Hello From the Other Side: Winning my Battle with Anxiety and Depression

I’ve been seeing frequent Facebook posts lately about Depression and Anxiety in the name of ‘Raising Awareness’. You know the ones: the ‘Please Share’ kind. It has become pretty mainstream in the last while to talk about ‘Raising Awareness’ about mental health; so much so that recently my daughter’s school had a ‘Wear-Purple-to-Support-Mental-Health-Awareness’ day. She’s in JK – it struck me as somewhat odd to ask four-year-olds to participate.

A couple weeks ago Sophie’s class was involved in a Terry Fox run. As we sat at the kitchen table the night before the run, I tried to explain to her about Terry Fox and what he raised money for, and what cancer was. For a four-year old who spends a lot of time talking about teeter-totters and Paw Patrol, this was pretty heavy stuff. I didn’t actually find out about the latest ‘awareness raising’ effort until after the fact. I’m kind of glad. When Sophie is a bit older I will gladly broach the subject with her, but talking about mental health stuff right now is a bit too heavy for both of us because, well, she’s four, and for me, the subject is personal.

Hello, I’m Stephanie and I fight a daily battle with Anxiety and Depression… Yep.

Truth be told, a take a couple pills every morning that do most of the fighting for me. A year and a half ago however, things looked different. I was fighting on my own and failing, routinely. This had been my story for a while. In the end I found courage to seek help and hope that I could feel better in the stories of others dealing with something similar.

Eventually I spoke with my family doctor, was referred to a counselor, I was assessed and followed up with by a psychiatrist, and (this is a big AND) I decided to take her advice. In the last year and a half I’ve made the daily choice to grab the ropes thrown my way, to toss aside my ‘I-Can-Manage-This-On-My-Own ‘ pride climb out of the pit.

And finally, I’m out. So here it is, my ‘Please Share’. This is my story.

Hello from the Other Side.

When I was six months pregnant with Sophie my brother was killed in a house fire. Like the rest of his family and friends, I was devastated. I found mental and emotional safety in my routine, compartmentalizing my grief so I could make sure my baby was still growing and healthy. Three months later I was holding a beautiful baby and my routine was scrapped. As it turns out, my routine was my only line of defense between me and my grief. Add healing from an emergency C-Section and a failure-to-thrive baby to the mix and I had a full-blown physical/emotional spiral on my hands. I was taking a lot of pain-killers (healing from a C-Section is no joke), I lost my appetite, I had trouble sleeping and I was crying four times a day. I was unraveling and was at a loss for what to do.

Well-meaning individuals attempted to comfort me with sentiments like,

            “Everyone goes through this, you’ll be fine.”

            “Oh you’re doing a great job, just sleep when the baby sleeps.”

            “I had trouble too, I just kept trying and it turned out ok.”

You can imagine just how helpful these thoughts were.

I started to experience what I now know is a common symptom of Post Partum Depression: I started catching myself daydreaming about ways to harm my baby. The basement stairs, the knife set in the kitchen, the gas stove, the bridge that I crossed routinely all became potential threats. My brain would quickly and creatively turn something in nearly every situation I was in into a potential instrument of violence. It was as though someone else was channeling murderous thoughts into my brain. NEVER was I worried that I would act on those thoughts, but I was worn down from fighting them away and constantly felt confused and guilty about them being there at all. Above all, I was terrified about what would happen to me or to Sophie or to my family anyone knew what was happening in my head.

After 10 weeks I called my family doctor.

(Deep Breath), “Hello… I’m a patient of Dr. R’s. I think I am struggling with Post Partum Depression. I would like an appointment please.”

“Sorry. He’s away for three weeks.”

“I don’t think it would be wise for me to wait another three weeks to speak to someone. Is there anything you can suggest?”

“I can make you an appointment for when he returns…”

No suggestion for a local health clinic, no women in crisis line, no online resource, nothing. I put down the phone and cried.

A few weeks later a well-meaning individual told me about a mother who murdered her children, “Now THAT person had Post Partum Depression”. Wonderful. I heard this as, “You really need to pull yourself together. You’re fine. Things aren’t as bad as you’re saying they are. Other people have it worse than you do, you just need to suck it up and keep going.”

Thinking back on this, I think this person just didn’t know what to say. If I had been in her position a few years before, I wouldn’t have known what to say either. I recognize she didn’t mean what I heard, but in my state, I was physically unable to filter those thoughts.

I told myself to Pull. It. Together. “You’re fine. Get some more sleep. Start eating properly. Just pray about it more. You can do it.” I saw a counselor a couple times. I tried to make myself busy. The terrible thoughts didn’t get much quieter I just managed to increase the volume of other thoughts.

