A Battle I Didn’t Know I Was Fighting

Let me preface this by saying that I try very, very hard to be honest. There is some of this post that I wasn’t even honest about to myself until I sat down to work on this, including some of my family. Let me stress that if you are struggling, ask for help. Believe me, I know it’s hard. If I can help somehow, I will totally be in your corner. I had people in mine when I needed it most. And sorry this is so long.

A battle is something that is fought.  I can’t say that I have been fighting depression for most of my life, because that would mean that I was working against it to make it better.  That would be an inaccurate statement.  I have been living with depression. Yeah, that’s a more correct statement. 

I haven’t always taken medication.  I have been prescribed medication many times in my life.   I am not really great about taking it every day.  After a while of taking it, sometimes as long as a year, I would decide, “hey, I’m probably fine, I will just stop taking you for a while and see what happens.”  Usually, people, mostly my husband, could tell a difference and ask me if I was taking a medication vacation.  But sometimes, no one would notice.  That’s how I knew it wasn’t really helping in the first place.  Pretty scientific process, right?

Right now, I am not currently taking any medication for the last 9 months. It’s not something I keep secret and being on medication is something that is kind of joked about in my family.  “Yeah, she’s on Celexa, she’s on Prozac.  So-and-so is taking _____ (insert medication here).”  It’s not something that is looked down on or criticized.  Sometimes, terrible traumatic stuff happens, and you can’t always manage it alone.  So you get help in the form of pharmaceuticals and/or therapy.  PSA: not every medication is right for everyone.  Talk to your doctor honestly if you feel like you need help. 

I’ve had my share of dark times and would be LYING if I said I have managed well on my own.  After I lost Zoe, I went on an antidepressant and saw a therapist for nearly 2 years. It wasn’t a good time and to think back on it, it is mostly dark fog.

Depression is like trying to doggie paddle in a really rough lake with a wet blanket over your head. When you’re in the middle of it, it consumes everything and you can’t imagine that you’re ever not going to have to swim for your life. You’re just in it. After Heath died, I thought about how it wouldn’t hurt so bad if I didn’t have to wake up tomorrow knowing he was gone.  In my very depressed, grief-stricken mind, I thought, “well, Jimmy can stay with Avery and Noah, and I can go be with Heath and Zoe.”  Divide and conquer right?  I never had a plan or had a way of doing anything to myself, but I would not be honest if I said I didn’t think about it.  There were days that I thought, “The hell with this.  Who could blame me for wanting to escape this awful agony? How do parents continue to live after they have watched their child take their last breath?”  I remember sitting on the couch talking to my husband a few weeks after we lost him, and saying, “have you ever thought about just not doing this anymore?  Just not doing life?”  Probably not a great thing to say to my husband while I was eating practically nothing and not getting out of bed several days a week.  I wanna face-palm myself thinking back on it. I found out later that he texted a dear friend of mine and she said that maybe it was time to call my doctor.  I’ll never forget the conversation for that one. 

I was on my knees on the countertop cleaning out the Tupperware lids in the top cabinet (because that’s what normal people do at 10pm).  Why we had 27 lids and 8 bottoms, I’ll never know.  Anyway, he was leaning on the counter across from me and said, “hey babe, I made an appointment for you tomorrow with the doctor 8 o’clock.” 

I’m pretty sure he felt his life pass before his eyes as I did the slow – I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS – turn around to look at him.  “Why did you do that??”  I was really trying to be “normal,” didn’t I even get credit for that??

His response was “Because I’m worried about you.  You’re hardly sleeping, not eating good, drinking a lot.” 

All true.  But in my mind, this was a betrayal of monstrous proportions.  I was sitting up at night crying, eating a few bites of food a day.   I didn’t want to remember that my life had imploded.  I didn’t want to remember that I had held my baby boy while he took his last breaths, that the ventilator had been removed and that he had gotten so cold, no matter how close I held him.  I still don’t.  Just typing that is painful. I didn’t want to try to keep it together for my 9 and 5 year olds while I was losing my sanity slowly in the most agonizing way.

I was furious at him for “ratting me out” to Paige, who I know only wants the best for her patients, as did he did for me.  All I could say was, “fine” through gritted teeth.  I only went because I figured that there would be a fee for not showing up and with all Heath’s medical bills still rolling in, I certainly didn’t need something else to pay. 

So, I went.  Unhappily.  When I was being checked in with the nurse, she asked me a bunch of postpartum depression questions.  I’m a nurse, right?  I know the “correct” answers to give to not sound crazy.  I don’t want to be locked up in a padded room.  At least I didn’t at the time (now I would call that a vacation).  I finally got fed up with the stupid questions being read off the page at me and said to her (probably too sternly) “My baby died.  What do you want me say?”  She looked at me with this deer-in-the-headlights look that showed that she clearly didn’t expect me to answer that way.  Oops.  Looking back, I feel bad for snapping at her.  She was only doing her job and I didn’t apologize then, so I will say it now.  Sorry Renee, I didn’t mean to be a crazy person. 

Paige saw me, and bless her heart, she was the sweetest I have ever seen her.  I don’t know what Jimmy said to her before hand, but she talked to me for nearly an hour.  I think we changed my dosage of antidepressant and kept the antianxiety med for when I really started to lose it.  I will never be able to tell her how much I appreciate how she treated me.  If I’m being honest (and I really try to be), I still didn’t tell her how bad it really was.  I don’t think I ever told anyone until now.  I didn’t want to be judged for the feelings I was having.  Near the end of the appointment, she said “I think that you’re acting just like someone who is grieving for their child.” I don’t know if other people feel like I did.  No one has ever told me. Grief is hard and taboo and people aren’t honest with others about it. I know I wasn’t. 

When I look back on that time, I think I’m ashamed of having felt that way.  I’ve known people that I loved that didn’t get the help that they need. It was a horrible agonizing pain that was passed on to the family and friends left behind. I’ve never considered myself a fighter.  Maybe it’s because I had someone to fight for me.  In this case, it was Jimmy and Paige and my friend that gave Jimmy advice to make the appointment.  They fought the battle that I wasn’t able to.  Or maybe I didn’t even know it was a fight.  Even now when I see my doctor, she treats all parts of me: mind, body and soul. She makes me look at all of me and how it affects my health, whether I want to or not. Everyone should have a doctor that treats them that way.

Depression works in crazy ways.  Depression tells me that I’m not good enough. That no one could possibly want me.  That I cause my husband and children too much trouble.  That they would all be better off without me.  That’s it’s all too much sometimes. I know that’s not true… now. But I believed all of it. And there are days that I hear the whispers in my ear even now. Depression makes me tired, makes me short-tempered and causes me to raise my voice.

I would be lying if I said that I don’t still have these thoughts sneak in once in a while.  Like when I lost my cool when Avery spilled Polynesian sauce all over herself in the car. I mean seriously? It’s not like she tortured a puppy.  She spilled.  It happens.  I actually spilled ranch inside my shirt the other day.  I’m 33, she’s 6, what is wrong with me that I’m upset at her for it? Another proud mom moment.

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Everyday is a new one. I get to start over every morning (or night depending) on my schedule. I work REALLY hard to give myself some grace. I’m not perfect — far from it. But I’m trying and that matters. I love my children and my husband and thankfully they forgive me when I go off the rails.

If you have struggled with depression or anything like that, you are not by yourself on that one. Give yourself a break. Life is HARD. It really tries to wear you down and then add parenting… whew, maybe I need a nap. You got through the last year. And last week. And 100% of your hardest days until now. You will get through today too. You only lose when you give up. I’m in your corner and so are all the people that love you, even when you are too deep to feel it. Promise.

–E