Treasuring moments through depression...

I talk about this journey a lot.  This journey I’m on with Big Kid, Baby Girl, and Soul Mate.  It’s a pretty amazing journey, I must say, and I’m certain it is crafted by God’s hand.  

I journal because it is my therapy.  Not only while I’m typing it, but also when I need to read it again a year down the road, when my memory has failed me and I’m left with only my old words to remind me of moments past.

I need to set aside time each day to post.  But, I don’t.  Maybe one day I’ll get better about journaling more regularly.  We’ll see.

There’s been a journal entry in my mind for a long time now.  I never feel like I have adequate words, so I’ve been putting it off, hoping one day I’ll be a good enough writer to let the words flow perfectly.

I’m tired of waiting.

So, here goes.

Depression.  It’s a real disorder.  It steals away joy and peace and leaves you piled up in the floor with nothing but a snotty nose and heaving sobs.  It’s ugly sometimes.  It’s rarely filed in the “blessing” category of life.  And I think I’ve been battling with it for many, many years. 

We moved a lot when I was young.  (Blame it on the fact that my father owned a moving business.)  Every single time I started at a new school, I cried for two weeks.  Literally.  I cried at school.  I cried at home.  I probably cried in my sleep.  I’m sure some people just thought I was a spoiled baby.  (What ninth grader cries all the time?)  I see now that I was truly consumed with anxiety.  After two weeks, I began to calm down.  But, there were quite a few weeks of hell every time we moved.

When I was in the classroom, I was suddenly struck with the idea that maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a teacher.  Talk about a punch in the gut.  I was born to teach.  So, how was it that I could be sent into a sweaty panic anytime a parent called?  How was it that I cried every single day that first year when I got home from school?  I adored teaching.  I would often find myself in a state of euphoria when I was working with my students.  But it didn’t take much to push me over the edge of reason.  A confrontational parent could send me into a whirlwind of doubt and pain and anxiety and I found myself barely able to climb out of the pit of despair. 

I know that sounds overdramatic.  But, it’s the truth.  I could handle my classroom of kiddos all day.  But, the pressures of testing, the hours I put into the job, and the possibility that I might make someone upset or that I didn’t please everyone all the time simply made me a walking basketcase.  Bless Brian’s heart.  How he loved me during those days is beyond me.

Looking back, I should have gotten help.  I just thought it was “who I was,” overly-sensitive, wearing my heart on my sleeve, over-working myself and trying to be perfect.  The thing is, piled high on top of “who I was” was a festering boil of depression and anxiety.

When I had Jacob, I thought I was just being thrown into the pit of motherhood.  Welcome to the club.  If you survive this, you earn your right into the Motherhood Sorority.  Fail and you’ll only have your gray hairs and wrinkles to keep you company.  Jacob was a very colicky baby, but I thought that most mommies in the world were dealing with the same thing.  Breastfeeding was a nightmare, but I was so overwhelmed with depression (so I see now) that I pumped for over three months just to bond with Jacob.  I thought if the only thing he drank was my milk, he had to have me in his life and love me.  Right? 

So, I took my Motherhood initiation in stride.  And cried all the time with my colicky kiddo.  Looking back, I was a mess. Heck, even then, I knew I was a mess.

I left the classroom after teaching nine years.  I got a new job, and with it, a new lease on life.  I traded in my passion for teaching for my sanity and my family.  I miss having my own class so much it makes me ache sometimes, but it doesn’t take too long before I remember that I am healthier and happier without the panic-stricken mode I lived in for so long. 

I started my first year out of the classroom in August of 2004 and found out I was pregnant with Olivia in September.  God crafted that part of this journey so perfectly, knowing that I couldn’t teach and be a mommy to this new baby.  In May of 2005, little Miss Olivia made her entrance.  And three days later, my depression hit rock bottom.  I came home from the hospital and didn’t want to see my son.  I didn’t want to touch him.  I didn’t want him near me.  And I felt like a complete failure as a mother.  A horrible person.  My heart ached like it never has before.  How could I love someone so much and yet not want him near me?

I knew I needed help.  Our wonderful doctor spoke with me on the phone and called me in a prescription for Zoloft that day.  Within a few days, I was already noticing a change.  Thank God, because I don’t know how long I could have suffered through those horrible feelings.  That’s the first time I realized how bad depression can get.  I decided right then that I didn’t care if I had to stay on medication every day for the rest of my life. 

I’ve been off of the meds once for an extended time since I started taking them, but once I realized that I was beginning to have deeper valleys that were becoming more and more difficult to climb out of, I started taking the meds again. 

In the past year, I’ve noticed changes in me.  I’ve never been a big phone-talker, but I began avoiding all calls from anyone other than family.  I’m not a social butterfly, but Brian and I like to entertain and I enjoy going places with other families and friends.  I found myself wanting to stay home.  All the time.  I was fine at work, but there have been countless weekends in the last year that I haven't set foot outside from Friday afternoon until Monday morning. 

Then, a few months ago, while trying to deep clean the house to show it one weekend, and while dealing with Olivia who was in a foul mood and wanted to bang her head and pinch and pull hair, I lost it.  I had a meltdown.  You know the kind, right?  Heart racing, sweating, screaming, throwing things, sobbing fit.   It was bad.  It was the kind of bad that is difficult to think about, but nearly impossible to forget.  I struggled to breath.  I wanted to squeeze myself until I popped.  I was deep in the valley, wondering how I would ever find my footing to climb out.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who has had this kind of meltdown...  

I doubled my medication the next week and I’ve been on that dosage ever since.  Things have been a lot better, and I’m thankful that I haven’t had to try lots of meds to find one that works well for me.  For now, at least, Zoloft helps. 

I used to be consumed with thoughts about the future, about Olivia’s life as an adult, about all of the stressors in my life, no matter how minuscule they were compared to my happiness and countless blessings.  I still think about those things, and I still have stressful moments in my life, but I’m able to climb out of the hole. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not cured.  I think this may be a battle I fight my whole life and I’m not too thrilled about that.  I still struggle to leave the house on the weekends and I still find myself avoiding phone calls and visits from friends.  Depression and anxiety coupled with raising a special needs child has been a very big struggle for me, despite how much the medicine is helping.

I just have to pray that God provides me with His peace, so that no matter the valley, my eyes are always on Him.

When I’m overwhelmed, I try to stay focused on today.  One moment at a time.  Trying to treasure them all.