When Suicide Makes Sense

Where is that light at the end of the tunnel that everyone talks about?

I don’t believe it exists.

Every day I wake up wondering why I’m even here. 

I know people love me. I know people care.

 But the fact is that I don’t care.

I don’t see a hope in the years or even months to come- what is there?  I mean people ask what they can do to help. But what does helping do, really? It just prolongs the torture of living another day, just filling it with distractions- but they don’t turn off the thoughts in my head. I can’t sleep unless I stare at a screen until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

So I ask- why is it at all worth it?

….

I wrote that on November 28th, in an attempt to write a blog post all about when suicide makes sense to someone with a mental illness. However, I found that writing these words were too scary for me to share with the world. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to try because I felt overwhelmed, isolated, and I couldn’t see any light or any hope of a future where there wasn’t anything but unbearable pain.

I told Richard this. I cried when I told him I had started looking up ways to end my life. I told him about how tempting it was to jump off the nearest bridge or step in front of a speeding bus. Anything that would be quick and fast, and, hopefully, painless because I was already drowning in indescribable mental pain.

I was sleeping during the day. I would go to bed at 4 am and woke up around 4 pm only to sit and play the same four phone games over and over again, distracting myself from feeling anything. If I did something like made dinner, or bake, it was a rare and mostly out of obligation because I said I would. I hardly interacted with my son and for a while I didn’t want him to feel the pain I did and felt that taking him out of this miserable existence that’s called life would be far kinder than letting him live with a broken mother.

This, my friends, is all emotional logic. When someone is in this state, they really are a danger to themselves, and in my case, a danger to others. I was too tired of trying and yet I was spending all of what little energy I had to find a way end my life. No, suicide isn’t rationally logical. It appears selfish, cruel, throwing all the love and support that our friends and family give us back in their face. 

 Because we are so stuck in our own heads and hurt so much that all we can see is the shadows of pain.

I did talk to my psychiatrist and I did agree that the best thing for me was to go to the emergency room.

So the next morning I went. I didn’t actually make it to the behavioral health unit until late afternoon, but I was there. The first group therapy meeting was all about optimism. And oh my gosh was that hard. Everything he was saying about staying optimistic, just letting things slide off you, find the happy. And it all just sounded so stupid. I didn’t want to listen, and yet a part of me really wanted to believe that what he was saying was true. I knew I was sitting on the emotional fence of do I give into the depression, or do I fight it. I admit it, I cried. Full on sobs, trying not to look at anyone in the eyes as I balled my eyes out. Of course I made the therapist in charge of the group think that he offended me in some way. He didn’t of course, it was just the conversation in my head of admitting whether or not I wanted to be stuck in a place where my hair matched the teal hospital scrubs they gave me.

I was anxious and scared and it was hard to fall asleep. I did sleep, for a little bit, maybe an hour or so, before I was wide awake all over again.

As I sat there, I realized I had no phone to distract me from the pain and the feelings I usually shove away and hide until they overwhelm me. I didn’t have a computer or a television or ipad to offer me an alternate universe where I could just hide. So I stared wide awake at my dim lights on my hospital ceiling and thought about why I was even there.

And then I felt it. Just a small tiny flicker of hope. Hope that I could get better. Hope that I wasn’t completely forgotten by my Heavenly Father, or what others may call the force of the universe. And I felt overwhelmed, but this time it was overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude that there was a safe place for me to go. Gratitude that I live in a time where mental illness is treated with understanding and respect by doctors, and not like an act of demonic possession. I was grateful for my husband and his understanding, support, and strength as he held my hand and brought me books to read while I worked on the icky that has been plaguing me for so long.

I now dub it my 3 AM epiphany. It was that moment in time where it felt like the weight of the world finally slipped off my shoulders and I could breathe light again. I could see that even though I was a mom who struggled with blaming my son for my mental condition (logically untrue, but still felt totally emotionally true), even though I tried to spend as little time as possible with him, he still smiled. He still made eye contact and crawled and pulls himself up and explores. He is a healthy and happy child despite my lack of being a “good” mother.

The phrase, “make your own definition of success” came to my mind and I thought about how the definition of perfect is always changing. But as a linguist and history major in training I remembered that in Hebrew the word perfect means complete. A complete person doesn’t have to look or talk, walk, dress, think, or act like another person. A complete person does the best they can, the best way they know how, and when they make mistakes they learn from them. That night I took the teeny tiny pencils they allowed us to have and wrote in big capital letters- FAIL and made this small sign that was proudly displayed in my room for the rest of my stay.

