Depression Hurts

First of all, thank you to everyone who reached out to me after my last few posts. It really does make a huge difference to know I'm not alone, that this thing doesn't have to be an unknown monster. And that, even if they've never experienced it themselves, people are rooting for me to beat it.

So, what is "it"? I think it is actually really helpful to put into words what depression is to me, and what it's like to live inside that hole, for me.

When I think about depression, I think of the commercial with the tagline "depression hurts" and in particular, the woman in the robe with crazy bedhead in the middle of the day. And I think of sadness - that's what depression is, right? Sadness? And sleeping all the time? And contemplating/attempting suicide?

As it turns out, yes, that is what depression is, but that's not the only way it looks.

For me, the biggest symptom was a very profound sense of apathy. I just could not motivate myself to do much of anything. I would sit at work and stare at the computer screen, not really doing anything. And then I would leave work and go home, eat dinner with my family, hurry the kids to bed, and pass out on the couch at 8:30. I would want to get something done - working a bit more from home, cleaning my house, working on a craft or sewing project - but I could not get myself up to do it.

All of this led to an incredible sense of failure. I felt like I was doing nothing well. Certainly not working well, staring at the screen. Not being a good mother, distracted and dismissive. Not being a good wife, essentially ignoring my husband in favor of sleep. I wasn't really sad, I think, I was just unhappy. And tired. If someone asked how things are going - you know, like you ask your friends all the time - my answer was always negative. "Ugh, life is so busy" or "work is really crazy" or "I feel like I'm running on fumes." This is very much not me. I'm almost always looking through rose colored glasses.

I remember clearly sitting in a room with a few women with whom I am very close, telling them about whatever happened to be going on at the time, and saying I felt that my life is made up of a bunch of buckets, and every single bucket felt empty. Not a single area of my life felt good anymore.

I didn't feel particularly sad, but I certainly wasn't happy. At times, in fact, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel. I wasn't sure how to relate to people or care about what was going on in their lives. And that included my own family. I was completely engulfed in myself. I knew something was terribly wrong, but I couldn't figure out how to make it right. I began searching desperately for a way out of the hole I was in. I thought about changing things drastically - starting my own business, finding a new job, moving across the country, even moving across the ocean. I know now I was trying to run away, and none of that would have made anything better, not really. Nothing external could have eased my internal struggle with myself.

The most difficult part to admit - the part which still causes me to struggle with shame and a bit of fear, but is probably the most important of all to admit - is that I reached the point of wondering what would happen if I died. Would anyone care? How long would it take people to move on? I wasn't really actually planning to do anything to harm myself, at least I didn't think so, especially not at first, but I began to get curious, in a very detached and intellectual way, about how I might end my own life. I would think, "What would happen if... " And then I got fixated on one idea. Got over that, and then got fixated on another. And now I know, that isn't healthy. And it scares me how far I got without realizing that, how long it took me to be able to confess to anyone, even myself, what was going on in my head. Honestly, it made me afraid to do very normal everyday things related to those ideas (still does sometimes). I was (and sometimes still am) afraid that I might have those thoughts again and not be able to stop them.

Once I broke down and finally saw my depression for what it was, I finally understood what was going on. I put the pieces together and figured out why so much of this darkness was creeping in on me. And I learned how to get better. And I am. It has been a long road, and I'm nowhere near the end, but I'm making progress. I'm helped immensely by medication, by my therapist, by my amazing husband, and my dear, dear friends. I am so fortunate, so blessed, to be so supported.

Let me just say: if you're not feeling like yourself, seek help. Even if you think you're just being dramatic (you're probably not), it's so much better to ask and not need it than to need it and not ask. Just talk to someone. And know that you're not alone. And for heaven's sake, if you're seriously thinking of ways you might end your own life, even if you don't think you're actually going to do anything about it, it still counts as "contemplating suicide" and you should get help ASAP. Like, now. Like, immediately. Like, don't wait until tomorrow or next week or whatever. (Rant over.)

That's what depression is for me. And, while it doesn't result in bedhead and a bathrobe at 2:00 in the afternoon for me, it does hurt. And the healing hurts. And the confession hurts. But, Lord, it helps to know I'm not alone, to think that sometime someone might read this post like I read K's, and call her doctor. (Please do that).

Anyway. Hopefully, now that that's all on the table, I can start to blog again about more normal things... I hope.

I hope.

Weird things about postpartum period that no one ever told me (or, things I figured out the hard way)

(Don't worry - I'll keep it PG. Because I'm nowhere near anonymous on this blog and there are tender eyes that read it.)

