Stop!

Earlier this year when I first started to blog about my experience with depression, a friend reached out to me. She was sick and I could tell. She had sought counseling and while it was helping, it wasn’t completely fixing the problem.  I encouraged her to talk with her OB about medication the next time she went in for a checkup. She explained to me that her husband was not on board with drug therapy because she was pregnant. I didn’t go into detail, but explained that I had taken antidepressants when I was pregnant with Patton and he was fine.

While I tried to gently encourage her to at least be honest with her doctor, my mind rushed back to the time I was first diagnosed and treated for depression. I was about 6 months pregnant with my second child and my then husband was openly having an affair. To say I was depressed was a complete understatement. After being pressed by a concerned friend, I made an appointment with my midwife to talk about how I was feeling. She acted as if she heard this all the time and simply wrote me a script for Zoloft, explaining it was completely safe for my baby.  I filled the prescription and went home.

But I didn’t take the medication. I could not wrap my mind around how this tiny half a pill was going to change my station in life. It just didn’t make sense that this little anecdote would help me find the strength to get out of bed every day or to have the desire to play with my three year old. So I waited. I waited and waited until one day, I found myself with a razor blade in one hand and the phone on the edge of the tub as I tried to convince myself that if I picked up the phone quickly enough after making the cut, they would be able to get here quickly enough to save my baby. And in that moment, I truly thought my children would be better off without me and my obvious issues in their life.

Instead, I picked up the phone and called my friend who had encouraged me to seek help in the first place. She rushed over, burst into my bathroom and held me as I sobbed. When I finally calmed down, she walked over to the medicine cabinet, handed me a pill and a glass of water. She told me that her first instinct was to take me to the Emergency Room, but as a mom, she knew leaving my child would be the worst thing for me. She explained that she would be checking up on me regularly, making sure I was taking my medication and the next time she felt I was in danger, she would not hesitate to have me admitted.  She then sat with me until I fell asleep and called regularly to check up on me over the next few days.

Over the next few days, the fog began to lift from my brain. Things became clearer to me & I couldn’t even remember what on earth had made me feel that my children would have ever been better off without me, because I knew that was simply not true.

After reliving those days in my mind, I became angry with her husband & posed a question. I asked, “If you had diabetes and your doctor prescribed insulin, would he ask you not to take it? Would he assume that if you just tried harder, you could overcome it?”  She said without hesitation that he would certainly want her to get the help she needed.

Then why oh why was this situation any different? It isn’t.

So why do so many people feel justified in telling someone with depression or anxiety to just “stop”? Leaving us to feel that if we just tried harder we wouldn’t feel the way we do. Don’t they realize we want that more than anything?  No one wants to be reliant on medication in order to live a normal life.

So, I am going to ask for something from you. Stop standing in the way of those seeking help. Stop posting on Facebook about how you don’t believe in the use of Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors (SSRIs), the most commonly prescribed form of antidepressant. Please don’t be yet another hurdle in someone’s path to seeking help. Be part of the solution, not another part of the world that has made us feel inadequate to begin with.

Here's the Truth: She Wasn't Fine

Sometimes, I think to myself “Gosh, Tonyia, you really need to write about something a little more upbeat.”  And then I remember that what I say each week is important. Not because I am important, but because everyone’s story is different and has the power to speak to a distinctive audience.

Last week I went over to visit a friend who was having a rough day. She was depressed, but making excuses as to why she wasn’t.  She kept saying I’m fine, I’m fine.

Here’s the truth: She wasn’t fine. She was full of reasons why she didn’t need help, but I could see the pain in her eyes. She may have been able to fool her husband and other friends, but not me. Looking into her eyes was like staring into my own.

We sat and talked for a while. Then she said something that sent shivers down my spine: “I would never kill myself because my kids would probably find me and then they would be more f’d up than they already are.” She went on to tell me that she had been in her closet at some point with a belt around her neck, afraid. Not afraid of death though, afraid that she would “f” that up too “just like everything else”.

Notice that she didn’t say she wouldn’t kill herself because she had too much to live for or because she wasn’t suicidal. She didn’t want her kids to find her.  In her mind, because her household responsibilities were being met, she wasn’t really depressed. I mean, how could I be truly depressed if I do continue to take care of my day-to-day responsibilities?