Fresh

Attempt

In

Learning

It was then I could finally go back to sleep. For the rest of the days I was in there we talked about the hard things, I made friends with everyone in the unit- nurses, techs, therapists, psychiatrists, and most of all my fellow patients. I just wanted to hug them all and tell them that they were loved and important- but it was hard to tell that and accept that myself.

To be honest, I filled most of my time with coloring, reading, therapy, and making paper cranes. I gave them to everyone reminding them that the crane was a symbol of good luck and made the analogy that sometimes we feel like a beat up piece of paper. We get folded and bent into awkward shapes, and sometimes pressed really hard, but then we find out that all those folds and presses were what made us into a beautiful crane.

I pray for those lovely people every day. I wish that I could heal the scars on their arms, still their anxious bodies so they can sleep, help them see the strength and power that they have to pull themselves out of their horrible living conditions. But I don’t have the mental health wand, sadly. So instead I told jokes, complimented them, and asked them to tell me stories- especially when I knew it brought out their brightest smiles.

Like one of the therapists said, “It’s kind of ironic for a person like me to be in there.”  But it’s not. Sometimes the people who are really good at making others feel good, don’t feel like they have a person like themselves that will help carry their burdens, help make them laugh, help them when they don’t believe that there is even a light in this stupid dark tunnel. So I got to read “The Gift of Imperfection” by Brene Brown.

So I happily did all my paperwork, ate my meals, socialized, went to all the group therapy sessions, and took my meds and four days later I came home.

But that’s not where the story ends.

See, day one of being back, I was good. I got a lot done. I made lunch and dinner. I took care of Corbin. I went and talked about my experience at the BHU and told him all about my 3 AM epiphany. I told him all of the things I was going to do to help keep me out of the rut I got stuck in.

But it’s now been a week since I’ve got home. Things have not gone according to plan. I still try 

every day, I find a whole lot more joy in things than I did two weeks ago, but oh man it is hard admitting that I’m still human.

I wanted to be fixed. I wanted to go back to my pre marriage life where I was in perfect condition for finishing school and going on to doing important things like teaching students, as well as being a good mom and wife. Yet as the week went on I found that though I have hope, I don’t know what I have hope in.

I didn’t answer these questions: “How will I feel like a successful person (not just a mom)?” “What am I supposed to do when I’m home alone with my son while Richard finds a job and finishes school?” “What is it exactly that I look forward to when I wake up every morning?”

In the BHU it’s easy to answer those questions because I saw it as a personal vacation to really reflect and recharge. So how will I feel like a success? My psychiatrist will tell me when it’s time to go home. What am I going to do when I get home? Love my son and husband. What do I look forward to every morning? Seeing my husband during visiting hours.

See? Easy.

But now that I am home and dealing with the reality that I felt way too overconfident in my capabilities of calling someone every day, doing chores around the house, taking care of my son, or address the icky yucky feelings and anxiety that weren’t really resolved.

So I sit. And I write. And I try to think through how I’m feeling and working on allowing myself to feel the icky without it needing to stick to me forever because other icky things might come by and be even ickier.

I would apologize that I didn’t have a happier note to end on. I wish that I could say that because of my 3 AM epiphany I finally was able to feel healed and move on. But that’s not how things work, at least not for me. It’s still taking life one day at a time, and some moments one hour at a time. 

Parenting and Depression

When you blame your child for your mental state, it’s really hard to talk about parenthood.

I know that my son is not at fault for the change in my hormones, my lack of interest in anything, my inability to concentrate, my lack of appetite, or my feelings of worthlessness. Those are all just symptoms of a much bigger issue that was triggered by pregnancy, not by the human that was created.

However, that still doesn’t stop the demons in my head telling me that if I had never been pregnant or had a baby, then I wouldn’t be so messed up.  It doesn’t stop me from hating myself for getting pregnant in the first place and hating my body for being so functionally feminine.

But you know what it does, it makes it really hard for me to really bond with my son. Sure, I play with him, feed him, sing him silly songs, read him stories- but I’d do that with any child. It’s the lack of concern I feel when I’m far away from him. It’s the frustration that I am just “the bringer of food” (since I don’t breastfeed anymore) to him. It’s the thought that if I had the option to just leave him and all his stuff on someone’s doorstep without any consequences, I totally would.

When I was asked by my doctor if I could take something off my plate, what would it be?

My answer was Motherhood.

I am not the individual that at the end of the day just knows without a doubt that they love their child/children. I am not the woman who thinks that my child “is my whole world” and “couldn’t think of what I’d ever do without him”. Trust me. I can totally think of all the things I would be doing without my son. And I am still convinced that I would be a lot healthier and happier if he didn’t exist.