1. It takes a long time to get your body back after you have a baby. It's possible, but it takes a while. You lose a ton of weight right away, (to the point of thinking, wow at this rate I'll be back in skinny jeans by the time she's 2 months old!) but then it plateaus just as quickly. Even after you lose the weight, well, things are distributed differently. We'll leave it at that.

2. Also - your hair and nails will be beautiful during pregnancy. But don't worry, all good things come to an end, right? You will shed. Fistfuls of hair. It's disgusting. And those beautiful nails will very quickly revert to being no match for your teeth.

3. That whole "sleep when the baby sleeps" thing kinda works - for the first kid. With the second baby, you've got a toddler to keep eyes on - NOT conducive to sleep. If you're interested in being a decent parent. (Although if I am completely exhausted I have been known to cuddle Eden on the couch, turn on the TV, and snooze. Mom of the Year.)

4. Breastfeeding - while beautiful and natural and really amazing - can be really hard to figure out. And, yes, it's painful at first. It is toe-curling pain at first. And then there's the accompanying uterine contractions, which are also terrible. But, yes, it gets better! In fact, it gets painless. You figure out the latch, your uterus shrinks back down to its normal size. It gets awesome.


5. There is nothing in the world like seeing your baby loved on by her Daddy. That hasn't faded yet, even with the three-year-old.

6. There is nothing in the world like seeing your baby loved on by her big sister. I'm pretty sure that one won't get old either.

7. Cleanliness standards are dramatically lowered when you have a baby. Spit-up, pee, and even, occasionally, poop are suddenly acceptable substances on clothing worn in public.


8. Night sweats. They happen.

9. Everyone has an opinion, and you're bombarded with information, but the best thing to do is to take it in, and then listen to yourself. Your intuition is awesome, I promise, if you can listen hard enough for it.

10. You will be a blubbering mess for at least 10 days after your baby's birth. Dropped a paci? Tears. Sappy commercial? Tears. Painful breastfeeding? Tears. Baby sleeping and beautiful? Tears. Baby crying? Tears. Nothing at all happening that would evoke any sort of emotion from a sane person? Tears.

11. This is the most amazing thing ever. And as much as you love her now, you will love her a million times more every single day. It only gets better.

The Diagnosis, Part 2

(Part 1 is here)

It was incredibly hard to admit to myself and anyone else that I was depressed. I felt like such a failure. I replayed over and over again in my head so many those people saying "I don't know how you do it all" and the pride I felt in thinking, I really am doing it all. And now, here I was, having to admit that in reality, I couldn't.

[Aside: It's funny how mental illness is like that - we all too often see it as a weakness or a failure in a person, not as a condition. I wouldn't think it was my own weakness as a human being which caused a broken leg! No - I'd go to the doctor, get a cast, and let my bone heal. And in reality, that's what I am doing now - treating a broken physical part of me. It's just a lot more complicated. And for the most part, I'm learning, people don't talk about it. It's so taboo in part because people don't talk about it, and people don't talk about it because it's taboo. Once I started treatment, though, people came out of the woodwork from all parts of my life, saying "me too" - people I never would have expected - and it helped so immensely to know I was not alone. (This is also why I feel the need to put my story into words. I think it is awful that something like this can be at once so pervasive and so isolating.)]

Even though it was painful, in some ways, having such a clear diagnosis was a relief. Here was something with a name, something that is a thing, and it's not just me sucking at life. And here was something for which there is a plan. Something I could overcome. I could take concrete steps to get out of this pit.

I could get better.

I took a week and a half of medical leave from work in early June (with a note from my doctor citing an unspecified "medical condition" - I decided it was nobody's business what that condition was). I unplugged completely. No email, nothing. I felt really guilty about that. Like I was making a mountain of a molehill. Just suck it up, I told myself. And then I remembered that my brain was broken and couldn't be trusted, that everyone else in my life, including my doctor, believed that this was best for me, and took the time off anyway. It was fantastic. Bryan and the girls were all still in school, and I spent most of the week biking along the Charles River, doing yoga, reading, writing, sewing, sleeping (with limits set by my doctor - I didn't want to spend the whole week sinking further down), and having lunch with a couple of close friends. Bryan took a day off too and we spent the entire day together, wandering around downtown, having a fancy seafood lunch, shopping, and talking. It was perfect.

I knew that medication and a week and a half of medical leave weren't going to be enough, though. I got here somehow, and I needed to unwind whatever wound to get me here. My doctor recommended a therapist who, when I called her, said she was not taking new patients but recommended three others. I wrote them down on a Post-It note on my desk at work and stared at it for a week. Deciding which one to call seemed impossible. Picking up the phone and dialing it seemed impossible. Talking to someone I didn't know seemed impossible. Eventually, though, I just called the first name on the list, got an appointment that week, and started a course of therapy.

