The light at the end of a tunnel

Have you ever not wanted to get out of bed in the morning? Or had to set a thousand alarms to actually force yourself to get up? And then once you finally peel yourself out of that soft piece of heaven, walked around your house in a sleepy daze, praying quietly to yourself that nap time comes quick?

What about feeling like you have dug yourself so far into a dark, unforgiving hole, with no way to get out? Have you ever locked yourself in the bathroom, sat on the floor, and cried?

That is what depression feels like…

And quite frankly, it blows.

Yes, I am going to open myself up and show you how vulnerable I am, but it’s time to lift a brick that has been on my chest since I started blogging. I have thought about this post many times, and even have had it drafted for some time, but for some reason I have never felt the NEED to open old wounds.

Until this month. Until this week. Until today.

Today is the day that I am gathering up all of my courage, and bearing my heart and soul to whoever wants to listen. To complete strangers. Today is the day that I am opening up about an ongoing problem. Today is the day that I am going to share my secret… I have depression, and quite frankly, it blows.

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I was a teenager when I was diagnosed, and put on the ever so lovely, Prozac. Well, the generic form anyways. I hated it right off the bat, and for several years, my Mom and my doctor tried to find a medication that didn't make me feel suicidal. I finally got tired of being a guinea pig, and decided to try the medicine-free way.

Truthfully, I felt better… until my son was born. Sure, I went through some rough patches here and there for about ten years, and once I turned 21, I turned to self medicating with alcohol, but in general, I was ok. But, once my son was born, it was a different story. I felt alone. I felt tired. I felt no joy in seeing my tiny human smile. I felt hopeless.

So, I made an appointment with my family doctor (who by then was different than the one in my teenage years, and was my son’s pediatrician), and the first question she asked me blew me out of the water… “Do you want to hurt your child?” Wait, what? Um, no. I gave her my answer. The second question… “Do you want to hurt yourself?” My answer… “Who would take care of my son, the way I want him taken care of?” She laughed, and understood.

After a few more questions, and a quick history, we decided that since I wasn’t going to kill myself, and I didn’t want to be medicated, we would wait. But, if I did start having suicidal thoughts, I needed to go back asap. She did however, tell me that I needed to delegate chores and stuff, and that I needed time to myself. Allow me to elaborate on that… When Lil Man was born, my hubby only had a week off of work, and then he went back to work… working midnights. Yes, that meant that I was the one who was getting up several times a night, and was only getting a max of four-five hours of sleep a night. It sucked. And then I was also going to school, and take care of the house.

Long story short, it finally got better. For almost two and a half years, I felt ok. Yeah, I had my highs and lows, but overall, I was ok. I graduated with my BS. I started and quit a full-time job. I saw my son turn one, and two, and three. I started grad school. I began a new job. We went on vacation.

And then life got in the way…

About six months ago, I started feeling overwhelmed again. I wanted to lock myself in the bathroom and cry, and did on several occasions. I wanted to just lie in bed. I didn't want to go to work. I didn’t want to work on grad school stuff. In a nutshell, I didn’t want to do anything. I didn't even want to be a mom. AND IT HURT.

I knew I had to do something to get my life back in order, so I followed my doctor’s recommendations, and started to delegate chores. I asked my Mom to watch my son here and there. I met a friend, and scheduled weekly play dates, so both Lil Man and me could get out of the house. I started a blog. I started finding little things that would bring me a shred of joy. And I cried. And pretty soon, I stopped crying.

Every day is a struggle to see the sun, instead of the storm. Every day is a struggle to try to find the joy in things. Every day is a struggle to get up in the morning. But, even though it’s a struggle, I am up for the challenge. I know that I am not going anywhere, and I have a tiny (well not so tiny anymore) human that depends on me. He also can make me smile. He can make me laugh. He can make me cry in happiness. He can make me mad as hell, but he can also warm my heart with his cuddle. He gives me hugs when I cry.

And I guess you can say that he is saving me one day at a time.