And so I sit here. And I be the “best” parent I can be with the way my brain allows me to function right now. I take it one day at a time and lately one hour at a time. Because it wouldn’t be socially acceptable for me to leave him on a doorstep and just walk away. Because my family would probably hate me if one day my son was no longer there for them to coo at and play with. Because the world keeps reminding me that my son is supposed to be my “calling”, “blessing”, or “greatest joy that life can bring” (I hate all of those “inspirational” posts. They just make me angry). I won’t even go into the expectations of giving my son siblings (which if you’re going to poke your nose, the answer is: I didn’t know my sex life was any of your business.)

 So what is parenthood like when you can’t bring yourself to love your child? The demons in my head tell me that loving my child is admitting that I like being miserable. By loving my child I accept that my only role in life is being a successful statistic of female reproduction.

What parenthood looks like on the outside is just doing the basics- feed, change, put down for a nap, and repeat. On good days, there may be some songs and reading time. But on average he gets the basics and plays in his walker because I haven’t had the energy to baby proof the apartment. Perhaps one day we’ll have a good relationship. Until then, I do what I can so we both survive.

The hardest part is asking for help, because someone may have offered on a good mental day for me, but on the bad days, I just feel guilty- because the weight of responsibility is on my shoulders and I should be better than this. It’s hard asking for help because I don’t want to be so dependent on others that they feel like I take advantage of them. It’s hard because I don’t need people judging how bad of a mom I am, because I am already well aware of that, thank you. It’s so much easier to just let my son sit and scream in the other room (when he’s inconsolable after a changing, feeding, cuddling, and pain meds if he’s teething) while I blast my favorite music on headphones.

Perhaps one day we’ll have a good relationship. Until then, I do what I can so we both survive.

Mental Health Day

Today isn’t a good day, but it’s not necessarily a bad day either. It’s a day I’ve decided to treat as a mental health day because I didn’t want to have a panic attack on campus.

So what does that look like? What exactly do I mean?

It means that the illogical thoughts and feelings feel like truth to me.

Yesterday I had a son who just cried and cried and cried after being fed and changed and snuggled- hours of this mind you- not just 20 minutes. The crying agitated my anxiety of “I’m an inadequate mother.”  I didn’t get homework done – which agitated my anxiety of “oh no I’m going to get behind”. Combine that with asking for help so I can make dinner and receiving “ugh, I don’t want to but I’ll do it if you’re going to give me that look”- which agitated my anxiety of “I’m an inadequate wife”.

So what did I do when my son finally calmed down and slept?  I slept too. I was too frustrated and anxious that homework and housework just wasn’t important anymore.

So husband comes home, I’m not tired at all, and I have the chance to finally start on some homework- the anxiety that “I’m lazy and won’t wake up on time” pops up. So I choose to just snuggle with him and sleep instead.

So what happened this morning? I slept in- I don’t even remember turning off my alarms. I still didn’t have any homework done for a class that is kind of important to graduating- that I can’t just retake. I thought of all the things I could e-mail my professor to explain why I missed class today- but they were all lies- somehow just saying “I’m trying to avoid having a panic attack” didn’t sound legitimate either. So I decided that hiding in bed and just missing a whole day of classes was better than trying not to cry or having a panic attack in front of a million judgmental faces or professors.

That’s what it looks like. So I’m sitting at home writing this up instead of being on campus because I need to remember that missing one day of homework is not the end of the world- even though my brain is telling me that it is. But I do need to make sure that I don’t get behind, so I don’t let myself get into this situation again.

It’s these kinds of situations that make life feel overwhelming and like I’ve completely failed as a human being. Dramatic, I know. But I’ve realized that one of my core beliefs is that I am a failure. I’ve had this for years. You say that it’s not true, and I know that because you are not in my head and seeing me the way I see myself. A lot of the successful things I do are to try and combat this core belief. I don’t want to be a failure, but that notion is there and that’s why on the good days I work as hard as I do.

This core belief, my therapist told me, is common among those with depression. It’s not that hard to imagine why. I can tell you that this core belief is sometimes what keeps me from asking for help “cause I’ve failed”, or listening to people telling me how I can improve myself “cause I’ve obviously failed”, or even do a simple task like going to class unprepared “because I’ve already failed.” We with depression already know our failings- it’s something we hardly ever stop thinking about. We apologize for every little thing, we do our escape techniques- like reading, gaming, binge watching television, eating, etc.- all to try and hide from our failures.

