Put Your Faith in Yourself.

I've struggled with depression since my adolescence, but didn't have a word for it or have it dealt with professionally until I was in my early twenties. When I was first diagnosed and treated for depression, I was in a very unhealthy relationship. My emotional state had begun to effect my physical body, which lead me to needing to be hospitalized. From the hospital, I went to therapy and began taking anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medication. It took some time, but I got out of the bad relationship, moved into a new place, and changed much of my daily life. It was only 6 months before I ditched the meds and felt strong and confident again. I knocked that depression straight on its ass.

Over the next 7 years, I had small bouts with sadness, but the depression, I did a great job at keeping it at bay without any medication. The details of the onset of a fresh major depressive episode, those are in my previous post and you can refer to it for reference. But what you need to understand about those who struggle with depression is that it is MOTHER FUCKING EXHAUSTING. It is next to impossible to explain to someone who doesn't experience it in a way that they will understand. You don't snap out of it. You can't just smile through it. Just because you do all of the things professionals tell you you should be doing, does not mean you will feel better.

One thing you have to deal with when having depression is, doctors asking, every time you go in for a visit, if you are thinking of self harm. Almost always there is an impersonal questionnaire, that you are required to fill out.

"Feeling down, depressed, or hopeless"
Not at all.
Several days.
More than half the days.
Nearly every day.
Circle which one best applies.

"Thoughts that you would be better off dead, or or hurting yourself in some way"
Not at all.
Several days.
More than half the days.
Nearly every day.
Choose one.

Despite suffering from clinical depression my entire life, I was only suicidal once. That happened when I was 15. I had already taken up self harm. You know, cutting myself, burning myself, I would even bite myself as hard as I could to see how much pain I could manage. There were a lot of varying factors that lead to the afternoon I almost swallowed a bottle of pills. I could explain away all of the reasons for it. By the time I was 15, I already knew a handful of people who had killed themselves. I knew how it would all play out. But I talked myself out of it. After that day, I still thought about killing myself, but I didn't want to. That desire to cease to exist, well, ceased to exist.

When I was in my early twenties and ended up in the hospital, I still did not feel compelled to kill myself. A fucked up gift from the depression demons. I could crippled by life, to the point of not going to work and not showering and not brushing my hair for months, but the idea of killing myself, it didn't appeal to me. That is until this year.

In my previous post I explained, though not in excessive detail, how I ended up 32, back in Seattle, divorced and depressed. What I left out was how medicated I had become. Before my ex and I split up, things got quite bad. I was having anxiety attacks daily, I couldn't sleep, I cried, no, I sobbed, every single day, I was blacking out daily. My body began responding to the emotional pain I was experiencing. Multiple doctors did CT scans, EKGs and all kinds of blood tests because my physical symptoms had become so severe, that they were concerned there was something neurological happening. There wasn't. It was a physical manifestation of the stress I was experiencing.

How do you deal with that? Normally, lifestyle changes can go a long way. Especially for myself. There wasn't much room for life changes at the time, aside from leaving my husband, which I WAS NOT considering (joke was on me, big time. but hindsight is always so clear), so I went the direction of medication and teams of doctors.

The doctors: Primary Care Physician, psychiatrist, therapist, psychologist, physical therapist and a muscle manipulation therapist.

The medication: Paxil (anti-depressant), taken once daily. Xanax (anti-anxiety), taken as needed, prescribed 60 at a time. Ambien (sleep aide), taken as needed, prescribed 2 per night. 

In addition to seeing a doctor nearly every day, and taking meds constantly, I was in yoga, going multiple times a week, I was in school full-time and I had a part-time job. I was doing everything in my power to succeed. It was only two months after this cycle of wake up, take meds, go to the doctor, take meds, go to sleep, that my husband left me. I was able to physically leave when that happened, but that didn't change the nature of my pain, rather, it only added to it. I began getting vertigo, in addition to blacking out. More meds were added to my daily rotation of pharmaceutical numbing. 