The part of this story my sweet friend doesn’t know is how our conversation that day opened my eyes.  I realized that I get out of bed everyday because I have to wake my son for school. Many days, once he is up and moving, I bury myself under the blankets and sleep a few more hours. One day this week, he sent me a text from the bathroom telling me he was going to need a ride. (Yes, sometimes my kids text me from the bathroom). I really, really had hoped to sleep longer that morning.

After I brought him to school, I ran some errands and found myself at Home Depot.  I was not happy to be there by 730.  At that time of day, no one looks at me like I somehow got lost on the way to Macy’s and ended up there by mistake.  I didn’t spend 20 minutes looking for the perfect 1×4, I didn’t gaze endlessly at the power tools making a mental wish list, nor did I play in the bins of nuts and bolts.  That was the moment I realized that something wasn’t right and reached out for help.

This morning, I got a text from a friend that reminded me of the scariest truth about depression: most people with depression are able to hold it together until the day they aren’t.

For a woman in California, yesterday was the day she had to stop pretending everything was okay. Earlier this month, she had been at a football game: laughing, carrying on & having a good time. She was pretending, the way so many of us do. She was either too ashamed to speak out or was not aware of how close to the edge she was.  She took her own life, leaving behind a family who will probably never understand why this happened.  A husband who will question himself and why he couldn’t see his wife needed help. This is a pain that no spouse should ever have to endure.

So here is what I say to you: Don’t make the mistake of pretending everything is okay for so long, you almost believe it yourself. Carrying that burden is exhausting. Hiding what is really inside can be suffocating, tricking your mind into thinking there is only one choice left for you.  Please reach out. Talk to someone. Call someone. The National Suicide Prevention Hotline (800.273.8255) has someone available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Visit their website or pick up the phone.  Leave a message here and I will do my very best to find you the resources you need in your area.

Please don’t suffer alone. Help is out there. You just have to ask.

Struggling Through the Valley

Because Dave is deployed, I (like most spouses without family close by) feel like my circle of friends has become my family. We eat meals together and we help each other out with things our spouse would normally help out with. We just are there for one another. As the months go by though, I feel like tensions are high for everyone and just like family, we get on each other’s nerves, we get frustrated, we hurt feelings, we argue, and we lash out. Well, since it isn’t really fair to say what other people do, it’s time to own it: I do all of those last things.

Something happened last week that has left me once again feeling left out and on the outside of the circle. A friend asked me to help her with something: to do a favor for her. No problem—I am always happy to help out a friend. I stopped by her house and noticed the spread she had laid out. I jokingly said “Are ya having a party or what?” She replied, “Oh just having some people over for dinner,” and then proceeds to list some mutual friends she had invited over. I tried to hide my hurt, but I am not sure I did a good job. I mean, what the heck: I can be your helpful friend, but not your hungry friend?

Don’t get me wrong; I understand that you can’t always invite everyone to everything. I have talked many friends down from their “why wasn’t I invited, nobody likes me, I’m not really part of the group” pity party. Rational me totally understands that it was not meant to be hurtful. But the truth is, I am not very rational right now. I’m struggling and unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop and change how it rotates just because I have found myself in a funk.

Admitting my depression, anxiety and ADHD was a very difficult step for me to make. Working through it has been a long road and a few months ago, when I finally felt I was better, truly felt like one of the best days of my entire life (read more about that HERE). So, you can imagine how tough it is for me to admit that I am not doing okay anymore.

And apparently that funk has become noticeable enough for my husband to ask if I was still taking my medication. Followed immediately by an “I hope I didn’t offend you, I’m just worried” email. No worries, I’m still medicated.  While I appreciate his concern, worrying him is the absolute last thing I want to do. But if the last year has taught me anything it is that I can’t hide the way I feel. I cannot be ashamed of my struggles. I have to lay them on the table, talk about them and figure out how to move forward.

But the truth of the matter is this: life is full of ups and downs. We must struggle through valleys, places where we yearn for something better, fighting our way out of the darkness. If it was easy, I know I certainly wouldn’t appreciate the beauty of the mountaintop once I finally got there.