Last year at this time I was in a bad place. I was finally about to find a medication that made me feel a little better, but not myself. And things were going to get harder.
Dave and I had gone on a 10-year anniversary cruise, the first time I'd left my girls overnight. I was excited. But then we arrived at the ship and had to say goodbye. I had a panic attack. I know now that I've had panic attacks in the past, but not like this one. Thank goodness I had a Valium or two in my bag because my mother-in-law knew I might need one. Once I came out of the panic attack I really did have a wonderful time with my husband. But my breathing was weird.
Anytime something physical happens, I tell myself it's because I'm overweight or out of shape or some other reason I come up with to blame myself. So certainly I can't breathe because of those reasons. I tried to make like it was no big deal. Dave started noticing. I couldn't seem to get a deep enough breath to tell my brain that I wasn't suffocating. Still, I let it go and headed back to work in September. Dave had been pushing for me to see a doctor. After the first day of school when I could barely sing with my students or even complete a full sentence without gasping for air, I finally went to the clinic.
The doctor at the clinic was very kind. He ran so many tests and asked questions I would never have even thought of. They did a chest X-Ray, an EEG, and sent me for blood work. It turns out this physical issue I was having was a direct result of my mental health (or lack thereof). He recommended I see a psychologist and go on anxiety medication. I did not want to go on anxiety medication, because I don't want to spend my life being medicated and not feeling my full range of emotion.
I found a behavioral therapist for the meds and an LCSW for talk therapy. The talk therapy was amazing, the meds were frustrating. It took over four months to find a medication that helped me feel a little tiny bit better. But in January, the meds started to work a little, so I was trying to have a better outlook. The talk therapist, Jo, told me in my first session that I was depressed. I thought she was out of her mind. I am an outgoing, happy-go-lucky kind of girl a lot of the time. My students think I'm funny, my kids think I'm silly, (my husband thinks I'm crazy). How could I be depressed? The depression was causing or playing into my anxiety. Eventually, Jo even told me I have OCD, which is how we finally found a medication that started to work.
In February my uncle was killed in a car crash. We weren't really close or anything, but I am a family girl and I was so sad. Then at the beginning of April my grandmother died. We WERE close. In fact, we were on our way to Ohio to see her (figuring it would be our last time), when she passed away. I was devastated. And Dave comforted me.
And I got pregnant. When I realized I was pregnant, I was absolutely panicked. How could I have another baby when I couldn't even take care of myself anymore? I was scared, angry, and anxious. It took us two years to get pregnant with the twins while trying trying trying. One time and I'm pregnant again?! I didn't want to tell anyone, because I wasn't even sure I wanted to tell myself.
But we did. And I tried to get excited. And I started to feel better. I immediately went off the meds the day I realized I was pregnant. And somehow I started to feel better. And as the pregnancy went on, I felt more and more like me. I think the hormones in my body reset or rebooted my brain.
I haven't gone back on meds or felt depressed since. Even through Lincoln's terrifying birth, no depression. I do live in fear that it will come back. It was awful. Worse than I realized when I was in it.
Lincoln saved my life. Being pregnant somehow made me feel like me again. So for everyone who says to me, "There must be a reason he's here since he's made it this far!" You're right. And he's already fulfilled that, so no need to put pressure on him to do more.
