It had come on so slowly that I hadn’t even noticed. It snuck up on me — this thick fog, this black funk, this leaded fatigue.

At first I shrugged it off, thinking it was a series of bad days. Then I thought it was PMS. Then I thought I just needed more sleep. I stopped listening to my body and soul. I just kept making excuses, hoping it would go away.

But it didn’t. It got worse. I was ill-tempered and consistently felt like an exposed nerve. I felt overwhelmed by day-to-day demands. But what made me really start to wonder was when I went to a certain corporate sponsored “baby camp.” At the gathering, I saw a room full of these   amazing,    talented     women  –   women   I   respect,     admire     and     adore. (I’m sure I’m forgetting others here.) But I wanted nothing more than to dissipate, to melt into nothingness. I felt painfully self-conscious. 

I walked up to someone I knew to say “hi.” She said, “Oh. I didn’t know YOU’D be here.” In my mind she was unhappy to see me. This solidified my thoughts of, “I am nothing and have no right to be here. Someone else should be in my place. Someone who can write.”  

I was (and still am) incredibly grateful to warm, wonderful Liz, Jaelithe and Dana. I clung to them like a newly born kitten to its mother. I felt just as blind and vulnerable.

After that, I began to avoid people and social invitations. This anxiety enveloped me even during meetings with family and old friends. My mustered energy was mainly spent on trying not to cry and wishing myself invisible.

I had these heartbreaking thoughts. The “I’m such a shitty wife and mother. My husband and son would be so much better off without me” thought alternated with the “I’m such a fuck-up. I have no value. Me not being on this earth would probably make it a better place” thought. 

That was when I knew I needed help. That this thing was bigger than what I could handle on my own. I’d been through this nine years ago. During that time, I got to a point where the only thought that got me out of bed was, “hey, maybe today will be my lucky day and I’ll get hit by a bus!”.

But now there’s a little boy I need to take care of. And a household. And a marriage. And a yard. And other obligations. And I knew I couldn’t afford to slip further.

So I went to the doctor. I starred at the shiney, white-tiled floor and said as little as possible, holding my breath whenever my eyes would well  with tears. I told him about the anti-anxiety drugs I’ve been on throughout the years that were supposed to ward off the many migraines. We discussed how the side effects had always overshadowed what little improvement they’d bring. I told him if they were my only option, I didn’t want them. But he had a different medication for me to try. 

So its been about a week since I’ve been on “a little something.” I know its still pretty new. But it is keeping me from drowning in depression — my buoy in the sea. I know medicine isn’t the only answer. I need to make some changes. But the horrible thoughts, irritability and heavy numbness is starting to slowly dissipate. 

I can’t adequately discribe how precious it is to see Seth’s sweet little smile and feel a bit of joy. Or to appreciate the vivid colors of spring flowers. Or to think about the future and not feel dread. I had forgotten what it felt like to genuinely experience those emotions. And I missed that. I missed feeling like “me.” 

Thanks to JJ for writing a post a few weeks ago that really stuck with me. Thanks to a few other bloggers who’ve been very frank about their depression as well as the aspects surrounding it.