Sidelines

I was reading a post from Cat which referenced blogformentalhealth.com.  Curious, I clicked on the link.  It’s a blogroll which enables posts about mental health to be more widely shared.  Recalling a side line moment at my daughter’s soccer practice (last night) in which I felt different from the other mothers because of my depression, I decided to join.  I hope to connect with other like-minded folks to feel greater acceptance and confidence, and to increase understanding and support.

In order to be included in the blogformentalhealth.com blogroll, I pledge the following: “I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

The impetus for my writing is honesty.  My perception is that our society, America in particular, wants everything (desires, experiences thoughts, motives) to fit into a prescribed, perfect box.  This includes mental health.

My childhood fell well outside of this containment which both strengthened my desire to one day live perfectly and made it an impossibility because I didn’t know how.

Milestones were missing emotion and connectedness, leaving me to conclude there was something wrong with me and that my true self needed to be hidden.  I was both the victim and perpetrator of bad treatment.  Competition instead of patient self discovery (developing true skills and interests) led to rash choices and disappointment in outcomes that did not boost my worth.  Until I became a mother, it was possible to function this way because I could uphold appearance through control.

After the birth of my twins, I was ashamed to admit I had postpartum depression.  I believed that the fact that I didn’t bond instantly with my boys or feel overwhelming love towards them meant I was a bad mother.  I hid the confusion and ambivalence I felt instead, refusing to accept treatment.

Fifteen months went by.  I ignored constant self-doubt and unease until I stopped sleeping.  After ten days, I sought help, first from my primary care doctor, and when that didn’t alleviate my symptoms, from an outpatient mental health facility, where I attended full-day sessions for three weeks.

I was diagnosed with major depression instead of postpartum depression (it had been more than a year since giving birth.)  This diagnosis rankled me.  Now I wanted postpartum depression.  It would be much more acceptable and understandable than just depression.  Depression implied I was unhappy with my life (wife, mother, stay-at-home wife/mom) whereas postpartum depression was a chemical imbalance induced by birth and therefore not my fault.  It was all about blame, acceptable explanations, and shame.

My defensiveness prevented me from benefiting much from group or individual therapy.  I put all my faith in pills, which as is true in any situation, made them work and created a mental dependency.

When I became pregnant with my daughter fifteen months later, I stopped taking pills cold turkey.  Immediately, I stopped sleeping and experienced a post traumatic stress disorder reaction with uncontrollable panic, anxiety, depression and suicide attempts.

I spent five nights in a hospital psychiatric crisis unit followed by another fifteen day outpatient program.  My anxiety and sleeplessness persisted until I convinced my psychiatrist prescribe anti-anxiety meds.  Like the first break down, my belief that this was the only effective treatment resulted in their success.  I still take meds for sleep and depression.

I stopped therapy because I couldn’t be honest and admit that I was still unhappy, depressed, anxious and ashamed.  I needed time, which I took, until I felt ready to open up about where I actually was versus where I wanted to be.  For me, this could only happen in my living room with only my laptop for company.

I wrote about my childhood where there was never any doubt that someone else was to blame.  In transferring the story to screen, I was able to see things from a slightly different perspective.  I realized that I blamed myself instead of others for my failures, and that these failures weren’t unforgivable character flaws, but understandable mistakes given my age and background.  I gave myself permission to be angry at my folks and others, and then, all that energy just sort of evaporated.  I was tired of being angry.  I wanted to be happy.  But, this time, I REALLY wanted to be happy with what I had instead of going after what I didn’t have.

It’s been a long road, and it’s far from over, but I finally believe what I am saying.  I am speaking my truth.  I will always be a bit separate on the side lines. Sometimes mothers talk with me, sometimes they don’t.  Sometimes, I am bothered, sometimes I am not.