This morning I woke up as soon as the sunlight began poking through my window, as usual, and I spent about a half hour with my mind racing manically before falling back into a stressful, dream-filled sleep.
I must have been dreaming about childhood days spent with my cousin, or at least something in my dream sparked a connection that led to his fading ghost-like memory.
It has been six months since he shot and killed himself in October. Half a year already that his daughter, wife, parents, grandparents, and friends have had to wake up knowing what he has done and live through the agony that his loss brings. Once again, that wave of aching hit my throat as I wondered what what made him reach that final breaking point.
The more sickening part to me is the honest realization that it could have been me instead. Had James not dragged my paranoid and near-psychotic ass to the mental health crisis center in the middle of the night on that awful day back in January, it would have been me. Maybe not with the gun on my dad’s back porch the way my cousin did it, but I have little doubt that it would have happened by other means.
At that point, the postpartum depression had gotten so bad that I could no longer function. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to cope with the black hole of nothingness that I was struggling to swim through for another minute. The only emotions I felt for months on end besides nothing at all following April’s birth were anger and irritation.
Here I had the most incredible two little girls, and I could barely get through the motions of taking care of them, let alone making sure my own needs were met.
When my therapist asked me what my needs were, I had none to tell her. I couldn’t even think of something I wanted other than to not exist at all. I was even a bit afraid of death because I was certain my soul would continue to live on, and I just wanted to be gone entirely.
Thinking of this all now nearly sickens me. My head was racing around these thoughts this morning as I wondered how I have gotten through life without therapy and happy drugs until the last few month. I mean, this was most certainly not my first bout of severe depression. It was by far the worst, but I was on the verge of hospitalization and probably should have ended up there at one point. Like when I started all the treatment and James found me sitting on the bathroom floor staring at my knife, unwilling to put it down. How long was I sitting there? Twenty minutes? An hour? Two?
What the fuck was going through my mind? I don’t even know, but at the time, it made perfect sense and no one else did.
I think what brought all of this to my conscious thoughts like the explosion of sunlight through my window this morning was the realization this weekend that I am actually happy to be here. I actually enjoy the hours spent with my girls during the day, even though the frustrations and exhaustion. I was able to have a great weekend shopping with my sister in a crowded madhouse that would normally send me into frenzied state of severe panic attacks and anxiety.
And for the first time in my life, I can name off hopes and dreams that I actually have the energy and drive to pursue and make happen.
Hey ya’ll! I’m really alive! I can actually breathe and see things! I know what I want to be when I grow up!
The best part? I am no longer ashamed of myself and who I am on the inside. So what if people think I am un-ladylike or some sourpusses are uncomfortable with the fact that I’m a flaming liberal who is not afraid to blab about her post-birth vagina and breastfeeding on the internet?
Hey, at least I am honest and not afraid to talk about what’s going on in the twisted world of my inner thoughts. I am no longer that person who bottles everything up and tries to pretend she is okay so that no one knows how bad she is bleeding on the inside.
And currently, I am working on learning to put my own needs first. You know, needs other than the basic food, water, and shelter. With all the counseling that I continually go to, I have learned how badly I put the wants of everyone else before I take care of myself. By the time I finally get to the things I need, I have no energy or drive left to make them possible.
So what if I need the help of psychotropic drugs to make me normal? I mean, this is the kind of shit that normal people take to feel crazy. It has the exact opposite effect on someone who truly needs it, though. Like me. I was mortified when I had a psychiatric evaluation and was told I needed a pretty hefty dose of Prozac. My initial reaction was no freaking way, you nutcase crazy doctor… I know you’re just out to get me and pump me full of drugs just like everyone else. But I decided to give it a chance.
And I am so glad I did. I still have bad days and I am most definitely not Miss Glorious Sunshine by any stretch of the imagination, but I just never knew that life could be this way.
One of my last thoughts before falling back to sleep early this morning was Thank You, God, for making it possible for me to still be here.
I only wish my cousin could have gotten the help I have been blessed with.
Current Mood:
Happy & 
Sad
Playful