Fast forward to two months ago. I carried around a gallon sized ziploc bag full of a variety of pharmaceuticals in bottles of different sizes, each with my name printed on them. A year had passed and I had moved, traveled the entire country, adopted a dog and two cats, and took care of all of the small, mundane and annoying things you have to do when you move back home and have to explain to every person who knows you just why you've returned. Stress was mounting again, and winter was dark. I was sick of being medicated. I told my doctor. She recommended things within her realm of ability. They weren't realistic solutions for me, but I smiled and left. 

A day or two later, I woke up, I looked at the prospect of getting out of bed and for the first time in almost two decades, I thought about killing myself. No, not a "ugh, I'm gonna kill myself!" That isn't how true suicidal thoughts present themselves. The thought took over my entire body. It was hours of laying in bed, looking at the plastic bag full of orange prescription bottles, and figuring out all of the details of who would find me, how difficult it would be for people to get rid of my stuff, who would be the person to take my animals, should I leave a note and so on. 

Obviously, I did not follow through on that thought. In all raw honesty, I can say the only reason I didn't follow through that morning was because of my dog. Yes, you are reading that right, my DOG. It wasn't a person, a friend, a family member, it wasn't medication, it wasn't a helpline. It was my dog. In the midst of all of the chaos that has been my life and my heart and my mind, my damn dog has been right there. She laid next to me in the bed, completely unaware of her power, and she just loved me. She's a great dog, so I knew if I was out of the picture, she would be fine. She would be well taken care of. But I didn't want to leave her. There wasn't one thought of a single person that could have dissuaded me that morning. A couple of weeks later, I decided to quit all of my meds, cold turkey. Not what the doctor recommended, but it is a decision I feel good about. It's been almost 8 weeks and I can feel things changing. Things continue to change, and hopefully will continue to for some time to come.

I am here, two months later, alive. I'm not writing that to impress you or to make you sad or to suggest this is a cry for help. It is not. I'm writing it because it is my story this year, it would seem. I am treading water and I am doing ok. This is not a PSA about how you should reach out to someone or how you should consider your actions carefully. Is suicide a bad idea? Would it be easier? Do you just have to give things time and you will heal? I have no idea. I don't believe there is much black and white there, I think it is mostly grey. Some people can kill themselves and not cause many ripples or break too many hearts in the process. Others devastate friends and families. One thing I have confirmed, over and over again, is that humans will fail you. They will look past you, they will listen selectively, they will seek out what benefits themselves and weigh the pros and cons of what helping others will cost them. People are not selfless and they do not love unconditionally naturally. That is a trait that is developed and worked hard to achieve. Few people can claim to be the person we all believe ourselves to be. Put your faith in yourself. Believe in yourself. Help yourself. Encourage yourself. And get yourself a dog. It could save your life.

expect sadness.

"If you're afraid to write it, that's a good sign. I suppose you know you're writing the truth when you're terrified." 

It's been a long time since I've written.
I have endless drafts of thoughts and experiences that I wanted to share through writing, but I have been quite afraid. The last few years I have been living a life that has changed me in so many ways. Almost 3 years ago I wrote very honestly and publicly about a man I had met and a love that I was taking a risk on. That was the last time I wrote honestly about my life. It's very difficult for me to write- it's been such a long time and my honesty has become hesitant. "Some people, when they hear your story. Contract. Others upon hearing your story, expand." Phew, that. is. truth. Let's see what comes flowing out if I just type.

My twenties were spent learning how to be true to my most authentic self. Due to my religion and blind faith, I spent the first 20 years of my life pushing down and/or ignoring who I was and how I truly felt. For the next 9 years I worked tirelessly to find my own truth. What did I love? What did I believe? What did I accept as truth? What did I reject? By doing this, I found a joy and a happiness previously unknown! And. I. LOVED. it. For better or worse, I was who I was. Living unapologetically gave me a freedom I had never known. Unfortunately that freedom became something I took for granted. It just became a part of my life. I lived in freedom. I reveled in my freedom. And with the best of intentions, I became enslaved to the thoughts of others. My life changed, and I changed. I did not change for myself, I changed for others.

