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At a Crossroads

My “big announcement” isn’t so much of an announcement as it is an update for those who read this and genuinely care about what has been going on in my life and what caused, and will continue to contribute to my absence from this blog.

My depression has returned. I am back on therapy and meds.

I am not entirely sure what caused my black hole of despair to return. Sometimes there really is no reason for depression — it is a horrible illness I would not wish on my worst enemy — but I do know that the past couple of years have been particularly rough on me, and the past few months have been some of the most trying on me and my family.

I knew that I needed help when I would start crying whenever I was alone. And because finding ANY alone time is so difficult these days, I would cry the most while in the bathroom. A hot blubbering mess in the shower? A regular occurrence. Sobbing while on the crapper? As pathetic as it sounds, this happened/happens all too often.

I knew that I needed help when I had a sudden urge to smack my child for being fussy. I have NEVER had violent thoughts toward my children before and this scared the crap out of me. I called J at work in tears, and asked him to come home immediately because I didn’t trust myself with the girls.

I knew that I needed help when just the act of getting out of bed became too unbearable to even think about. When I looked forward to each and every day with dread. When I failed to see joy in my children’s smiles. When I wanted SO badly to check myself into a mental institution and the only thing holding me back was knowing that we could not afford it.

I knew that I needed help when I began to have repeated and detailed thoughts of death and suicide and how much better off all my loved ones would be without me.

Both my psychiatrist and psychologist have told me that my getting out of bed, getting dressed and making it to their offices were courageous acts. They tell me that if I were not brave, I would have given in to the disease. I would not be taking care of my kids and trying to support my parents despite the fact that it physically pains me to even just sit up. When it takes all my energy to not be crying ALL the time.

But I certainly do not feel courageous.

And as much as I love my parents, even after all my struggles with depression in the past, they still questioned me when I finally confessed to them my condition: can it be that I’m just being overly dramatic, too pessimistic, too selfish, too irresponsible, and too lazy?

Who knows? Perhaps they are right. I am working hard to find the answer.