Be Depressive! Be, Be Depressive!
Buckle up all you cool cats and kittens, we’re about to get mad personal and mad uncomfortable.
Today’s topic? Mental health.
Category? Depression/Suicide
You all know that I like to be completely open, especially about these types of taboo subjects. Mental illness is entirely too common these days for us to just dance around the topic because it makes folks uncomfortable.
A little under a week ago, I experienced a pretty bad mental collapse.
Have some background information in the form of a timeline of my 2020 thus far…
January 19th: Honeymoon in Hawaii! Year is off to a great start and feeling optimistic about the new decade. Starting hearing reports about coronavirus, but didn’t think too much of it.
January 26th: Leaving Hawaii…..Kobe fucking Bryant, Gigi, some of her teammates, and their parents die. Literally what the fuck? By now, COVID was also an actual thing.
February 28th: I found out I was pregnant. Miserable and ecstatic.
March 12th: We lost my husband’s grandmother to cancer.
March 21st: Grandma’s funeral + I started bleeding…a lot.
March 24th: We lost my husband’s aunt to cancer. Same day, we also lost our unborn child.
April: Civil unrest starts to heighten – black folks everywhere are TIRED in general
Fast forward to about May: The higher-ups at my job somehow got it in their minds that our lack of business and poor performance had something to do with US and not the fact that millions of people were dying or unemployed due to the pandemic.
June: More abuse from corporate. My schedule became erratic. They forced us to open on Sundays, which means I stopped having a free day to spend with my husband during the week. I reached out to the Attorney General’s office about the unsafe, abusive conditions. Nothing was ever really resolved.
Early July: They changed my schedule again – it started to get in the way of school. I discussed things with my husband and we agreed that me pulling out of work would be doable and that we’d be financially okay for a bit.
July 9th: I gave my notice. We anticipated our rent going back up since I would no longer have my employee discount and this was fine.
July 10th: Last day at work.
July 13th: I receive notice from the building that, per the employee rent contract, once I am no longer employed with the company, we can no longer stay in the apartment. We explored all options; tried to see about simply transferring to a different unit. For whatever reason (and I honestly don’t know if this is legal), we have to be out of the building in…*trumpet*….7 days.
So let’s pause. Let’s focus on this date. I mean, let’s not downplay all the shit that happened leading up to this day, but let’s really focus on July 13th. Upon receiving that notice and being told that we couldn’t even stay in the building, I…shattered to say the least. This meant we’d have to pack up our lives as quickly as possible, find a new place to live, and pay ~$900 (give or take) for movers. Mind you, I’m in the middle of school still working on my master’s. Stress doesn’t even begin to describe it.
When my husband and I discussed finances, we had planned for an increase in the rent; it wasn’t a problem. But we hadn’t planned for a move. I’m still trying to pay off the $2000+ I owe in medical debt from the fucking pregnancy appointments and miscarriage ER visit! So something in me snapped…
I first started feeling depressed in high school…like so many others. The first time I tried to kill myself was my senior year of high school – honestly right before I graduated. It didn’t work because I slit my wrist the wrong way like a dumb ass. It’s fucked up a lot of my life. But I actually got a lot better after my first year of college. I still struggled here and there, but my depressive episodes became less frequent and less intense. I’ve always been the type of person to try to avoid meds if I don’t need them, especially SSRI’s and whatnot. I’m cool with taking Aleve when I need it, but the heavy drugs…they terrify me. For this reason, I never sought out medical treatment for my depression. I tried therapy here and there, but never stuck with it consistently enough for it to leave a lasting impression. I had a therapist here…then she got pregnant and went on maternity leave…
*awkward* “Hey doc! Congrats on the new baby! Mine died and clung onto my womb and I had to take drugs to pass blood clots the size of cookies to get rid of it! The loss of my child was the first piece of my psychotic break puzzle!”
Anyway, I thought I was better…before 2020.
Last week…was the lowest I’ve been since that attempt. It was actually significantly worse. Not to discredit high school drama or depression/anxiety in general, but the shit that I was worried about back then was a walk in the fucking park in comparison to what I’ve got going on now. Which makes sense – after all, I am an adult now with adult problems.
I’m taking a lifespan development course right now for my major and it mentions how, with all the hormonal changes and shit in adolescence, it’s not uncommon to feel like every little thing that happens is the end of the world. Some kids are more resilient than others. I was not one of those kids. I thought I’d be a more resilient adult…I am not.
Here’s where we get personal.