A few months later a friend whose mum was working on a Masters Degree was asking for help with an assignment regarding PPD and I was on the list of volunteer guinea pigs for a dry-run. She knew nothing of my situation. I read it, sobbed my way through the questions and realized that ‘willing’ away my depression had been ineffective. I decided to ask for help a second time. I found an e-mail address at the back of the pamphlet. I can’t overstate the courage it took for me to send that note. No response came.

I started clutching Sophie closer when we crossed the bridge. I panic prayed with every step, turning my back to the railings trying and failing to not think about tossing her over the side. I stopped watching the news; every horrible scenario captured on cameras would all of a sudden become a “What if this was to happen to Sophie” mental game. I would have terrible dreams about abandoning Sophie. I had uncharacteristic moments of rage and sadness. Through all of this I was weighed down with guilt. The thoughts and emotional roller coaster came in waves. I kept going. 

A couple years later, sweet Asher was born. Another frightening birth – one month too early, an excessive amount of blood lost. He wouldn’t ever wake up to eat. He was physically incapable of breast-feeding and would often vomit up milk and blood. I could feel myself beginning to spiral.

“This is different.” I would tell myself “He’s just not well, you’re just tired. When he’s better and you get more sleep you’ll be fine.” Whenever I started sinking, I would force myself to focus on this. Eventually after a few months he did get better. Eventually I did start getting more sleep. On the day I woke up completely rested yet still had to pep-talk myself into getting out of bed I had to admit the obvious: I wasn’t fine. Then the game changer… instead of catching myself daydreaming about harming my kids, my thoughts did a subtle switch to considering ways to harm myself. Quickly realizing I had entered a new, more serious danger zone, I picked up the phone, and scheduled an appointment to be assessed by a psychiatrist.

Fast-forward a few weeks. After an intense hour and a half in the psychiatrist’s office I was told,  “Well Stephanie, you definitely have PPD, and you’ve had it in various waves since Sophie was born. Also…you have Chronic Anxiety. You’ve probably had it since before you could talk.” Of course I did. After that conversation it just seemed like she was stating the obvious. Finally, as my friend Bev puts it, the monster was out from under the bed.

I left that appointment cried-out with a prescription for anti-depressants. It took me three days to get up the courage to fill it, and another few days to actually take them. Within a week I felt a difference. After two dosage increases, I felt like myself again, something I hadn’t felt for three and a half years.

I walked around in a bit of a daze for a week, trying to come to terms with the diagnosis, “Mental Illness. I have a Mental Illness…” This admission was simultaneously heavy and freeing. I finally had a reason for my obsessive violent thoughts, my mini panic attacks, my crying bouts and my general lack of ‘happy’. Not only did I have a reason, I now had a plan for getting better. Thank you Jesus. I shared first with my Mum, then some close friends, who surprised me and encouraged me by sharing their own similar stories.

Not all the people I have shared with responded well. In hindsight, I think it has been because they have been caught off-guard and just didn’t know what to say.

If you’re reading this and you’re lucky enough to have never had to deal with something like this before (and I’m so glad you haven’t), here’s a response that is always welcome. “Thanks so much for sharing. That sounds really difficult. Is there something I could do to make life easier for you? Have you spoken to your family doctor?” This shows concern, is an offer to help and a wonderful suggestion for professional help. Memorize this.

So this is where healing journey with depression and anxiety sits. Crossing bridges with my kids isn’t so much of a problem anymore. I can watch the news again, although I confess I choose more carefully what stories I read. I lose my temper a lot less frequently. I cry a healthy amount. I no longer catch myself daydreaming about harming my kids or myself.

I consider all of this a win.

I don’t love that medication is my solution for now. But for now, this works. I feel like myself and I am thankful: Thankful and Relieved. As a dear friend from University told me once, “If I had diabetes, I wouldn’t think twice about taking insulin. If a doctor recommends medication to help me with another part of my body, why should I hesitate?” Why indeed. Now instead of dealing with symptoms all my waking hours, I think about it for one minute every morning as I down my apple-juice.

I am so thankful I decided to pick up the phone and try one more time, to speak up, be vulnerable and take the advice of my doctors. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be. I’m so glad I decided that I deserve to feel better.

So there you have it – my ‘Please Share’. Maybe you can relate to some of this, or all of this. Maybe, like me, you’ve tried to reach out for help and received instead a fresh wave of shame.

Please. Be courageous. Try again. Make an appointment with your family doctor. Ask for a referral to a counselor, or a psychiatrist, or both. Tell a professional EXACTLY what has been going on in your head. Trust her expertise. Take her advice. Share with a trusted friend or family member. If they respond badly: THAT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. Try again with someone else. You can do it. Be courageous: because you too, deserve to feel better.