When I was around 10 or 11 years old I started to notice how hard I took things. Everything was the end of the world. Things that took people a few minutes to get over, took me days, or even weeks to bounce back and recover.
It was only after having two children that I found that there is a correlation between my hormones and my mental happiness. My struggles manifest in my weight and my lack of desire to do daily tasks. I know it frustrates my husband to no end, that for weeks I will do several loads of laundry, and then the next week, not so much.
I have been in/out of therapy for about 20+ years, and I don't regret it. Every couple of months, I need what I call a "mental tune up". It is my soft place to land, where I can fall apart and not be judged. Trust me, the $20 co-pay is worth it.....
There were times in my twenties where I would sit in my room and cry for hours. I thought I was losing my mind, that something was broke inside that I could never fix. I even researched the least painful way to end things. I never came close to acting on this senseless whim, but to consider it and flirt with that dangerous idea....was a scary place. It was scary because there was some peace that came with the idea of planning my demise. Looking back now I see I was craving control. Control over my life, and how it would end.
There are those in my life that don't understand. They see depression as something one self diagnoses when there isn't a logical explanation in sight. Some say, "eat better, work out!" And those things do work, when you are mainting a good stretch..but getting to that good feeling is the hard part. The part where you get up off your ass and walk around the block, or put down the cheeseburger, because hey, you are slowly killing yourself.
But there are people like my sisters and my childhood best friend that are proud of how far I have come in this battle. And it is a battle. There are times where I want to scream at god, and demand to know why I can't process life like "normal" people. But I am learing as I grow older, there is no NORMAL. There is just surviving. We are all clinging to our own Titanic doors in the ocean, aren't we? Fuck Jack, blow the whistle and save yourself!
This is so very hard to put out there in the universe, but I read a news article today that crushed my heart.
A grandmother picked up her two grandbabies (2 years, 6 mos) from daycare and shot them and then herself. They were found in their car this morning. The family commented that the grandmother had suffered from bi-polar and other mental illnesses throughout her life. These two beautiful boys, one of them looks way too much like my own two year old son, snatched from the world. Once again, I am facing those fears and pain that as a parent, you don't let your brain enterain. I think of the excitement these baby boys must have felt when their grandma came to get them early from daycare, and my heart actually hurts. It was the two year old's birthday, and they were going to go home and open presents.
There are no words, just heartache. I can't believe how much pain I feel over this situation. I am floored that I am fighting back tears. As I read this article in a room full of people, I had to choke down a muffled sob. These babies trusted their grandma, but she didn't trust herself. And if she had reached out to someone and said, "you know what, this week is rough, I need help", maybe that boy would be opening his gifts right now.
I truly believe an open dialog is crucial to this world having compassion and empathy for those struggling with their emotions, and their mental well-being.
I remember when I had my second child, I was in the hospital and elated about the birth of our beautiful son. For one moment, I foolishly thought I had beat the post partum gods at their own game. I was feeling euphoric. I believed I had won, and I could enjoy the precious few months of a new baby without feeling like I was dying inside...
Then, I swear I could actually feel the dark clouds rolling in....I actually looked over at my husband, tears streaming down my face and said, "It's happening, the sadness...it's here" and started to sob...
The first time I was pregnant I didn't want to research the idea of post partum depression, even though with my history, it was a very real possibility. I wanted to enjoy my pregnancy, and my baby girl. But this tide of depression was too strong, and I succumbed to the sadness. It was a very challenging six months. My husband actually brought it to my attention the first time, that I could possible be suffering post-partum depression. Ironically, the flags that went up for him was the fact that I was too calm, too robotic with the baby. I did seek help, but it was hard trying to hold myself up, and trying to make my husand understand what I was going through...
But I learned, and I am still working on it....realizing that people don't have to understand your hell, they just have to be there to support you. I just needed him to provide extra TLC. With our second child, when the black clouds rolled in, he paced the maternity ward floors with me for an hour until I could stop sobbing. I promptly threw up my dinner, which is disappointing because the hospital food was actually good! The point is, he held me, and asked me "what do you need?". He didn't shake his head and make faces like "oh here she goes again". He sat there and listened.
This is a poor comparison, but one that drives the point home for me (so bear with me). My drug of choice has always been food. If I want it bad enough, I will find it and I will eat the offending piece of food. I will find a way to get my greedy hands on the gold. If someone is so far gone, and they want to hurt someone, they WILL FIND A WAY. We can take away the right to bear arms, but they will find a knife, or a shovel...whatever. We have to treat the source of the problem, grow the fuck up and take on mental illness with the same passion as we do with aids or cancer. It is an illness, and people are dying. Innocent people are dying.
Those little boys should be home in their moma's arms.
No comments:
Post a Comment