The Liar in My Head
I’ve had anxiety since before people were diagnosing kids with anxiety. I’m a hipster like that. My grade school wasn’t air conditioned, and on really hot days, we’d get sent home early. For some reason, I was convinced my parents wouldn’t come get me and I’d be left there. I’d get so worked up I’d throw up, my tiny first grader body dry heaving into the wastebasket.
But nobody diagnosed me with anything then. I just needed to calm down, they said. Everything would be fine, don’t worry, we’ve never left you before.
It seems obvious now – the girl who threw up before every cross country race obviously has some anxiety issues. The girl who sobbed in her dorm room because she thought she lost her cell phone, who threw up before her first tattoo, maybe she should do yoga.
Of course, I didn’t put these pieces together until a long time later. It makes sense when you look at it in hindsight - maybe my parents and teachers had the same excuse.
I didn’t figure this out, really, until after I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. I gave birth to a beautiful, perfect baby girl and I was instantly consumed with fears I’d barely begun to imagine. I couldn’t sleep, because what if she stopped breathing? Every time I closed my eyes, it seemed like she was waking up anyway, crying to be fed.
I went to my OBGYN a week before my six-week followup appointment and took the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale assessment. Did I feel sad most of the time? Did I feel like everything was my fault? Why, yes. Yes I did.
My doctor put me on a low dose of antidepressant and I toughed it out for two and a half years. I tried to be a stay-at-home mom. I tried to clean house and breastfeed and be the Mary Kay lady. And for a while, I had more good days than bad days. Even then, there were times when the lying voice of depression would whisper hateful things to me. I was nothing. I was worthless. My baby didn’t love me. She hated me, in fact, the voice would say. She would be better without me.
Then a handful of things happened all at once. A well-known advocate in the maternal mental health world died by suicide. I quit my multi-level marketing job, feeling devastated that I couldn’t even sell makeup. And I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I contemplated the least messy way to do it; in my darkest moments I couldn’t bear the thought of making a mess. I didn’t go so far as getting supplies, but I had thought about it.
I self-harmed, and that was what caused my husband and doctor to realize I needed more help than I was getting. On Nov. 1, 2015, I voluntarily entered an inpatient treatment facility and spent three days getting used to a new dose of medicine, going to group therapy and reading every single novel in the community room. I learned how to finger knit and drew page after page of doodles. I missed my family intensely.
But that three-day period was a turning point for me. I’ll never forget the rain on the windshield, sparkling in the diffuse sun on that November day. It was like I had woken up.
I applied for and got a job in my hometown. With the help of my doctors, I arranged a care plan once I arrived. My daughter went to daycare and that was hard, but I learned I needed to be outside the home to be a better mom to her.
I still struggle with depression and anxiety. It hits me at strange moments. I’ll be struck by those feelings of panic if I get caught in a crowd, or if the tornado sirens sound in my small town.
But with the help of my family, both my real-life family and my online communities around maternal mental health, I have built a network and a care plan that helps me remember to care for myself and remember that I’m never alone. The darkest moments have helped me to know just how much I can overcome. And they help me remember that depression lies.