As it turns out, that first therapist turned out to be perfect; I honestly believe that God put those three names in that order for this purpose, so I would connect with her. It went really well from the beginning, and we've been through twists and turns throughout my tumultuous childhood and adolescence, Eden's burns, and oh Lord, I am so thankful I had this treatment plan, this therapist, already in place for what would turn out to be an extremely difficult year, during which many times I very nearly fell right back into the pit I had just begun to claw myself out of. And the clawing has been very painful. At times, I leave her office and I barely know where I am, or even who I am. I have learned I need to decompress for at least a half hour afterward. We have been digging deep into parts of myself I buried long ago and haven't really touched since, and it is so hard. There is stuff there I thought was dead and gone forever, dealt with on my own and tidied up, bursting from the ground like a zombie. There is stuff I didn't even realize was so painful, caused so much wreckage. It really, really sucks to unpack it all. Many times I've found myself sobbing a puddle of tears in her office after opening another box of my baggage, her voice reassuring me, her own face streaming tears. Yes, it's hard. Sometimes I don't want to do it anymore. But I know it is right. I know it is helping. I know I will get better.

I still believe my children deserve a mother - me, their own mother - who is present, engaged, able to function and love them in a way my own mother wasn't. And Bryan deserves a wife who is a partner, a friend, a teammate, a confidante, a lover. This fight is still about them, but it is no longer only about them. It's about me, too. I want to crawl out for my own sake. I can be a better wife, mother, friend, lawyer... but I can also be a better self, and I can believe I am lovable, love myself, and recognize that above all, God loves me.

And that, in itself, is progress.

I will get better.

I am getting better. 

The Diagnosis

In this post I referred to

"a diagnosis that surprised me, yet was expected, rocked me, yet was a strange sort of relief. I have been drafting a post in my head since this summer about it. I'll eventually write it down, but I am not quite ready yet. I'm still rocking a bit too hard with it. (I promise, there is no need to worry, it's not that big a deal - it just rocked me.)"

It is very hard to write this down. It seems silly, I know, and in some ways probably seems like not a huge deal (I'm not dying or anything), but it's a Really Big Deal for me. It's hard to write about, to make public like this.

In May 2013 I realized I was depressed. Not the "oh, I am so depressed because NBC cancelled Up All Night" kind of depression (although - really - I loved that show), but real, clinical, "is my life really worth living" depression. I read a blog post in which a woman lawyer I'd followed for a while described very honestly her experience with depression, and I thought, I think that's me. I told Bryan I thought I might be depressed and he suggested I call my doctor. I didn't.

Then one Monday night a couple of weeks later, I got upset about something very, very small and very, very stupid and I... lost it. I'm not sure how to describe what happened, other than I sort of... snapped. Something in me broke, and it was awful. I cried so hard I almost hyperventilated. I actually wished I could hyperventilate. I couldn't speak, I couldn't pray, I couldn't even control my own thoughts for more than a second or two, and my own internal voice turned against me, calling me a failure, a terrible wife, mother, friend, and lawyer, and completely unlovable, and saying I was just like my mother - crazy. I was literally curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth, shaking my head "no", and I couldn't stop. I was just hoping I would pass out. Eventually it all slowed down and I was able to lie down, Bryan rubbing my back and praying aloud, and I calmed down and fell asleep. But it was embarrassing, and absolutely terrifying.

Tuesday morning I called my doctor. We talked through the PHQ-9, the screening tool doctors use for making an initial diagnosis of depression. It was immediately clear I was depressed, and if I had been entirely honest it would have been even more apparent and even alarming. I didn't even realize then how bad really it was. My doctor told me the diagnosis - the one I was expecting, but still so, so afraid of - and scheduled an appointment right away.

I was immediately given a prescription for an antidepressant. That first pill was so hard to take. I stared at that bottle for a long, long time, sitting on the couch and trying to deny that I needed it. I didn't want to become my mother (who has been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder), and I kept feeling guilty for causing such a fuss when I really wasn't all that bad (I realize now I was wrong about this). I finally opened the bottle, took out a pill, and stared at that for a while, willing myself to take it and at the same time begging myself not to. It just felt like taking that medication would make it real, final, undeniable. Finally, I had a soft, fuzzy and somewhat blurred thought - my kids deserve to have a mother - me, their own mother - who is present, engaged, positive, and able to function and love them in a way my mother was never able to. If this little pill would help me become that person, I would take it, for them. Every day for a thousand years if I needed to. So... down the hatch.

More to come.