Preaching to the Choir

Stigma.

I started writing to reduce it.

But for who?

One thing that I have learned, through this journey, is no one really gets it unless they've been through it or going through it.

I'm not sure that can ever change.

I mean really, honestly, I've spent hours thinking "why can't I just snap out of it?" and I've got the damn illness.  Of course someone who has never experienced it would think the same thing.

But that's where empathy comes in, I hear you say. That's where it's our job to explain support.

Yeah. Support. What is that for someone who doesn't truly get it?

They read the literature that says understand. Listen. Be there.

So they pay the bills. They do the housework. They listen to you say you can't. They are there. And all the while? They wonder why the hell you can't.

And frankly, it's a perfectly reasonable question.

If you've never had depression.

Admit it.

Before you had it, did you get it?

Did you understand that some days you can get dressed and put a smile on your face for the outside world but inside be crumbling?

Did you understand that some days you'd wish you'd never been born yet still laugh at something on TV?

Did you get that sometimes doing dishes was an impossibility because? Because you? Because you had no idea why?

Would you have imagined that you'd fantasize about running away all the while going through the daily routine?

Would you have imagined it possible to smile at that happy baby even though you felt nothing?

Of course not.

That's why I preach to the choir.

The choir of women who think they're alone.

You're not.

Changing the stigma to those who have never felt the crushing blow of depression is something I no longer think is possible.

I want to change it so those who feel it ask for help.

So those who think they are alone know they are not.

Depression sucks. It is debilitating, but from the inside.

We put on our masks. We know the stigma is alive. We don't tell our co-workers. We are sometimes afraid to admit it to our partners. We are even more afraid to admit it to ourselves.

But.

We are not alone.

It's dark. It's hard. It destroys things that sometimes can't be put back together.

But it is not our fault.

It is an illness.

It is silent.

It is deadly.

It is scary and unknown to those who have not felt it.

But we can persevere.

Choir.

I am sometime quiet, but

I am one of you.

The End

December

I had planned on asking for my wedding ring to be re-dipped and cleaned for Christmas. I don't like to admit that I'm superstitious but it was beginning to look a little dull and disheartened and my gut feeling was that it reflected how things were going. The last few years had been a hard slog to say the least. The recent move a set back instead of the step forward we had hoped. Life had been on hold for too long. We needed a fresh start. It was time to start moving again. 

I'm in the kitchen and the dreaded words are like a haze.

"I think we might need counselling."

I scoff " Counselling is a sign of last resort. Surely we should try first...Surely you think we can get past this." 

He sits on a nearby stool and stares at the floor.

My voice rises. Squeaks "Do you think we're at the last resort stage already? Do you think we need a...."

I stop myself.

He finishes.

"I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time."

It's over.

Too Far Too Fast

It all started a few weeks ago…

Things were going pretty well.  I was taking things one moment and one day at a time. I wasn’t even thinking about being depressed or worried about the depression coming back.  I was well and truly surviving.  

Then, at a regular doctor’s appointment, I was asked a relatively routine question, “How are you feeling in yourself?”

“Okay,” I responded and then smiled because, for the first time in a long time, I was doing okay. Really okay. Not I don’t want to go into hospital okay or I don’t want to sound like a bad mom okay or any of the other versions of the putting on a positive front okay I’d used before. I was alright and had been for a while.  His next question, and my subsequent answer, had me on cloud nine.

“When do you think you started getting better?” I thought about it and smiled again. I’d been out of that weird depressive fog for a few months!  This was amazing. I was not well yet but I was certainly on my way and the changes were finally noticeable.

Then, after 16 weeks on a waiting list, a therapist finally called to administer one of those tests. 

Part one was full of questions rating how I’d felt about things in the last couple weeks. Result: I had my down days but actually it put me in the normal range. Brilliant.  I’ve taken various forms of this test since first seeking help and I had never before been even close to normal. In fact, if I’d been called a week or two after my referral, I have no doubt I would’ve been off the charts.

Part two: how does the depression affect your daily life. My results had the therapist asking me if I needed to be more honest with my questions in part one. Nope, I’d been honest. It was true, in the last two weeks I’d been fine.

But when the depression does hit, it is bad.  Of course it affects everything. In the past two years I have done little more than survive because it’s all I’ve been able to handle. Putting one foot in front of the other is all I could manage and, even though I’ve been feeling pretty okay the last few months, that is still all my life is about.

Survival.

Since I tested “normal,” I don’t qualify for one to one care I have been waiting for. I am on my own to make it from feeling better to actually being well again.  Before hanging up, the therapist was wonderful. She practically prescribed finding happiness and has sent me a series of CBT ‘workbooks’ so I can essentially give myself therapy.

She advised things I’ve been telling myself, that my husband has been telling me, and that various ppdchat ladies have mentioned to me before. I need to do things for myself and I need to do them without feeling guilty.  It’s gone beyond the small things.  I’ve been taking naps, making cups of tea, watching girly movies, reading books, and various other little things since my baby was a few days old. They have been sanity savers but they are not enough. They help me remember I am human and are immensely important but they fall short of what I really really need.

I need time to shut off and re-charge. I am either on mom duty, at work, or on my way from one to another all the time. 

Part of me knows that yes, of course I need time to myself. The other part reminds me that she naps and sleeps so well that I get loads of time without her. I’m at work four days a week so that’s even more time when I’m not around. Surely it’s not too much to ask for me to spend the rest of the time with her or with my husband or with all of us doing things as a family unit?

Apparently it is. I have only been ‘off duty’  from everything a handful of times in the past two years and each and every time I vow to make it a regular part of my routine. Then life gets in the way, my resolve wanes, and I’m not getting better because of it.

It’s been two weeks and, despite numerous suggestions from the #ppdarmy, I have still yet to come up with one thing that would make me happy.  I’m too busy feeling horrendously guilty that having a family doesn’t make me happy enough. I wish I could just get over myself, realise I have so much more than many other women that manage to make it work and to be happy doing it. 

Why can’t I feel happy with a f**king glass of wine in a bubble bath after a long day like a normal woman would?!?!?!? 

Sunday morning is now mine to do with what I wish and step one is to make it out for a run. Once a week isn’t really enough for training and it will actually be much more difficult to get back in shape this way but for now it’s not supposed to be about that, it’s supposed to be to give me a break.

I have also set aside one night a week for ‘writing as therapy.’ I tried to write on Thursday but after 1600 words of skirting the issue of selfcare, I realised I wasn’t actually ready to share how hard it is for me to do something nice for myself without feeling incredibly guilty.

I went to bed feeling low and even worse the next day. This morning I woke up with a sore throat so missed out on my weekly run. Mentally, I’ve sunk again. I feel as though I’ve failed on week one of caring about me.

I KNOW I won’t get better until I start realising I matter. Taking time out for me will actually make me a better wife and mother and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. But even now, as I write this, I’m trying to type as fast as I can so I don’t miss out on quality time with my husband. I am in a mental tug of war as part of me knows if I don’t get this out, I could very well relapse and the other part of me thinks if I spend one more minute wallowing, I might lose him forever.

I’ve got two big hurdles that have become abundantly clear since I started getting better enough to think straight. I need to find to find happiness and I need to restore a relationship that is in tatters after two years of surviving with PPD.  In my eagerness to call myself well, I tried to tackle both at once this week and I’m suffering as a result. Seeing life in a normal light again makes me all the more aware of how damaging depression really is.  I want to be better. I do not want to walk the lonely road from the beginning again. I know I have to go back to baby steps but I am petrified baby steps just won’t be enough.