Memo to Me: Depression is Chemical

I was talking with my counselor this week about my breakthrough about Patrick, and she thought I was making great progress and perhaps I was entering a new stage of the grieving process.  I told her that I thought if that were true, why wasn't my depression any better?  She answered that I had a lot of other things going on contributing to the depression.  That answer didn't satisfy me, but we moved on to talking about other things.  The next day I was talking with my good friend, and I told her the same thing: If this was such a big breakthrough, why didn't the depression lift?  She looked at me the way I look at my child sometimes and said, "Because depression is chemical.  We do not think our way out of depression."  Of course!  I knew this.  She knew I knew this, which is why she had that look on her face.  I had gotten wrapped up in the false belief that I could think my way out of depression again.  I had forgotten all of the things I knew about needing medication and why I was getting help in the first place.  Depression is chemical.  I felt dumb for having to be retold that simple tenet, but the truth is that the idea that depression is a thought disease is fairly heavy in our society and I bought into it for a long time.  It will take a long time to divest myself of all the remnants of that false belief, and this is probably not going to be the last time I have to be gently and firmly reminded.  Thank goodness for loving friends who can get me back on the path so I can quit beating myself up and take pride in my accomplishments.  I made a huge step in my grief recovery and I wasn't taking credit for it because I thought it should accomplish something it wasn't capable of doing.  My depression may not be going anywhere at the moment, but I am making progress every day.

On September, Depression, and Letting Go

School has started.  There's a crispness in the air.  Up here the leaves are starting to change.  All this means that September has arrived.  I used to love fall.  But now, as soon as the cool weather starts to come in, my depression begins to settle around me like an unwelcome friend.  I can feel it making itself comfortable like a warm blanket resting on my shoulders, except it's anything but.  It's an unwanted guest making its annual visit this time of year.  

I went on a retreat with a good friend of mine and unplugged from social media for the last week of August and the first part of September.  We started out in the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan and worked on getting our lives back in order and ended up in the middle of Detroit going to the movies, the zoo, and a Tigers game.  I thought keeping myself busy with a good friend would keep the dementors at bay.  Alas, it was not to be.  They came anyway.  They showed up like clockwork to tell me that the days were ticking down to the anniversary of Patrick's passing.  

Indeed, the last time I was at a Tigers game was 2014, and Phil and I had just visited with the surgeon and I was moving toward palliative care for Patrick.  The memories came flooding back.  The last time I was at the Detroit zoo, we were there with Mira keeping her entertained while Patrick was in the hospital.  And the memories continued to come.  But next time!  Next time I can say, last time I was here with my friend and we ate junk food and laughed about things and had a wonderful time.  Next time I can go to these places and have something else to remember because I was brave enough to go this time.  And so I enter each September wondering what I will be doing so that next year I can try to fight off the dementors with new memories.  Wondering when the depression will not make itself at home quite as easily as it does now.  Sadly, it's not this year, but I hold out hope and wait for next September.

In the meantime, though, I have learned something that might help.  This year, Patrick would have been 4.  I have seen lots of little boys running around doing lots of adorable things this year.  Some of these boys are younger than Patrick and others are around his age.  And sometimes I get caught up wondering what Patrick would have been like.  What would he have been doing?  I know he would have been driving his sister crazy, but would she have been trying to teach him the ABCs like she claims?  Would they play together?  Chase each other?  Would his problems have kept him from developing normally?  

As I contemplated these questions, as I have done in previous years, something different happened this year.  I remembered his heart--his funky, one-of-a-kind heart--and something my dad said to me.  Patrick made it so no one could make him stay longer than he meant to.  And that's the raw truth of it.  Patrick was never going to be 4.  There is no "How would he look all grown up?" because he was never going to grow up.  Imagining what he might have been like is useless because that was never meant to be.  He was not a healthy kid who had his life snuffed out early.  He was a beautiful soul who was just here for a short time.  

I've always known there was nothing more I could have done for Patrick.  I've never felt as though I let him down or that I should have done more for him.  And yet, by allowing myself to let him age in my head, I was doing just that.  I was pretending that there was a life he could have and should have had.  There wasn't.  Patrick didn't miss out.  He lived his life to the fullest, learning, laughing, and smiling to the end.  By aging him, I've been uselessly beating myself up over something that never was and never would have been.  I believed it brought comfort to imagine, but it didn't.  It simply brought home the ache that he wasn't there.  Instead of focusing on the amazing memories I did have, I was focusing on those things that could never be.  That doesn't mean I won't celebrate his birthday, and I'll probably still make the off-handed remark that he would have been able to drive when we reach his 16th birthday.  Heck, we even said that about our marriage when it hit 16 and it's not even a person.  The point I'm trying to make is that I'm ready to let go of the imaginary life I had for him.  It wasn't his.  It was mine.  And it isn't helping me.  So it's time to thank it for the part it played in my grieving process and show it on its way.  I'm ready to grow up and face the truth now.

Patrick was almost 11-months-old when he died.  That's all he got.  That's all he needed.  I need to focus on and remember those beautiful times and those beautiful smiles.

Hello, Mr. Hole. We Meet Again.

