Swallowing a Valid Reality

Acorns pelted the wooden planks at our feet.  The squirrels chattered at us from the branches above.  I was sitting on the deck with my mom, the yard spread out before us, dappled with sunlight and fallen oak leaves.  Knees to my chest, cardigan wrapped tight, I was crying.  Again.

For much of my adult life, I had struggled, for reasons I could never understand, with feeling worthless and like a failure.  On paper, my life glimmered like that very morning's sun.  Phrases like happily married, two healthy kids, deep spiritual life, supportive family and friends, danced in the breeze and should have safely carried me.  But, I felt as if I had nothing.  Again.

Mom listened, as she always had, she and I two peas from the same pod.  She was one for whom I shed my shell.  For most I feigned contentment and composure.  When I was too panicked from pretending, I cracked.  A confident kid, I now reacted with doubt instead of determination.  My mom lamented this loss in me as did my dad.  They both relied on my strong sense of self.  That was long gone and I felt empty.  Again.  

My husband would ask me if I wanted to "see someone" and I would get defensive.  No, of course not.  Not me.  Only “crazy” people needed counseling.  I was a strong Christian woman.  I just needed to try harder.  I could get out of bed in the morning.  I could juggle everything - I could even actually juggle.  I just needed to find my true passion, a calling, if you will, and then my light would shine again.

I tried jobs, four or five of them.  I tried focusing fully on the kids, two of them.  I tried staying in more, going out more, drinking lots of water, bible study, yoga, wreath making, writing, praying, sleeping.  None of it worked.  Nothing removed the constant discontentment, the boiling below the surface, that I was just bad at life, that I was ruining it.  

So, that mild morning looked like many others.  I was spiraling downward hard and fast and Mom was tossing out what she could to slow me down.  But this particular morning I wasn't even trying to dig in, to backpedal, to hold on.  The fall felt familiar.  I was good at falling.  And then Mom said something she always embodied, yet never clearly expressed.  That morning she said, "Kristin, some people are just glass-half-empty people."

I believe she believes that.  And I also believe that her words were direct from the Holy One because right after she said them something in me snapped. Or connected. I am not sure which.  I imagine myself releasing my knees and standing straight up, my tears turning off like a faucet.  Really, she probably just hurt my pride, but it was a sign it was still in there - my will to live.   

No.  No, Mom.  No chance.  I am not a glass-half-empty person, I thought.  I am not going to settle for less, for negative.  I am going to climb up out of this pit.  I don't have to spend any more energy trying to figure out why life seems so hard for me and so easy for everyone else.  This is not how I was created to be.  I don't have to live like this.

Over the next few weeks I darted about frantically, but finally, searching for help.  I blubbered to my OB.  I emailed my pastor.  I left tearful messages with counselors and doctors, embarrassed that I couldn't articulate my plea, worried that they would judge my situation as not bad enough to bother.  But, I forged forward in fear.

At first, I wasn't afraid for myself.  I was afraid for my children.  I was afraid my constant crying would become their childhood soundtrack.  I was afraid they would see me curled in the fetal position clawing at my own skin out of sheer disgust with myself.   I was afraid I wasn't being the best mother I could be.  And so my children became my reason.  If I had to do it for them then I could do it.  I would do it.  Whatever it took to heal.

It was raining the first day I went to therapy.  I remember the thump of the wipers against the glass as I drove.  I remember the tiny black skulls imprinted on my counselor's colorful scarf.  I remember the firm support of the armchair.  I also remember being so ready to talk that the words started to flow as soon as I received permission to release them.  Over the weeks that followed, my counselor told me I was "good at therapy."  Another stroke to my pride.  

Through just a few months of intense weekly sessions, mostly washed from my memory by yet more tears, I was able to imprint on the billboard of my heart that "depression" and "anxiety" were not dirty words - they were my valid reality.  Yes, they had skewed my perspective and taken control of my life, but there was nothing wrong with me.

I was a version of normal.  My counselor affirmed it.  The books that I read on the subject confirmed it.  Everything that I had been feeling, every obstacle in my daily life, could be found in the lists of symptoms in these books.  I took comfort there and felt safe.

But then I got to the hidden chapters in the middle of these books and sessions where everyone seemed to agree: for my type of depression therapy wouldn't be enough.  That only when combined with medication could a truly successful treatment result.  I completely lost my footing on a so-far-steady climb.

Contemplating medication as a cure sent waves of anxiety up through my stomach and out of my face.  It cut off my oxygen and curled my toes.  Nope.  No way.  No chance.  Only “crazy” people take medication.  And to make matters worse, words like trials and dosages and side effects and dependency crashed into me, rocking my world and my new delicate state.  Medication was scary.  I was good at therapy.  I liked to talk.  The talking was working.

And then it wasn't.  It became clear it was not enough.  I would have never ended my own life, I think.  My kids and my Christ would have kept me here, I think.  But, I didn't really want my life to keep going, either.  Now that was scary.

So I eventually, through, no surprise, more tears and more talking, let the tiny pink pill sit heavy in my hand.  I had decided that day on the deck that rarely do the right answers come right from us.  It is usually the folly that falls from the sky that makes the most sense, in the end.  And being brave never feels brave at the time.  It feels as scary as hell.  And that's where I was.

Giving up control saved my life.  The medication began to work within a week (praise God!).  Confidence came from fully understanding that in some way my brain was broken and needed to be fixed.  No amount of wailing, or wanting, or water would have worked.  A veil was lifted and I began to perceive properly.  I found myself smiling for no reason except for the fact that I was alive and that life was good.  Everyone saw the difference in me at once: my mom, my husband, my counselor, and I bet even my babies knew mommy was home.

I no longer waste energy on merely attempting to live.  I held tight and I only got by.  I let go and now I thrive.  But as everyone knows it’s all still a process.  I’m on three medications now and see both a counselor and a psychiatrist.  Life’s acorns constantly assault me and I am able to dodge some while others crack me right on the head.  Yet - that day on the deck changed me forever.  It propelled me into a space that has taught me about myself and my relationship with God.  And that life (and squirrels) can be viscous no matter how strong you think you are.