progress.

note: this was initially drafted on march 27, 2017. but i guess i was shy about the stigma of mental health. and decided not to click publish. instead of being shy about my struggles, i think it's time to be more open about it. i'll write a recap of where my mental health journey is at today. but first, my beginning. 

I used to write. I may have actually been good at it.

Not anymore.

Now, writing takes time. A luxury I don’t have much of. But if I’m being perfectly honest, I can’t use the ‘I don’t have time’ crutch, because I’m writing now, aren’t i?

I just don’t want to. Or I do want to, but can’t bring myself to do it. Because I lack the energy. 

Motivation. Courage.

I’ve just been tired. Not ‘the kids kept me up again’ tired, because really, they’re not too bad in that department. I’m emotionally tired. Zapped. Drained.

Today, I’m depressed. I didn’t think I was depressed. I knew I was right after max was born, because when I think back on my itty bitty baby days of maternity leave, it’s all a big anxious, dreary blur.

But I thought the sads went away. And were replaced with the worries with a vengeance. Anxiety. She’s a bitch, man. I’m stubborn. And would rather dedicate my time and energy to worry about everyone and everything but myself. But apparently 10.5 months is the exact amount of time my psyche could handle until I nearly broke in half.  And finally saw my doctor.

My OB was worried. An edinburg score of 16. She thought I might hurt myself because I admitted that I had a fleeting thought of throwing myself in front of the red line once. I wasn’t really going to do it, of course, and several other people I’ve confided these dark gaunty thoughts to admit they’ve thought the same at one time or another. No one would actually do it, of course. But, it’s a passing thought. I admitted it. And my doctor admitted me to a psychiatrist.

Well, not exactly. 

She had her nurse hold me hostage in their office until we finally made an appointment for me to see a shrink the following Monday. This was on a Thursday. And we had to call (fourteen!) different behavioral health doctors before one could finally see me. And I have the ‘good’ insurance. So. Yeah, they make it really easy for us ‘crazy’ people.

My doctor wrote me a prescription for Zoloft. To help with the anxiety. 

I get really tense, now. My shoulders, neck, all of it. Feels like I’m constantly battling electricity in my veins and so I’m always super tensed up. My teeth, too. I clench my jaw. My dentist informed me I’ve clenched and ground my teeth so much that I have two new holes in my bottom molars. I have to wear a mouth guard now. So that’s cool.

My cuticles were gone, too. These physical symptoms were the catalyst I needed to get my head out of my ass and seek help. That, and, I was sick of always feeling scared. And sad. And shaky. And I wanted to be a fun, engaged mom and not a recluse.

I don’t like talking on the phone. I never have. But now it’s a battle to even respond to, let alone initiate, a text message. Even from my favorite people. As a result, I’ve kind of disappeared and have started to burn some social bridges. And I don’t even care.  That’s not me. I’ve always been a bit of a social butterfly. Sure, I’ve also long mastered the resting bitch face as a mechanism for diverting awkward conversations, but now I feel like it’s my permanent disguise. And If it went away, everyone would just see a shuddering, sobbing mess. the real me.

My hormones have gone wild. I LOVE my family. My kids and husband. They ground me. Humble me. Keep me sane. When I get a case of the worries, it’s not about things involving them or things that make sense to worry about – like Holden’s 18^th cold in a month. Or a car insurance payment. Or a work project. 

But instead – I nearly collapsed into the panic attack of all panic attacks when I was unable to decide on whether or not to get a haircut. I forgot how to speak when the teen at chipotle asked me to repeat my order. I couldn’t sleep for nearly a week when deliberating whether or not to buy two or four new pillows at land’s end (which by the way, when I finally decided to rip the band-aid and treat myself, they were on back order – but neglected to tell me, so I anxiously spent a week convinced that someone was stealing my mail until my mom called to check on the order number and find out they weren’t coming).

My head never stops. It just circles and loops and I tense up and I shake. And I tell myself, it’s normal, you got this, it’ll slow down.

But it hasn’t. and it's nearly been a year.

I’ve been on my medication, albeit a small dose, (because – breastfeeding, which by the way, my supply has shriveled up to sand and I’m milking myself (literally) in vain for hours every day for maybe? 3 ounces? Because ‘breast is best’ but really I should just give the kid the damn formula). 

But the meds – see how I can’t finish sentences? Because my thoughts just run away on me? I’ve been on them for 11 days now. I’m supposed to start feeling it 2-3 weeks in, fully feel it 6-8 weeks. And I do feel them. 

A little bit.

I’m thirsty ALL the time. Can’t get enough water. I was sleepy the first few days I started, so now I take them at bedtime. Yesterday, I had a great day with my family. And the day before that, I had motivation and energy to sort and organize our house and tackled some big projects. Felt really good to get back in my old ‘get shit done’ groove.

But today – I’m just empty. I’m sad, but not anxious. I could probably start crying if I thought about crying in no time. But then I wouldn’t stop. I have nothing to be sad about. 

Dear god I’m so thirsty.

I’ve been thinking in my head how I should write about this struggle, document it. Maybe others can relate to it and it will help other people realize they’re not alone like I thought I am/was. I’ve got good friends. I’ve got family. I can talk to people. I know they care. But I’m not worth it. Not really, anyway. And what do I say? I have electricity and everything hurts. I’m in pain. ??? nah. 

I just. Am. Here.

And I’m a mom. I’m a GOOD mom. That’s why I’m on medication and seeing a psychiatrist. The doctor hinted at some long buried emotional baggage.

No shit, Sherlock. But I ain’t got time to dig all out all them bones.

So I’m writing. And taking pictures of myself. ‘selfies.’ Not the duckface cute angled ones, though. The ones where I’m sad. And honest. And baring myself in reality. With the hope that over time, the smile will be genuine and I’ll see myself again, and not this shell of a mother with a hidden struggle.

That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.

I’m getting there, I think. It’s only day 11. I’m trying to make strides towards rebuilding myself and then I can focus on finding joy in what I once did, including social interactions.

I think I’ll start with this absurdly huge bag of easter candy.