Something We Need to Be Talking About

There's something that we need to talk about.  It's not cloth diapers, nap schedules, or nursing.  It's not books, toys, The Bachelor, new shoes, the weather, that new annoying thing you've discovered about your hubs, or that time you almost got into an accident in a parking lot. 

It's depression.  It's anxiety.  It's bipolar disorder.  It's panic attacks.  It's anything from Schizophrenia to OCD. It's the entire spectrum. 

It's mental illness.

17 years ago I started my journey with depression and anxiety.  It's not really something you talked about then.  There was still a stigma attached.

"I heard his girlfriend was taking anti-depressants."  That statement was still scandalous.  Obviously she must have been crazy, if not a little dangerous. 

"How sad that you have to pay someone to talk about your troubles."  That was the voice in my head, the one that kept me from seeking therapy, treatment, a name to my problems.

And I had a lot of problems.  

Crazy, out of control spending because I was so filled with despair, depression, and anxiety that I physically had to feel the release of shopping, of new things, new hopes, something to fill the darkness inside of me.

Far too much dependence on boyfriends, the constant need for one, the way I let them define me before I could ever define myself. 

Seriously, through my 20s, I was single for a grand total of about 9 months.  Not much time to figure out who you are, let alone how you work or how you can improve yourself. 

The way I handled stress?  Shopping, calling my mom crying my eyes out, not eating or just eating junk food, making lists of ways I was going to change or control my money (I would spend hours writing lists).  When I was anxious I didn't eat.  One of my boyfriends broke up with me for a week.  I didn't eat for an entire week.  When we got back together and I started eating again, I was sick because my body didn't know what to do with the food. 

Spiritually I was a mess.  I considered myself a Christian.  I went to church.  I was part of a small group.  I hung out with a lot of other Christians.  But I still drank.  I went clubbing almost every weekend.  And then I felt guilty, promised a new start to myself, prayed for forgiveness.  Then Thursday night came.  And Friday night.  And Saturday night.   It was exhausting, this cycle.  And depressing.  If I couldn't trust myself to make changes, who could I trust?

I got older.  25, 26, 27.  I still clubbed a lot, because I was in a relationship with someone 5 years younger.  I didn't drink because he frowned upon it.  The relationship was horrible. I was always so unhappy and anxious, I lost 6 lbs.  I was so invested, I wouldn't leave my house.  I wouldn't go out with friends in case he called.  One of my best friends from high school lived about 2 miles from me.  I saw her about one time in a year.  I would go to bed at 2:30 to wake up at 6 to go teach.  It didn't work out and I was devastated.  But then one month later, I met Brendan, because clearly, I just couldn't be alone.

I thought being married would put me in this happy, safe bubble.  I thought my husband and our marriage and our relationship would finally reveal who I was.  I didn't realize he couldn't be responsible for all that.  

Our marriage?  A disaster from the first month.  Constant fighting, making up.  Moving.  I grew more and more depressed and full of anxiety.  After almost 5 years of marriage we had a baby and it all changed for the worse.

I guess the Baby Blues are normal, but I was so emotional.  I also became almost paralyzed with fear.  Around every corner someone was going to shoot, stab, or rape me.  Men were going to break into our house at night while I was alone and horrible things that I don't care to write were going to happen.  In my mind, it was detailed, every last gory detail.  I started having panic attacks.  I started seeing myself hanging from the blind cords.  Taking a walk was a problem because I was pretty certain a tree branch was going to fall on me. 

It took me 7 months to get help.  After a week of sitting on the couch like in a trance, not showering, not changing my clothes, being so angry with Brendan for no reason, feeling so trapped and knowing something was wrong with me but--here's the kicker--the depression was so strong I couldn't find motivation to seek help, let alone battle with the insurance, I knew for the sake of it all, I had to figure it out.

And you know what?  People don't want to talk about this topic.  It's a subject that's talked about in quiet whispers in corners.  And it shouldn't be.  That's exactly what depression, anxiety, all of that stuff--that's what it does to us--it shoves us in a corner, tells us to be quiet, and not to tell our secret.  When we start talking about it?  We find a friend with similar problems.  We find a friend that suffers with debilitating anxiety.  We find a family member struggling through a bipolar diagnosis.  We find the hope in some who has been there, done that, and has moved through it all successfully.

First we have to start talking.  We have to leave the stigma behind. Because when we start talking, we can help each other.  We can support each other.  We put the spotlight on the problem and hold each other accountable to a quality of life that we can have.  We can know we aren't alone.  We aren't crazy.  We can have lives filled with happiness, purpose, and meaning. 

But first, we have to find the courage to talk about it.