My desire in posting the struggles I have gone through is that these experiences won't be wasted. If there are people reading this who struggle with depression, or any kind of mental illness, I want to encourage you somehow through my story.
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I just decided to look up my blog after what seems like forever. So much has happened over these past years and months. My Dad lost his battle with cancer, my father in law died suddenly of a heart attack, and I spent two and a half months in the psych ward trying to make sense of everything. This was the first time I was ever hospitalized as a mother., but far from my first time being hospitalized. During my stay, my husband had to be both mom and dad to our three year old son. He had to figure out childcare after preschool, meals, and run a household in addition to working a full time job.
It really does take a village to raise a child, especially when a parent is sick. I am so thankful for my family and friends, mostly from church who rallied to help us out. People brought meals, and so many friends had our son over for playdates with their kids. My Mom, who is "ahem" older, let's say, and is terrified to drive in Seattle, took my son to preschool, and picked him up every afternoon. Knuckles white, clutching the steering wheel, she faced her fear for almost three months. This is what a Mother's love does.
Sometimes I think my husband is made of steel. He is so steady, and it takes a lot to phase him. Yet, I know he came unglued several times while I was away. We didn't talk much about the details of my absence until I probed him, because he didn't want to add to my load. He didn't have many people he could talk to that could really understand what he was going through, so I felt it was important I listen to him. t couldn't really ask him until I was ready to hear his honesty, as I felt guilty enough for being sick. Hearing about the many difficult conversations he had with our son as to why Mommy was in the hospital, when was I coming home, and others he was unable to answer brought me to tears. He said my son sometimes cried at preschool, and my heart ached for his confusion and sense of loss. My husband never complained to me about what he had to go through, and yet I could see the toll it took on him in his weary eyes.
As with every manic episode, what followed was a deep depression lasting almost a year. Getting out of the hospital was just the beginning of a very long journey. Every morning, I looked at the clock, and dreaded the beginning of another day. The weight of it felt so unbearable. All I could think about was escape...sleep. That was all I wanted to do. I wanted to sleep, and never wake up again. Yet, I could never do anything to hurt my family. There was no escape from the deep, dark pit I was in. I saw therapists, but left feeling angry at having to spend hundreds of dollars for word I could have read from a book.
Fortunately, the story didn't end there. I will write more about my recovery, but this is where I was in 2015. Two years later, I am alive and well. Better than well. There is so much hope, and that is what I want to write about next. Remembering is good for the soul. Even remembering the darkest of times.
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