Now...Where Was I?

I want to write about all kinds of things but in order to go forward, I feel I must go back and finish the story I was telling two years ago. New stuff is coming, I promise! Bear with me while I shake out these dusty old cobwebs.


As March marched on and April approached, I became a walking ghost, barely showing up in my own life. Patrick Swayze had nothing on me. In the morning I would try to force myself to stay in bed even though sleep remained as elusive as an honest politician or a decent Nickelback song. I lay there, tossing and turning, obsessively thinking about how awful the day could be and picking apart every minute sensation in my body that might indicate "DANGER!" At work I became more withdrawn and relied heavily on the kindness and steadiness of my "anchor people" (most of whom didn't and still don't even know they were such) to bolster me. On the occasion when one or more of them were not at work my silent screams would have rivaled anything Edvard Munch could have envisioned. I could not work out how to get through the day without my touchstones. Outside of work I started to exercise obsessively, trying to capitalize on that fleeting bit of positive energy I got from rushing endorphins. I became very sensitive to what I ate and when, and so mostly stopped eating at all. I still attended to all my motherly duties, though without much joy and even less patience. I had started stirring a cocktail for a meltdown without even knowing it.

Late afternoons and evenings were almost always better for me, mentally speaking. Maybe just because I was that much closer to sleep, which though not perfect, provided a respite from the constant grinding fear and worry of the day. Yet, what a bitter punishment it was to lie down at night and realize I had wasted the entire day worrying about things that never came to pass. I should have been able to sleep, so tired was I of beating myself up for things beyond my control.  Ah, control...my longtime frenemy.  I can't really remember a time when I wasn't controlling.  I want things done my way, on my timetable, in a fashion that I approve of. That's not the least bit taxing, is it? Growing up, I would organize my friends and relatives into plays and musicals starring me, written by me and directed by...wait for it...me. Woe betide the 6-year old cousin who missed a cue or forgot a line! As I grew into adulthood I controlled relationships however I could. Romantic, friendly, familial, it didn't matter. I always wanted the upper hand, always wanted to be the one to decide the shape and texture of our interactions. It's a wonder any other member of the human race was willing to put up with me for more than thirty seconds. I thought control made for peace; that I could be closer to perfection if I could just have Every. Single. Thing. nailed down. In reality, it's just so very exhausting, this need to have everything on point and following form and I did not have an ounce of energy to spare.

Now, as you may know, time will go on and the earth will turn regardless of what is going on in your life or your head. Stupid time. Stupid Earth. Easter arrived and I shellacked on a happy face and went through the motions of our annual traditions. My little family of four slept in. We had the requisite egg and basket hunt. We had our usual exotic brunch of pastries, juice and hard boiled eggs. I wanted to go for a hike so we headed to the nearby regional park, expansive and brimming with all things spring including massive piles of dog shit exposed after the melting of winter's snow. We walked and talked, and I laughed on the outside while a storm brewed in my brain. Along that walk I began to see all the dark, secret places a person could disappear. Places one could go in the deep of night, take a bottle full of sleeping pills washed down with, ironically, life's perfect elixir (a Coke from McDonald's), lie down and escape forever. Maybe being discovered eventually, maybe not at all. It was thrilling and terrifying, both. In my previous bout of depression, I often had the thought that I wouldn't mind just not waking up some morning. I wanted the constant loneliness and anxiety to stop but never devised a plan. Never felt so low that I would actually begin to determine the how, when and where of killing myself. This time was different.

A few weeks passed, ugly and brutal. It was a Herculean effort to push away the black thoughts that grew more prominent every day. I tried to get help, I did. I went to my doctor who put me back on the anti-depressant I had been weaned off of a mere year earlier. I started contacting therapists, trying desperately to be seen sometime before the turn of the century.  Almost everywhere I called was booked solid. Would I like to make an appointment for September? No, thank you. What I'd like is to jump through the phone line and strangle the living crap out of you. All this while I was working and tending to my family and all this while I felt like every nerve in my body was exposed and raw. I was hanging on by the very thinnest of threads, having panic attack after panic attack all day, every day and feeling barely able to breathe. Finally, I found someone who could see me on short notice and left my first appointment ever so slightly buoyed. However, I was also unnerved by her statement that she would have me "feeling better. Not good, but better." Oh, no. No, no, no. I needed to feel good. Better than good. Perfect. I mean, hello! Control freak, here! One of the most frustrating things for someone who is deeply depressed is that both medication and therapy take time to make inroads into the toxic sludge that takes hold of your mind. Time is the last thing you feel you have.

I'll leave you with a little cliffhanger. The shit is about to hit the fan. The world's biggest fan. Or maybe one of those wind turbine thingies. Just trust me, it gets bad. Fast.

Until next time...