Behind Closed Doors

Last month my mom was driving me to see my doctor because she didn't trust that I would get out of bed to drive myself. She was probably right. Being suicidal does that to a person.

As we were driving, I started thinking about my marriage and how, during it, I had never experienced depression to this degree. I wanted needed my mom to know that my suicidal thinking had nothing to do with my leaving him.

 

Since leaving my marriage two years ago, my life has been a struggle, and I'll be the first to admit that most of it has been a result of deciding to restart my life without him. I had the security of a husband who had a well-paying job, and we owned a house together. We had mutual friends - today I am friendless. I was a member of his family - I lost that when I left him. 

It would be so easy for someone to connect the dots and think that my suicidality was a direct result of getting divorced. But if someone connected the dots that way, they'd be wrong. So very, completely, frankly, wrong.

This is how the conversation with my mom played out:

Me: I don't know if you or Dad have talked about it or wondered about it, but I want you to know that my depression isn't a result of leaving my marriage. I don't regret it. We weren't right for each other. We got together so young, and it felt like the next step, getting married, was the logical thing to do. But it wasn't. I don't hate him, I don't wish any ill will toward him. I am happy he found someone better for him. I never wanted kids, and now he can have them. But I don't regret leaving.

Mom: Dad and I have never assumed that, talked about that, or thought you made the wrong choice. It is your life, and we know that you are smart enough to do what's right for you.

I cried. I lost it. 

To hear my mom say that she trusted my decision-making and knew that my divorce two years ago had nothing to do with my wanting to kill myself now meant so much to me. 

She then followed with something even kinder, with tears in her eyes:

Mom: Leaving him gave you strength. You are so much stronger today than you were then, and Dad and I see it. You have had a really crappy two years, and we see that, but we also see that you keep picking yourself up. You don't give up, and we are so proud of you.

That conversation has left a lasting impact on me, and I hope to never forget it. 

I wish my ex husband the best, and that's all I have to say about that.

Choice and Regret

I wish I paid for parking that day my car got towed. I wish I spent more time with my grandma before she died. I wish I left my marriage in a different and better way. I wish I kept the gifted money I received from my uncle a secret. I wish I didn't take the route I did the evening I wrote off my car.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

The only thing those wishes have in common is that none of them will come true. Those situations can never turn out any differently than they already have. My wishing for things to be different doesn't make it so. The wishing only eats me up inside and makes me depressed.

I regret nothing in my life. The thing with life is that the decisions we make are made because they feel right, they feel good, or because with what we know at the time, that choice makes the most sense and fits who we are in that moment the most succinctly. After we make a decision, life goes on. As life goes on, we experience new things and learn more about ourselves. Growth gives us insight into why our past decisions were poorly made. But we didn't know better, not then.

Regret can cripple you. Regret can prevent you from moving forward because you are stuck in the past and want so badly to turn the clock back. Future growth is severely impeded as a result. You can't accept your new reality because you are hanging on so tightly to your old one, and your present suffers because of it.

I've learned that I need to be at peace with my life and where I've guided it. If I'm not happy with it, I can always change it going forward. But I can never go backward. And... I wouldn't want to. I often look back at a particular point in life and see it with rose-tinted glasses. It's easy to filter out the sadness and the pain and see only the positives. But I remind myself why I made the choice I did: life felt painful. It felt hopeless. Right or wrong, I make decisions so that I can improve the quality of my life.

The nightmare: withdrawals from antidepressants

I'm no longer taking Celexa, and I thought that meant I was home free. I hadn't swallowed the little white pill in a full week and I felt perfectly fine... until I didn't.

Three days ago it got really bad.

Chris and I spent Saturday afternoon with his dad and grandma, and then the evening with my dad and brother. The entire time, my mood got worse, and worse, and worse. By the end of the day, I was escaping to the washroom every five minutes so I could cry, because the tears were uncontrollable. Everyone else was having a good time, and I should have been too, but I couldn't. I sat there quietly, for hours, and felt numb.

When Chris and I got home, I wouldn't sit near him, or look at him, or let him touch me, and when he asked what was going on, I'd brush away my tears and say, "I don't know!!" 

I said: "It feels like I'm going through waves of being happy, and then being the saddest, most depressed, and most irritable I've ever been, all within a matter of hours... it comes and goes and comes and goes."

In the good moments I feel like myself. But slowly, I feel a disconnect happening between my consciousness and body, if that makes sense.

I Googled "antidepressant withdrawal waves," not knowing it was actually a thing until I stumbled across this amazing post that puts into words exactly what it feels like: Waves and Windows in SSRI Withdrawal. 

