Family history was not in my favor. I never knew either of my grandfathers. My father's father was many years older than my grandmother, and he died from diabetes about 4 years before I was born. My mother's father, however, was an alcoholic and drug addict. He took his own life when my mother was only 16 years old. Nearly 8 years later, mom's older sister also committed suicide. My mom was diagnosed with depression when I was in high school, and both my father and sister have been diagnosed, as well. It's probably safe to say that, in my youth, I was rather prone to melancholy. During my teen years, it became quite obvious, as I've stated in an earlier post. I was withdrawn and had very low self-esteem. I liked
to listen to depressing music and watch sad movies. I read Stephen
King, and I liked poetry by Edgar Allen Poe and Emily Dickinson. I wouldn't want to be identified as weird or freakish, so I refrained from going all "goth". I had
some thoughts of suicide, but they were pretty fleeting. I feared pain,
so I was too chicken to actually go through with anything. As I've said before, Tim came along and rescued me. He was such a happy person. We dated during my senior
year of high school, and then I tried college. I was miserable. I
cried every day. I begged my parents to come get me. The pressure was overwhelming. I even had a panic attack late one night, stressing over an English paper that was due. During my freshman year, Tim proposed. We decided to get
married that year. I was pretty happy to quit school and get a job so
that Tim could finish. A couple of years after we were married, I started
to feel regret that I had given up on college so I decided to try again. This time, the stress was tremendous. I only lasted two weeks. I
felt like such a failure. My mother, familiar with the warning signs of
depression, encouraged me to talk to my doctor. He referred me to a
therapist. This was my first clinical depression. I was treated for
about six months.
I’ll fast forward a couple of years to 1998, when Pierce was born. The
birth was total chaos. I was on bed rest in my 7th month, and went into labor at 35 weeks. He was breech, so I had a C-section. He was in the NICU for 5 days. It
was such a whirlwind. I tried to nurse, but I wasn’t able to. I was
in tears constantly, but I just assumed it was natural for a first-time, sleep-deprived
mom. I didn’t tell my doctor. I wanted this child; I couldn’t tell
my doctor that I was feeling overwhelmed. So, I sucked it up and got on
with life. In 2001, Reagan was born. Pierce hated the new baby,
which was so disappointing and stressful to me. I couldn’t leave
him alone with her. I did once when Reagan was 2 weeks old. She was
in her bouncy seat that was sitting on a chair in the living room. I
walked into the kitchen, and she began to cry. Before I could get to her,
Pierce ran over and flipped the bouncy seat off of the chair. Luckily,
Reagan wasn’t hurt. This time, my doctor could sense that I wasn’t
handling life very well. She put me on an antidepressant. I gave it
two weeks, and it didn’t work. I called and asked if I could switch to
something else. I did, and this medication made me want to peel my skin off! She wouldn’t prescribe anything else for me; she instead referred me to a
psychiatrist. I couldn’t imagine getting out of the house on a regular
basis with two children and trying to talk to a therapist, so I gave up. Again, I trudged on.