That’s why telling someone who is depressed “to just cheer up” doesn’t work. We’ve tried that already, and we have failed. It’s a hard thing to let go when that’s what you base your entire self-image upon. Underneath the smiles, the hopes, the dreams and the “go get ‘em” attitude we sometimes display, we are trying to hide that no matter what we do or say our efforts will never be enough to simply be “adequate”. 

Depression Is Not Logical

I write this post to educate people about depression.

Depression isn’t logical.

Let that sink in.

I’ll repeat it. Depression is NOT logical. The clinical and professionally diagnosed depression is not something that can be combated by logic.

When a rational person thinks about depression, saying things like “just think positive” sounds like a good way to combat the sadness. If someone depressed just prayed more, believed more, or just thought about all the good things then the depression would surely go away, right?

Sadly, that’s not how it works. Depression is far more complicated than that. Let me illustrate it with a story.

A while ago I ran out of medication and had forgotten to get it refilled. However, I went two days without it and I was fine. Then three days and I was fine. Even though I still knew that it should be refilled, I felt hope that maybe I really didn’t need it anymore.  Maybe all the progress I had made actually did help change me. Four days, five days, six days and I was fine!  Day seven rolls around and things started to go downhill. I became more irritated over little things that when I am “normal” I can brush off, like a dirty dish left out on the table, or Corbin fussing in his sleep while he rolls over, or Richard not responding to every request as soon as he hears it.

Day eight rolled around and I’m panicking over everything. The house is a mess and we’re going to be gone for almost a week. Nothing’s packed. Everyone besides me doesn’t feel good. I’m supposed to lead the music in church tomorrow and I have no idea what the songs are. I tried to combat my anxiety as logically as I could- I made a list that put everything in order of importance and just tried to do what I could while I let my sister suffering from heat exhaustion rest and let my husband who had a long day at work sleep. We were all stressed, I knew that, and yet my heart couldn’t stop beating fast and every new little thing that wasn’t getting done felt like the end of the world.

I went to bed that night and I was panicking. I tried all the techniques to pull myself out of the negative cycle and yet the demons in my mind twisted all the good into something negative. I tried to sleep but the fear of the unknown of tomorrow, the feeling of hopelessness because no one seemed to notice the mess that I saw, the hopelessness that the things I had been doing to help myself function and make my little apartment feel like home weren’t important to anyone but myself, the terrifying fear that the next cry from my son would drive me to hurt him or myself simply because I was too shaken up by these negative thoughts in my head.

So I did what I’d always planned to do when the demons in my head were louder than any of my rational or positive thoughts- I pulled on warm clothes and my good walking shoes determined to walk myself to the emergency room. Richard noticed and joined me on my walk.

Now we talked. I told him everything that was driving me crazy as we walked down the hill past the new Maverick Stadium whose jumbotron was still lit at 2:00AM – a good waste of my tuition money if you ask me. But at that point I was like a puppet, but I wasn’t controlling the strings. Even though I was basically telling Richard that it was all his fault that I was feeling x,y, and z I was screaming on the inside that it wasn’t true, I knew that everything that felt overwhelming was the depression talking- and yet I couldn’t stop the demons.

We walked through three sets of church parking lots and there it was, less than half a block away I could see the glowing red Emergency sign of the hospital. I had come this far, but Richard was here with me. He didn’t plan for this long a walk. He had goosebumps, when I had a jacket. He had sandals, while I had tennis shoes. He had come all this way to make sure that I wouldn’t harm myself. I wouldn’t have, because I had never really planned to. I came all this way seeking help.

The good news is that the walking and the talking finally helped the rational part of me break through the demon’s wall and I cried and I apologized. We walked back home. We went online and ordered a refill. I snuggled with my husband who held me close and repeated to me several times he loved me until we both fell asleep at around 4:00 AM.

I tell this story to show just how hard it is sometimes to pull your-self out of the clutches of negative and “irrational” thoughts. Those of us that face depression don’t want to face these demons. We don’t feel glamorous or successful when we inform others of our plight. We don’t want to drag others down with us. We wouldn’t wish our predicament on anyone. That is why we so often DON’T let people know what’s going on- because we would rather fight our demons alone, than risk losing our friends or family to a battle they cannot win.

So what can you do to help?

When your friend or family member who battles with depression is having a good day, ask what their safety plan is. Ask them what they need when they fear that a negative cycle is going to begin. I’ve already set one up- I post that “I am having a BAD DAY” on my facebook and the friends that choose to help that day will post funny pictures, give me words of love and encouragement, family members shoot me a text or call me, and sometimes they even knock on my door and spend time with me.

