Upon seeing all the #BellLetsTalk posts on my Facebook newsfeed, I was truly inspired at the stories about mental illness that came forward. I debated whether to post one or not, but when my best friend came out about her debilitating anxiety and the many nights it has kept her awake, it was a solid reminder that mental illness isn’t something that should be battled alone, not with the amount of people who fight through it everyday.
I usually leave it to silence, telling myself that no one wants to hear about another case of depression. But the truth is? It has been settled in with me since I was a teenager who’d been sexually abused for nearly a decade. Something I don’t open up about often. A childhood lost makes for an adult having to put her own pieces back together. I remember the moment I had to clamber off that floor where I’d been sitting alone, scraping what was left of myself up to walk into that therapist’s office during a suicidal episode. I didn’t want to die. I’d been that way since before I turned 14 and the shadows of my head were such a terrifying place. A horrific mess of flashbacks and agony. An invisible pain that can still be crippling with an unexpected trigger. Even with time, and it’s been 13 years now, there are still triggers that deliver that blow, sending the room into confusing spins and knocking the breath from my lungs. If it weren’t for therapy teaching me self-awareness and coping mechanisms, I wouldn’t be able to find solid ground in those times.
After getting married in 2015, I thought the depression was behind me. Yet a new start only delivered another hit. Due to his worsening Marfan’s Syndrome, my husband was put off work in January 2016 by our doctor, permanently. It was difficult news for both of us. But it was getting to the point where he could barely get out of bed in the morning let alone go to his job as a scrap truck driver for a drywall company. Our life soon became a series of doctors, appointments, specialists and talk of surgery that has yet to happen. A flurry of frustration and anger and, once again, depression, for both of us.
It’s hard to be the strong one. To look at all the reasons there are to give up yet keep going. To cry in the bath so he doesn’t see another breakdown. Money issues. Strain. Being the only one working and him getting turned down by CPP Disability, who seem to think he can still work. Being worn down and constantly fatigued. Coming home from work only to be so completely overwhelmed by a messy house that I go to bed instead of dealing with it. Because cat cuddles are the constant fix.
To feel that loss of self is one of the hardest parts. There are days I don’t recognize myself anymore. I don’t talk to old friends because they’ll note the difference. Then I feel left behind. And alone.
Winter is when my depression is the worst. Seasonal Affect Disorder, it’s called. Leaves start changing and I know it’s coming. Then crash. The weight of darkness and desolate pain settles in for six months. I’ve had four deaths of people I love in December, and just this past Christmas week, I had to put my beloved dog of 16 years down due to cancer. I’d much rather hibernate these agonizing months away.
Sometimes it’s crippling. I’ll find myself curled up in bed, feeling hopeless and helpless. Sometimes I’ll break down and slide to the kitchen floor without notice when I’m alone and the fur babies crowd around, wondering why Mama is so upset. She was fine a few minutes before. Sometimes I fade into my own little world and won’t talk for a while. I can’t find words. When asked what’s wrong, “nothing” is usually the answer while every part of me screams “IT’S NOT NOTHING! IT’S EVERYTHING!” But I can’t explain it. I stare into nothing, try to numb everything out, try to forget the agony, the childhood abuse and the agony of watching someone I love in so much pain and there’s nothing I can do for him. I’ll purposely oversleep on weekends so I don’t have to deal with things. I’ll have that next drink to calm down. Even relapse back to cigarettes, which I quit last year. Something for the nerves. Something to let go of.
There are days I loathe the fact I am more caretaker than wife. Like the romance was snuffed out when he was put off work. And it seems like telling him only puts more distance between us because it makes him feel worse and more useless. Yet I’m internally begging for one more reason to make it work when there are so many to quit although I know giving up isn’t the answer.
Most days I feel like I’m drowning. Most days I want to fall apart and walk away. Most days I cry. A lot of times the smile is fake and the housework gets done out pure spite for uncleanliness. A lot of days, work is a quiet haven from everything. And there are days when I’m so damn fed up with it all and I wish it didn’t matter as much as it does.
But some days. Some days are better. A little brighter. Cat head boops and the smell of fresh coffee. His laugh filling the crevices of the house on a good day. Writing is truly my therapy. My venting sessions. My close friends and family are my sanity. The times when love dominates darkness.
And I guess that’s the reason I don’t give up.
