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.