If you look over my old posts, you'll notice that I went almost a year without writing anything here. It's not that I didn't have anything to say or anything to write about or even that I was too busy to sit down and write things out. I was struggling big time with my mental health and I just didn't have it in me to physically, mentally, or emotionally do anything but survive.
I'd like to blame this bout of depression on the pandemic, but the truth of the matter is that I've been dealing with it off and on since high school. I was just really good at hiding it. I've been medicated since high school and the few times I'd fall into the trap of depression, it only lasted a few days and then I'd "come out of it". This last time was different and, truthfully, it scared me. There is so much more to it than what I’m writing here, but I just don’t have adequate words to describe what those few months were like.
Outwardly, I was the same as always. Smiling and saying good morning to all my daycare families every day, playing with the kids, laughing and joking, posting stupid silly stuff on Facebook, being my normal "find the silver lining" self. I was dying on the inside and hiding it amazingly well. So well that even my husband had no idea and to this day doesn't know how bad it was. And it went on for months before I even realized how bad it was myself. I'd find myself zoning out while washing the dishes, staring out the window at nothing while the water ran. I couldn't bring myself to do simple tasks like straightening up the house or doing the laundry, and instead of doing anything about it I'd just tell Scott that we had a busy day and I just didn't have the time to do it all. I either felt extreme sadness, overwhelm, feelings that I was a horrible wife, mother, and friend...or I felt nothing at all. And I don't know which was worse. It's a strange and scary thing to realize that you're not feeling like you used to. All the things that I used to look forward to and that brought me so much joy were just things to get through. Buying the kids' Halloween costumes, Christmas shopping, all the little traditions that we've enjoyed during the holidays for so many years. I was there but I wasn't there. Most days, getting through the day was literally my only goal.
I ran on autopilot--get the kids online for school, wash dishes, make lunch, change diapers. I was doing the absolute bare minimum and it was taking everything in me to just do that. I spent little to no quality time with my husband and blamed it on the fact that our youngest suddenly refused to sleep in his own bed during the pandemic, and would only sleep with me in my bed. He'd be ready to go to bed around 7:30pm and I'd go up with him, most of the time leaving Scott to spend the rest of the night alone on the couch. I'd spend a good chunk of the time staring at my phone, stuck in my own head, and falling asleep absurdly early. I stopped doing all the things that I normally enjoy. Reading is literally my favorite thing to do but I just couldn't. I didn't have the attention span and I couldn't find enjoyment in it like I used to. I couldn't write something if you were holding a gun to my head. There was a voice in my head 24/7 telling me that I was a terrible mother, a shitty wife, a disappointment to everyone around me, and it wouldn't stop. When I say that surviving the day was my only goal, I'm not exaggerating.
I started drinking way more than I normally do. I feel like that's such a cliche, but it's the truth. As soon as my last daycare kid left, I was in the kitchen mixing a strong drink. I used the excuse that it was a long, hard day but the truth of it is that the buzz was the only time I felt anything less than miserable. There wasn't that voice in my head screaming at me that I was neglecting my husband, neglecting the house, neglecting the kids, being a shitty person. Smiling and laughing came more easily. I was a better mother when I drank. I had more patience with the kids, I gave better advice, I listened better. I didn't feel so bad about being such a shitty wife (and, my God, I really was a piss poor excuse for a partner) and I was able to convince myself for a little while that all married couples have these little blips when they've been together as long as we have. I didn't feel good, but I didn't feel bad and that was okay with me. At one point, after I'd sent Scott to the liquor store more times than any person not throwing a wild party should, he jokingly said "You good? I feel like you have a problem." I remember getting annoyed with him and turning it around on him. "Why would you ask me that? One drink is not 'having a problem'. I thought you liked it when I was a little loose. You think I'm drinking too much, fine. I'll never do it again", I lied while adding a splash of cranberry juice to my Grey Goose/Malibu mix. I snapped at him and tried to turn it around and make him think he was being ridiculous and the one in the wrong when, truthfully, there was a 2 month period where I didn't go to bed sober.
I distinctly remember the moment when I realized that maybe I needed more help. I had just gone upstairs (to take my bra off because there's no better feeling at the end of a long day, am I right?), and Scott was playing "The Monster Game" with the kids. I walked down the stairs and stopped just before the landing and I heard them all screaming and laughing while they played. They were having so much fun. I can still remember the feeling of the cool wood bannister I had my hand resting on and I stood there and thought "They'll be okay. They'll be totally fine without me". It was a fleeting thought, one that just whooshed uncontrollably and completely unbidden through my mind and I don't want to be dramatic but it scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I called my family doctor as soon as the office opened the next morning.
Walking into that office and saying "I'm having a really hard time and I think I need help" was easily one of the most uncomfortable and scary things I've done in awhile (when I called to make the appointment I told the receptionist that I just needed a check-up). I'm not one to pour my feelings out or to want to talk through my problems. I tend to stay bottled up in my own head and rarely ask for or admit that I need help. It was awkward and embarrassing and I kind of wondered if maybe I was blowing things out of proportion. By the time I left that appointment, I had a prescription for new meds, orders to talk to a therapist, and another appointment scheduled in three weeks to see how everything was going.
It took a few different prescription changes and quite a few weeks before I started to feel better than I had. Not good, but better than I was, and that's enough for me for now. I still struggle with depression and self loathing and I'm pretty sure I always will, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was and I'm so glad I made that uncomfortable and awkward phone call to my doctor.
Publishing this post is insanely uncomfortable for me, but I feel like there's this stigma surrounding mental health that makes those of us struggling with it feel embarrassed and like we need to keep quiet, and it shouldn't be that way. We're still good parents and spouses, and we're still fully capable of being valuable and productive members of society. We just need a little help sometimes. Everyone does sometimes, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with it.
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| My daily cocktail...no shame |