These past few weeks I have been struggling, physically and emotionally, to get my life in order.  It hasn't really been working.  I tried catching up on sleep, taking time off work to get caught up, being good to myself, all of the usual things, but each day I have felt a little more in the hole.  Today, I was determined to make it a good day.  I got up, showered, got Lil' Bit to daycare, and headed off to work.  I never got there.  I got too overwhelmed just thinking about driving in.  I started crying too much for driving to be safe.  I headed home.  The worst part was, heading home made me feel worse.  I have always been capable.  People could (and did) say mean things about be, but I knew deep down that nothing they did could stop me from being capable and people would be able to see my ability.  My capability was my safety net, and now it was gone.

As I pulled into my driveway, I was racked with sobs as the negative thoughts flew through my head--"You weren't capable.  You couldn't make it to work.  You're useless.  How do you expect to take care of the kid you have, let alone the one on the way?!"  It was too much.  My mind looked up at the huge walls of the hole I had fallen into, curled up into a ball, and shut down.  It was frustrating and scary, but I am grateful that I was not so far gone that I could not see that this was a big problem.  It was my wake-up call.  I needed help.  I needed to up my meds.  Yet, even as I knew the truth of those statements, I railed against them.

"You're pregnant!"  I shouted at myself.  "You don't want to expose the baby to all that!"
"True," I answered myself, calmly and quietly, hoping to make myself listen to reason.  "You have done the best you could with that, but the time has come to say when."
"I don't want to!" I wailed petulantly.
"I know.  But you don't want to feel miserable and worthless either.  And you don't have to."
"I do want to be functional again.  Enjoy the life I have, the family and job I love..." I sniffled.
"Exactly.  You want to be you again."
I nodded, much like my toddler, hanging my head, knowing I was beat, but not wanting to concede just yet.
"It's okay," I comforted myself.  "This is not a moral failing."
"I know."
"Yes, but you don't believe me.  Yet.  But you will.  Once you're out of the hole, you'll look back and wonder why you fought so hard for so long, just like last time."
"But I feel like I'm taking the easy way out."
"You think this has been easy?  You did all you could.  You are a fighter.  But you can't out-think a chemical imbalance.  It doesn't work that way."

We sat quietly for a while--me, myself, and I.  And then I physically got up and contacted my doctor's office and left a message about getting my meds adjusted.  I hate feeling weak.  I hate feeling incapable.  But, I would hate myself more if I let things get worse instead of heeding the call and getting help.

And now I write.  I write so I can remember for next time, in case there is one.  I write so that maybe someone else can see their hole before it gets as deep as mine.  I write to remind others that they are not alone.  And, to be perfectly honest, I write to convince myself of the rightness of my choice--because I argue better in writing than out loud.  It's time to begin again, and find my way out of this hole.  And maybe, just maybe, now that I've seen this hole a few times, I don't have to fall in it again.  Here's hoping.

Returning to Myself

The last month has been really hard for me.  I finally sucked up my pride and went to the doctor for some antidepressants.  I was exhausted and burnt out.  I had reached the point where I was nonfunctional and that wasn't helping anyone.  My morning routine was shot.  I quit making real breakfast and just ate cereal.  I stopped taking full showers every morning.  All I wanted to do after dropping Lil' Bit off at daycare was drive home and curl up under the covers.  I ate potato chips and Snickers bars for lunch.  I almost never ate dinner, and if I did, it was likely ice cream.

I always thought of myself as a strong capable person.  And, truth be told, I still am.  I was just dealt an extra heavy dose of life recently.  Still, I HATED having to get meds.  Nothing makes me feel weaker and less in control than having to medicate myself.  But none of that changes the fact that I needed it.

So, I go talk to my doctor and he prescribed me a mild, entry-level antidepressant.  It gave me nausea and insomnia the first week (not helping!), but those finally went away.  However, new and more problematic side effects started to occur and I ended up in the ER the Saturday before Easter (really not helping!).  I stopped that med immediately and when I went to my doctor last week he put me on a different class of anti-depressant.  This one has been amazing.  I felt better after two days.  I've even had a few bouts of baby fever--proving I'm feeling better!

In fact, yesterday I not only felt like my old self again, but I felt like I did before I had Lil' Bit.  I felt like a capable parent.  And as that awareness dawned on me, it occurred to me that maybe I had been dealing with depression longer than I thought.  See, I knew being a parent made you feel tired and overwhelmed, so when I felt that way after having Lil' Bit, I assumed it was just the lack of sleep.  I never felt sad or anything that I thought of as "depressed."  But, given how much better I feel now, I think I was suffering from mild postpartum depression.  Nothing huge, and nothing that wouldn't have gone away with time, EXCEPT for suddenly having all of Lil' Bit's medical issues to deal with, and a miscarriage, and, and, and.  Stress and grief piled up to create situational depression that exacerbated the postpartum depression I didn't know I had and *poof* the world was a horrible place that kept dumping on me and I just wanted to hide until it stopped.

Now that I have come out from under the clouds and feel so much better, I wish I had done this sooner.  I hate that my pride and stubbornness prevented me from seeking help.  But, rather than beat myself up about it, I can take pleasure in the fact that I did, eventually, do something about it, and now, I am loving being a parent again.  I *might* even consider doing it again.  But even if we ultimately decide not to try again, I feel like I'm in a better place to accept whatever we decision we make because it won't be made from what felt like a place of defeat or resignation, but from a place of comfort and acceptance.  I know this will sound crazy coming from a planner and control freak, but I'm finally looking forward to what lies ahead without knowing what it will be.  Who knew surrender could be so freeing?!  Oh, right...  Well, at least I finally got here.  Welcome to MWS 2.0 (Mommy, Wife, Self).  Let's take her out for a spin!