I felt like things were my fault. I just felt so……shit. I felt like I should’ve just sucked it up and dealt with the abuse; people do it every day. I could’ve sacrificed my sleep to pull all-nighters and really dig in to school and make it work between work and school, right? People do it all the time. Or I could’ve just dropped out. I considered it. I considered a lot of shit. I considered killing myself again. Seriously considered it…
I started writing a note and everything. I started closing down my social media accounts. I started trying to push my husband away – I told him he should just leave me (to soften the blow of me being gone). He did not like that. I said goodbye to my dog. I drank. A lot. I walked to the lakefront, drunk, and considered just jumping in and letting nature take its course. It honestly scared me how nonchalant I felt about the concept of dying…and that was a big sign to myself that I meant it. I wasn’t afraid of death. I really wanted it. I was sad about leaving people, though. Whenever I get into these moods, I try to guilt myself out of action. I try to imagine the pain my family, my husband, my pup, my friends would feel. Usually it works……….this time it almost didn’t.
I tried to hang on though. I called the suicide hotline…nobody ever picked up (I don’t fault them for this – mental health in this country has to be at an all time low right now and I’m sure they’re overwhelmed). When that didn’t work, I hurt myself to try to relieve some of the rage and and guilt and sadness that I felt. But that didn’t work either; it just made me feel more ashamed.
So I went home and laid in bed and just cried myself to sleep. I listened to those subconscious voices tell me how stupid and immature and pathetic and weak I was. I let it consume me. I couldn’t tell you the last time I cried that hard – I mean body convulsing, Viola Davis snot cry. And poor Evie just cuddled up with me because she knew…which just made me cry harder.
The next couple days were just…nothing. I was numb. I hurt myself more and still felt nothing. I just existed, but I wasn’t there. When I finally started to be an actual human being again, I felt just as ashamed and guilty, but also finally surrendered to the fact that I needed professional help. Therapy wasn’t enough. Meditation is bullshit. Yoga fucking sucks. I needed medical help. I needed actual medicine.
So I reached out to a psychiatrist and told her pretty much my life story, from my childhood to being sexually assaulted in high school to now. She prescribed me Lexapro, an SSRI (anti-depressant, anti-anxiety medication).
I haven’t taken it yet. Honestly, I’m nervous as hell. You see all those commercials where the narrator rattles off all the ways these meds can make you worse or kill you while images of happy-go-lucky white families running through fields of flowers flash across the screen. I’m terrified to take it. I’m terrified to take it and it makes me worse. I’m terrified to take it and it makes me better and then I have to stop if/when I get pregnant again or something. I’m terrified.
But I also know that I need to because I am still so broken, even in moments when I don’t feel it, I know….that I am still so close to the ledge and I cannot handle another major blow this year or it will break me and I will not live to see 29.
I don’t say this this to alarm my family or friends. I don’t say it for anybody’s pity either. I say it because I know for a fact that there are so many of us out there struggling and we’re struggling in silence. Like I said…uncomfortable subject. I say this in the hopes that it urges somebody else who needs help to seek it out. Some things you can’t just meditate, pray, yoga pose, herbal tea, CBD, or sage away. I’ve tried. Even if you’re anti-medication, talk to a professional. A PROFESSIONAL – not your friends who are not mental health experts. I’m not saying that having a personal support system isn’t helpful; in fact, it’s necessary. But your friends can only help you so much. You need somebody who is neutral and unbiased. Seek out professional help.
My story is not a success story – mine is still very much in progress. I will be sure to track how my trial with the Lexapro goes. But I am hoping that I come out of this on top, whole and balanced and stronger. I am hoping that all of the hell that 2020 has thrown my way will have been to pave the way for something amazing. And please, I know your intentions are good, but please do not tell me some shit like “you gotta go through hell to get to heaven” – people have been telling me that since the fucking miscarriage and I’m honestly so tired of it. I know your heart is pure, but shoving positivity down the throat of somebody with depression does not help. It just makes me angry. That miscarriage happened 4 months ago TO THE DAY…and it’s still been blow after blow, hit after hit since then. You’ve gotta see why I have a hard time believing that “things will get better” and that “this too shall pass” when it’s been months and months and months of pure fucking hell. I know that bad times happen to everybody, but I haven’t been able to come up for air once this year and I’m just so tired. It’s like I’ve been caught in a riptide for the last 4+ months.
Like I said, I’m still so close to the ledge. I hope that these meds help me to step back from it bit by bit so that the next blow, because there will be another one, doesn’t kill me.
So yeah, seek help if you need it. If you need me to support you through it, I’d be honored to do what I can. If you need somebody else, reach out to them. Try not to fight this big a monster alone. You probably wouldn’t win. We’ve all seen people lose this fight.
2087
stormborns
yousharknotpass