 

In the good moments, I feel like myself. Happy, connected to what's going on around me, able to be part of conversations, aware, human.... but the bad moments are terrible, hands down the worst emotional pain I have ever felt. I think about hurting myself. I think, "Chris, my family, my dogs... they'd all be so much better off without me." In those moments, I feel I'd be doing them a FAVOUR by disappearing. When I told Chris this, he said, "Don't you understand how much it would devastate everyone?" And in those moments, no, I don't understand. When I get sucked into those places, I can't see the future, I don't take anyone's feelings into consideration... all I think is that "This is my life, and it will never end, and I can't live like this." At one point, Chris mentioned us having a family one day. I was like... a family? I can't even look passed the next 30 seconds and see a future, the idea of a family is absolutely out of the question.

There's this huge, thousand-mile distance between my thoughts and my body. I feel like my consciousness is trapped inside a room that's in the middle of the desert, while my physical body is far, far away, hanging out with other people. I am trapped inside my own body and I can't communicate the thoughts I am having.

This is Hell. 

If I start taking Celexa again, I know I will never again attempt to come off of it; it's that hard. Happy moments are fine... I love being drug free. But the lonely and sad moments that feel like they'll never end... in those moments, I find myself reaching for my little white antidepressant pills. It's such an easy solution. I can be happy again, simply by taking one little pill every day.

Chris gently says, "How about you give it two more days?" and then two days later I feel great. But two days after that, and I'm back in this nightmare. 

I wish my doctor would have warned me. This is why it's so important we take our health into our own hands... but aren't doctors the ones who are supposed to know this stuff, warn us, and guide us? Aren't they the experts? On the one hand, I'm really pissed off that I was totally blindsided and didn't expect any of this, but on the other hand... it is my life and my body, and I should have researched what I was putting into it.

Therapy made me social again

When I saw my therapist last, we talked about situations that are especially difficult for me to deal with.

The focus of our last session revolved around how I think my friends think I'm stupid, boring, and annoying. I don't know where it comes from. No one's ever said any of these things, yet when I'm with friends, I often feel disconnected, and like they'd rather be talking to anyone but me. My least favourite question to be asked is, "What's new!?"... because quite honestly, the answer is usually "Nothing." But I can't say that, so I have to dig and search and plan beforehand what I'm going to say. Maybe I'll tell you something cute my dogs did, or tell you something exciting about Chris because his life truly is more exciting than mine, but most likely, I'll say, "Not much, you?" Talking about myself makes me really uncomfortable... I prefer to listen.

I had only seen my friends twice in eight months. I was too depressed and anxious to go out when they'd invite me, so Chris would go on his own. And the more I declined invites, the more I felt they didn't like me, so I would decline even more. I didn't trust my friends enough to say, "Hey, guys, I'm going through a really rough time right now." Instead, I ignored their invites or would say I'd go, and then wouldn't. By my actions, they likely felt I thought I was better than them or didn't want to see them, or whatever. Depression and anxiety are so fucking weird.
Last weekend, Chris and I went to the lake with some of our friends. I REALLY did not want to go at first. I had only seen them once since the wedding which was in April, and the idea of spending an entire day, sleeping in a tent, and then spending more time with them the next day... I was terrified. But Chris pleaded. He does so much for me, so I relented and agreed to go, even though I was SURE they all hated me (stupid brain).
So we went, and as soon as we got there I WAS SO HAPPY. I had so much fun. It's astounding to me that the human brain can give you so much negative self-talk and you'll believe every last bit of it.
A huge part of why I went camping was because of my appointment with my therapist. Working with her has made me realize that I need to put myself in situations that make me uncomfortable. Our brains blow things way out of proportion, and half the shit we tell ourselves isn't true anyway.
What I learned is that sometimes you need to tell your worrying brain to SHUT UP. And trust your husband when he tells you that you're going to have an awesome time camping with your friends.
x

I am who I am

I have a tendency to say odd and inappropriate things. I can't help but talk about taking a shit, that many babies are ugly, or that I sometimes bathe with my dog. This usually happens if I'm a) nervous or b) really comfortable with you. Sometimes people aren't quite sure how to respond. Often, when I'm met with a weird reaction, I immediately berate myself: "Goddamnit, Beth, you're so stupid!" or I think, "Why can't you just shut up and be normal?" 

Many simply shrug and say, "That's just Beth." Others say that's part of my allure and what they like about me. But sometimes, I think it's part of what makes me annoying to people, attention-seeking, and sort of weird. It bothers me that I am this way. 

The other day someone commented on it, which made me sad. I came home and cried to Chris, and told him I felt stupid and annoying, and why can't I just be quiet sometimes? He pulled me close and told me other people wish they could be like that... say whatever pops into their brain. I don't think that's true. But Chris loves all of me, and when I tell him I wish I could be different, he tells me I'm perfect exactly how I am and to never change.

I love that man.