Maybe your friend needs to just sit on your couch and draw while you go about your day.

Maybe your family member just needs you to say that you’re praying for them.

Everyone is different, and there are as many ways for people to combat depression as there are people who battle with it. To those who fight it, know that I’m fighting alongside you. To those who have to watch, continue to share your love and support- your encouragement is always appreciated, even if we don’t thank you for it.

This Zombie Wears Bright Pink Dresses

It’s Sunday morning. Richard’s alarm is going off for probably the third time, but dang it! I couldn’t fall asleep until 3:00 am. Just five more minutes…

“Come on Dasha. It’s time to get up. Church starts in an hour.”

I dread those words.  Both the waking up, and that I should be going to church.

“Five more minutes,” I grumble to my hubby as I try to drift back to sleep. But Corbin is now fussing. Hubby shifts to get him and now I am awake, but I refuse to open my eyes.

I don’t want to go to church. I would much rather stay in bed and sleep. Come on, Daria, you know you should get up and dressed.

But even I have a hard time convince myself to go. I will admit it, I hate going to church.

Putting on real clothes is hard enough, and even then, I only do it so don’t scandalize the neighbors when I water my plants or check my mail. I need to pick out a dress, one that will allow me to be in any number of awkward positions while I take care of my son and all his squirmy needs. I also should probably do something with my hair, mostly so my son doesn’t rip it out in chunks with his superhuman baby strength. There’s no time to do my makeup though, so I just get to go looking like a zombie in a bright pink dress because I’m still super tired.

We sit in the foyer so Corbin can roll around on the floor and because we’re late, as usual. The talks given are all about something positive like loving others, but most of their stories are already ones I’ve heard before from similar talks or repeated from general conference.

Sunday school comes. Corbin’s asleep. Yay! Oh, we’re all taking turns reading a verse in the most boring monotone voice possible, and when questions are answered all I hear is, “when I was on my mission.” Oh… well I never served a mission. Guess I will never know what “insert topic of discussion” feels like. My sarcastic inner dialogue becomes more sinister.

Then comes my least favorite part: Relief society. This makes me sad as much as it makes me uncomfortable. I should feel comfortable and at ease. But I don’t have many friends in my ward. Not many, if any, of the women here know who I am, since I was so sick during my pregnancy, and I’ve had such a hard time coming to church since Corbin was born. So I just sit alone in the back, thankful that Corbin is asleep on the floor as an excuse for me not to move.

I have a really hard time with the personal stories and ideas shared. Somehow even though I know these people are real, with real struggles and expectations, I can’t help but feel like everything is fake. Everything at church just feels like a fairyland.

Now don’t get me wrong, I believe in the doctrine, but I have a harder time with the people. People are flawed, as one of my favorite general authorities once said “Imperfect people are all that God has to work with.” I definitely know I am one of those imperfect people.

But it’s still doesn’t change that church is hard. Cause for me, church meant a place of renewal and a reminder that God loves me. However it has since lost that feeling. Doesn’t mean the doctrine’s changed. It just means that I have changed.

See, church is now an added stressor to my social anxiety. It’s no longer refuge, but a stage for which my parenting skills are displayed and my ability to act human is observed. Is that true? Probably not, but my panicking brain doesn’t know that. All it knows how to do is panic.

At the simplest level, I have a hard time going to church because I have a hard time believing that God loves me. It’s selfish, and childish. But that doesn’t make the feeling go away. It doesn’t make the fear that everything that makes me feel like I can cope with this messed up life of mine will be ripped away. And that fear makes me angry.

Angry enough that I’d rather deal with disappointment from my husband than face something that just feels like eyes watching me, where my sarcasm is sometimes the only thing keeping me from shouting at everyone to stop pretending that they are perfect for one freaking minute. So here I am, ranting and letting the world read this.

It’s a complicated feeling to believe in something while hating it at the same time. It’s not anyone’s fault that I feel this way. It’s how I’m seeing the world right now. Hopefully I can learn to let go of my anger and my fear. Hopefully I can find peace in enjoying the good things while I have them. Until then, I’m going to simply do my best, even if I do look like a zombie in a bright pink dress.

Don't Explain My Depression Away

My emotions are aching.

I know I recently talked about how I’ve been coping with depression. I’ve talked about how I noticed the first signs of it. Heck I’ve even admitted that I wanted to take my own life, and the life of my husband and son. And I still feel that the people who do not live with depression still refuse to try to understand.

It is true that I am not Depression itself. It is something that I battle with. I honestly don’t know when it will go away, or even if it ever will. There are days I hate taking a pill that has the capability to take me out of my dark and dreary mind and put everything back into a healthy perspective.