This is not a rant about the bad and ugly. This is not pointing fingers or placing blame. This is a one-sided account. MY one-sided account of my heart and mind being thrown in a proverbial fire. This is the truth I have feared writing.

Three years ago I changed my life drastically in order to pursue and maintain a relationship. I knew the risk with my heart was real, and I believed I was ready to take that risk. Within weeks of choosing each other, we were faced with a series of VERY unfortunate events. Death came quickly and took a hold of our precious new life together. Our tender new love took a very serious and continuous beating. As we adjusted to our new life, I allowed the Racheal I had become to slowly slip away. I quieted myself. It became apparent that woman I had worked so hard to become was not the woman that people in my new life wanted to see. My past was treated like a contagious disease that we avoided. I was labeled as "liberal" "feminist" "bitch" - to name a few - and not in love or jest. I was labeled as such by others who could not or did not want to, figure me out.

It's very easy to be who you want to be when you are supported and loved. It is not easy to be who you want to be when you are being told that who you are is not what the world wants. I had removed myself from my support system and surrounded myself with those who wanted to extinguish my light. It became very difficult to stand alone and defend myself. Making excuses for others behavior does such a disservice to both yourself and the people you're making excuses for. Some people will contract, others will expand, this is how you know. Instead of standing up for myself, I began shutting down.

The love my heart ached for slipped away a little each day. Traces of who I once was slipped away a little each day as well. I have never lived a particularly easy life. Tragedy and struggle was nothing new to me, so I fought through them. I was so deep in love that I was willing to fight whomever or whatever came at us. If something isn't working, try something new, right? I tried new things. I tried. I tried to meet conflicting expectations and failed. Everyday I woke up, married to someone who always looked past me, instead of directly at me.  I became sad. mad. hurt. scared. unsure. angry. insecure. and medicated. so. heavily. medicated.

And then he left me. Oof. That hurts. I remember where I was standing. I remember that his hair was wet. I remember hearing his words, and knowing that they were changing us forever as they fell out of his mouth. He didn't want to try anymore. I wasn't worth the work. I wasn't worth effort. A year and a half earlier he asked me to choose him. Two months earlier he looked me in the eyes and told me that he was committed to us- that he would be there, that he would fight. But words are simply that, words. And when he spoke the words "I'm leaving" I didn't need an explanation, his eyes were more honest in that moment than they had ever been.

"someone can be madly in love with you. and still not be ready. they can love you in a way you have never been loved. and still not join you on the bridge. and whatever their reasons you must leave. because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. you never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready."

Reconciliation was attempted, but I knew... "if someone does not want me it not the end of the world. but if i do not want me. the world is nothing but endings." I didn't just not want me, I despised myself. The woman I had worked so tirelessly to become was all but a shadow. I was weak and full of cowardice. I may have been called a lot of things in my life, but "coward" had never been one of them. Until now. And now, my life depended on my courage. Bravery stood before me, summoning me. My best friends (figuratively) stood around me and whispered of their love for me. Bravery summoned me. As time passed, I learned that"love doesn't always mean you should stay." Courage was required, and I finally leaned into it. Leaving our broken marriage was my first act of bravery in far too long.

A permanent damage had been caused within me. Every breath hurt. Every sunrise was a reminder of what I had lost. Every sunset was a relief, as no one questions why you're still in bed when it is dark out.

I am not on the other side of things. yet. I have not concluded anything inspirational or life changing. I have been struggling with a depression so suffocating, that sometimes I am afraid of myself. I still grieve. I grieve so that I can be free to feel something else. I am seeking my own truth again. I am tending to myself. It is slow, but I am remembering my power.

Where I am is not who I am.

I am writing again. That is a start.