflection of how she feels about me.
We now have a rule that she is not allowed to stop taking her medication. It is an unfortunate crutch that she needs in her life, but it is necessary. I try to pay attention to subtle changes in her personality/mood/emotions/interactions to make sure she is taking her medication. Occasionally, she will stop taking her medication and we start the depression cycle.
It is important for me to recognize when my wife is beginning to feel the effects of depression. I must constantly watch my wife’s emotions and how she reacts to her surroundings. I have become so familiar with her depression that I can now recognize the signs of when she is entering a slump. She becomes more withdrawn and quiet the further she slumps into depression. She will begin to “sleep,” meaning lying in bed with her eyes closed even though she isn’t really asleep.
When she is suffering from depression I do things to try to keep her from sinking deeper into depression.. If I allow her to sit in the house and think about her depression she will sink deeper and faster. I try to keep her distracted and occupied by encouraging her to get out of the house to see friends as much as possible, or I will try to find things she can do that may help keep her mind from focusing on her depression.
Ultimately, unless on medication, the depression will get her. At some point it becomes necessary to “help” her hit bottom so she can begin to recover. This is the time that is the most difficult to handle as her spouse. It is tough to see her struggle and to see her not even want to exist. This step is only necessary if she has refused to get help from a doctor. When she is not on medication she will refuse to get help from a doctor, and she will continue to refuse that help until she hits bottom.
Helping my wife reach the bottom may sound harsh, but it is what has worked best in our marriage. To nudge her off the ledge I will talk to her about how her actions and her current state are not healthy for her or the family. That conversation usually results in what she believes is a fight, and if other people could hear the conversation they would believe it was a fight as well.
When she hits bottom she gives up—she will no longer fight getting help. It is very important that I be there when she hits bottom so that I can be there to take her to the doctor for help, and so I can make sure she does not make a poor decision. My being able to be present when she hits bottom is the main reason why I help nudge her to the bottom—she cannot be alone when it happens. Unfortunately, we have both learned from experience that she cannot be alone when she hits bottom.
Everybody deals with depression in different ways—this way seems to work for us best. However, no matter how your spouse deals with depression, you, as the supporting spouse, must view it objectively, and you must focus on not getting frustrated with your spouse’s depression. People do not choose to suffer from depression.
I have tried to take my own life more than the one time I have acknowledged on this blog.
Almost exactly two years ago I drove myself to the hospital. The entire drive there I had to keep talking myself out of driving into oncoming traffic. My eyes were puffy, they stung from all the crying and my heart felt as though it had been pummeled by a meat tenderizer.
Alone. Broken. Hopeless. Alone. Broken. Hopeless.
I called Cody from the parking lot and told him where I was and what I was about to do.
Voluntarily commit myself.
He understood. It wasn’t the first time that me going back into the hospital had been considered.
He offered to meet me there, I volunteered to come home. He found somewhere for little Addie to go and he took me to the mental crisis unit of the hospital.
It all came back so fast. The locked doors, the patients talking to themselves, random screams and the constant buzz of florescent lighting. The doctor I met with was named Dr. Wink. Dr. Wink saved my life that night. There was no judgement.
She got it.
She understood my fear of going back “in there” but she also understood how I had come to a point where “in there” may be the only safe place for me to be. We talked for a long time. She didn’t commit me, instead she gave me hope. Hope that I could make it through this without having to hand over my shoelaces and pride.
I left with hope. And a very important prescription. I have been taking that prescription since and have not once felt I needed to go back there.
****
Mental illness is not a choice.
Nor is it a cop out, curable or something that one can merely “get over” like a pulled hamstring.
There is nothing wrong with taking a pill to get me through the involuntary chemical imbalances in my own head.
I’m not going to lie, there are some days I hate that stupid pill. I hate taking it, I have even tried to go without. I hate that my body can’t just “work.” But something up there doesn’t fire right and the repercussions from a misfire can be devastating. So I take the pill.
No one has ever thought any less of me for needing contacts to see or prescription strength deodorant to keep me from sweating like a pig in the sun on the fourth of July. The same goes for my depression medication.
If you are suffering, please. It’s not a cop out to get help. There are people out there like Dr. Wink who know it’s not your fault and that you would never volunteer to feel the way you do, alone, broken and hopeless.
If those words resonate anywhere ANYWHERE within you, please. Find someone to talk to. Anyone. There’s websites, phone numbers, friends, me, doctors and clergy that will listen. That cold rainy night in February last year didn’t end the way I had it in my head, if it had I would have either had a toe tag or my name on commitment papers.
I can’t even say I was looking for a miracle. Miracles don’t exist to someone trapped inside their own brains. What I was given was hope through the words of another. Enough hope to get me home, enough hope to try a new medication. Enough hope to know that I would feel “normal” again.
And enough hope to know that these demons I battle are not my fault.
****
Karissa, or Krissy as her family called her, took her own life on Saturday. I have scoured her tweets and her site looking for any sort of hint that would have hinted at how alone, broken and hopeless she felt. Aside from “taking a break” there was nothing. No hints to anyone online that she was slipping.
After reading through her comments I noticed how many people she had supporting her. And after knowing of her passing, how many people mentioned that they had thought about reaching out to her but didn’t.
I wrote this last week, it’s haunting.
I guess what I wanted to say is that when you get that feeling to write somebody something heartfelt or out of genuine concern, just do it. If they don’t respond chances are it’s not because they are a jerk. It’s probably because they’re suffocating.
and to everyone I wrote these words in the post about my overdose,
I am not ashamed now because I have a message, if someone says they’re not doing so well, please listen. I tried to tell someone that I was not well a week before this happened. They brushed it off as pregnancy hormones and sleepiness. I didn’t want to push, maybe it was just pregnancy after all. But that’s just my point, those who truly need your help will rarely shout for it. They will suffer silently hoping somebody, anybody will notice. Those who are truly hurting will not want to draw attention to themselves.
I didn’t want to be a burden or seen as a complainer. So I tried to figure it all out myself.
And I failed.
But I was blessed through my failure.
Not everyone is so lucky.
I’m not saying any one of us, or all of us, could have saved Krissy from making the decision she did. I honestly didn’t know her personally. Even if I had I’m not sure that even I would have noticed her slipping away.
Her loss has left her family grieving. I can’t imagine the pain all those who loved her are feeling, I can’t even pretend to. My heart and prayers go out to them. I know if her cousin could have just one wish it would be to go back to Saturday and make it all better.
****
Please. If you’re not doing well, speak up. Please. Just because you feel hopeless does not mean you are. And even more importantly, you are not helpless.
God didn’t put billions of people on the planet for us to only take care of ourselves.
It’s our job to take care of each other. In sickness and in health. No matter what.