But for someone to but a blanket statement saying I’m not depressed, saying that the demons I face, the anxiety I experience are but passing moments- makes me feel that they don’t understand the gravity of the Hell that I go through.

There is sadness in this world. There is grieving.  And if you feel those emotions, they are real. They are important to you because they show the pain you feel. And true those times are still temporary. But moving on from those feelings is a personal process that happens in their own time. To tell them that they aren’t depressed is belittling their time of grief and pain no matter how temporary the pain might be.

This is one of the reasons why people don’t talk about their depression, because of people who belittle and philosophize away the reality of their Hell. Only the uneducated try to explain away depression. Until they feel it or attempt to understand, they will never know that the pain we feel is real even if they can’t see the cause.

So here I am, talking about my depression anyway because I want to bridge the gap of understanding.

My post partum depression didn’t come because I didn’t feel an overwhelming love for my son the first time I saw him. It didn’t come because I didn’t exercise enough, eat enough, or pray enough. It didn’t come because I committed some sin that I haven’t repented of. It didn’t come because I wanted to be like everyone else and be “depressed” too. It didn’t come because I struggle with the responsibilities of being a mom.

No.

I struggle with it because there’s a history of it in my family and other factors that have nothing to do with my worth as a person or my actions.

I knew it was a possibility, but I thought it wouldn’t happen to me until after I had several children. But lucky me, I got it with number one. My pregnancy was rough and awful. Labor was hard because I felt so tired and alone and I just wanted to get him out so I could finally get some sleep.

For the longest time during the months I wasn’t on medication and at the mercy of the demons of my mind, I believed that I would only get any real sleep if I was dead.

Television, games, even my favorite hobbies all felt like filler- just something to do while I waited for my son to finally take a nap, or wait for my husband to get home. There was no joy in them. I even thought about taking everything in my storage room and just throwing it away. Books, pictures, letters, gifts from grandparent’s who have passed on, craft supplies- just throw it all away because it wasn’t important anymore.

I didn’t eat. Partly because I simply forgot, and partly because I didn’t see a reason to eat because I just started feeling like a waste of space.

I was terrified of school work because I was behind and I didn’t want to be the new mom failure.

I didn’t feel human anymore. I was just a slave to my son’s needs. His were more important because he couldn’t fend for himself. He was my responsibility because I chose to get pregnant, chose to have him, and now for the rest of my life I would have to face those consequences.

I was terrified that my husband was going to leave me when he realized how terrible of a mother I felt I was and the awful reality of being a parent. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed him. I begged him not to leave me almost every day.

I wished for the ground to swallow me up so I didn’t have to face the human world when I no longer felt human. I wanted to run away and leave everything behind because there was a chance I could have found happiness again. I wanted to drive off a cliff and take my husband and son with me so nobody would have to take over my “responsibility” anymore.

I felt like that for 3 months.

Now that I’m medicated and in therapy,I still want to run away, but not nearly as often. I still struggle with eating and sleeping.I still go into fight or flight response when my son is inconsolable and I just want the screaming to stop. I still have days where I just can’t handle people or crowds because my anxiety is still very real and I worry about what they think about me and my job as a mom.

But I can think more clearly and take time to work through my feelings instead of being consumed by them.

This is my reality. It’s not pretty or poetic but I’ll share it anyway. Because today I felt like a friend was explaining away other people’s depression. Rather than hash and bash that they are terrible, I wanted to educate. Maybe my story helps, and maybe it doesn’t. Either way my Hell is real and understanding that is all that matters.

I've Survived for 3 Months

It’s been almost three months since I was diagnosed with Post Partum Depression.

It doesn’t seem like a long time but when your mind is constantly fighting against you it can feel like an eternity.

I still struggle with negative feelings towards my son and motherhood. There are days I can’t bear to hear my son scream, so I blast my happy music with my headphones on. There are days when all I want to do is get one little thing done, like put away a load of laundry, and it takes me all day because I have to take so many breaks to take care of my son.  I really don’t like being me on those days. Those are the days that I want to run away and never come back.

However, I’ve found the things that make each day better. Sometimes for weeks at I time I feel like I’m functioning, and not just surviving.

I’ve made a small list of things to do every day. Like water my plants, vacuum, read my scriptures, and check the mail. And then every day of the week has something unique that I’m supposed to do as well. Monday is mending, Tuesday is laundry, Wednesday is baking, Thursday is reading, Friday is crafting, Saturday is deep cleaning, and Sunday is whatever makes me happy day. And you know what? It’s working. There’s a variety to my day to day life with things that make me happy or make me feel productive. I’ve also been working on my craft blog and trying to make things to display for my craft business.  

What else is wonderful about feeling just a little bit more human is that I can see my son as a person rather than the cause of all my problems. I see how much he loves people, how curious he is and how calm he can be as he takes new things in. I’m not worried about him feeling neglected by me when he’s being babysat. I honestly think that he will flourish in daycare and preschool because of his social nature.  Knowing that my son is happy among strangers makes me feel awesome about returning to school and following my dreams to be a teacher.

So life is life. There are good days, bad days, and some days that start out one and end the other. But the most important thing to know is that I’m doing okay. And when I’m not okay, I have the best friends and family that take time out their busy lives to call me, to post a thoughtful message or a funny picture, or to give me a break from my screaming son.

I’m just glad that I’ve kept my promise to myself that I made a year ago- that I would let people know the truth about how I was doing. So far it’s kept me alive and for that I am grateful. 

Too Honest for Comfort

When I brought Corbin home I was sore, tired, and bleeding- the same as every other mom. My husband did his best to stay home and considering his two jobs and classes he has- he was around a lot. I had a wonderful sister who stayed and took the night watch over my newborn. The days were long, and almost dreamlike where I rarely knew what day it was, let alone what time it was, and I did nothing more than watch television and play Sudoku while I fed and held my little son.

I got sleep. I got food. I knew how to calm and care for my son. For a time, as crazy and as strange everything felt, I felt like me still.

Then my sister had to go back home to her life and it was me, hubby, and Corbin. I got some sleep. I got some food. I even went to my own classes by then end of that week. Life as a little more hectic, but I was managing… at least that’s what I wanted to believe.

My “moments of motherhood” post describe pretty well the first signs of my own personal demons. I knew that Post-Partum Depression was a possibility. I’ve seen the physical and familial effects it can do to a family and individual- though I still had no real idea what the emotional and mental effects could entail.

I thought that because I loved school so much, that it would provide a little stability to my now flipped inside out life. I mean, school would provide an hour of adult conversation and really using my brain. It would give me time to get some exercise to walk to and from class. It would give me something to do at home that would make me feel productive. And for a while, I kept up. I may have missed class because my son wouldn’t sleep till 5:00 AM and I slept through my alarm, but I stayed up to date on what we were doing in class. I refused to let myself get behind. I’d wait till an opportune quiet, hand free moment to do my school work only to have what felt like the fussiest baby in existence. So I’d wait till the next nap… and then the next one.

Screaming was the soundtrack to my life. My chest hurt from his insistence to eat every hour.  I barely had time to take care of him… let alone myself.

There I was trying to maintain control… while my house got dirtier, television grew boring, and waking up became less and less appealing.

I’ve come to learn that you don’t go to sleep and wake up the next day depressed. It creeps up on you, like ivy on the side of house.

Another day started like it always did, but this time I knew that something was not right.

Corbin screamed just like he always did, I lay in bed hoping that hubby would take his turn, after all, I had let him sleep all night without feeding or changing Corbin, surely he could at least get his son. We lay there for probably only ten minutes, but it felt like an hour of just endless screaming. I lost the battle of wits. I picked up my son and crawled back in bed to feed him with my very sore chest. Hubby attempted to do his usual morning cuddle and I pushed him away as fast as I could. I even remember telling him in a cold dark voice “don’t you dare touch me.” I sat there, huddling on the edge of my bed, feeling like my body was just a tool for someone else.  

Usually my next thought would be “I want to hide” but that day the thought was “I want to end.” I was scared. Not just because I thought it, but because how valid it felt. The floodgate for the demons had been opened. Demons (the negative thoughts as I call them) were telling me that my husband was going to leave now that I was broken. He would be better off without me anyway since I was lazy and was a terrible wife and mother.

We did talk though, and I told him everything. I told him why I was mad that morning and I admitted to him the demons that had been plaguing me that day. But I didn’t think that I was depressed. That was just a bad day. Everyone has bad days. And for the next few days I felt a little better, my son even slept a little more, and I felt a little bit productive.

Another thing I’ve learned about depression. Not every day is soul sucking torment.

However, the bad days are more frequent and the things that I enjoyed now cause me panic attacks or seem meaningless. I know I need help. I do. But I feel stuck. When it feels like I need to quit school, but my demons tell me I’m a failure for not sticking to it. When I feel like I need to see a medical professional, but the demons say it’s pointless because insurance ends soon and finances are tight as it is. When I feel stir crazy for being stuck in my house for a week, the demons tell me there isn’t anything to do outside anyway. When I feel lonely and want a friend, the demons tell me that if I tell them everything that’s going on that they will never be my friend anymore, or worse, I’ll make them depressed. I know these demons weave a web of lies, but even on the good days their lies linger.

On the bad days, I want to run away from everything and everyone and never come back. I wouldn’t even feel guilty for leaving a baby behind- but I’d miss my husband. If I took hubby with me, he’d make me come back. So the demons tell me that if I really want to be free of life and its miseries then I’d have to take hubby and baby with me- I couldn’t do it otherwise. Which in a way is a good thing because I’d be less likely to actually harm myself, but it’s kind of scary because my demons like to help me think of efficient ways to destroy me and my little family. The sad stories you hear about a dad or a mom losing it and killing their family and then themselves – kind of makes sense to me. And that too scares me.

My mind is far scarier than any horror film or book because what I think could one day actually be 

reality.

Another truth about depression, it affects everyone around you.

My husband recognizes that this isn’t just something that goes away. He does everything he can to help me find the help I need to face these demons, these negative and terrifying thoughts I have, so I can get back to being Daria. 

Moments of Motherhood

There are moments when I can hold my son and his screaming and crying doesn’t faze me because I know that he doesn’t have the ability, training, or understanding yet to use words to express his needs.

There are moments when his cries tear at my ears like a caged animal desperate to get out and all I want to do is drown out his wailing with headphones in and music blasting.

There are moments when I love to hold him in my arms while I feed him and watch his tiny alien eyes watch me with curiosity.

There are moments when I desperately wish I wasn’t his source of food and the very thought of having to feel the pain of him sucking on me, pulling on me, scratching me or grabbing me with his sharp fingers is almost too much too bear.

There are moments when snuggling him and holding him close brings peace.

There are moments when I’ve held him non-stop and I crave nothing more than being as far away from him as humanly possible.

There are moments when I can talk to him about anything and everything, because he’s a wonderful listener.

There are moments when I’m so alone with my thoughts and emotions that I can’t find the motivation to leave the bed, the couch, the house.

I knew long before I ever got married, ever was intimate, ever was an adult, that parenting was going to be hard. When friends and acquaintances talked about having children as if it was like going to Disneyland, I laughed. Oh how I played devil’s advocate and brought up the flip side of having children and they in turn laughed at my so called pessimism.

It’s not that I never wanted children. It’s that I knew that when you had children you’d get the whole thing- the good, the bad, and the smelly.

This thought was interrupted by feeding my son- this time a moment of necessity because my chest hurt too much not to feed him. I would have fed him anyway but the motivation is not always the same.

I don’t know if I want to be a mom… I don’t know if I want to pull through another week of a son who won’t nap and I end up holding all day, and whose needs I put far before my own because the guilt of not taking care of him is powerful motivation. 

I find it hard to do anything other than the necessities for him and me. The mom blogs talk about the despair of wearing pajamas- I find it hard to get dressed at all. My pinterest feed has everything from tips to get my son to sleep at night to recipes for increasing my milk supply- yet I can’t find the motivation to eat one real meal a day.

I know I need help, but the idea of someone seeing my dirty dishes, my un-vacuumed floor, and my piles of laundry and thinking that I’m a terrible wife and mom because I should have figured it out by now. I should have figured out how to use my free time during his naps to get those things done. I should have figured out how to make dinner, do homework, and do simple cleaning around my house by now. But I haven’t. I see the mess I live in and want to hide and not care, but the guilt of it not being done and the shame that I haven’t done better haunt me.

I crave company and at the same time am grateful that I no-one visits because then nobody has to see me in my mess.

I’m barely coping as a married parent who has a spouse who is supportive and does his fair share of the parental responsibilities. I don’t know how a single parent does this.

Oh how I wish there was sleep I could hide in, a song I could drown in, a show I could escape in… but I spent 40 weeks and 5 days carrying that boy inside me with the heartburn, morning sickness, and pain followed by the five hours I spent pushing to bring him into this world. I can’t escape that need to at least make sure that he’s alive and breathing even when he lets go during a feeding and we both get sprayed with milk, or he pees through his clothes and mine after I just got him dressed, or he falls asleep only to wake up ten minutes later because I coughed. The darkness I’d love to surrender to is held back by my sheer guilt and anxiety of not being a mom- even if I feel like the worst mom ever.

So why type this? Why share this with the world when my biggest fear is that the world will see me in my darkness and judge?

Because this is how I ask for help and use my words when the darkness tells me that a phone call or a text message isn’t worth the effort.