Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. I've decided that it's time to share a little about what's happening in my world right now. I've been transparent in the past about my battles with depression. I've been more reserved lately, because I just haven't had the energy to discuss my current situation. But since I know that our secrets keep us sick and that there's power in voicing those things that keep us shackled, I'm finally writing this down and making myself vulnerable again.

To give the Reader's Digest summary for those that haven't read my posts in the past about my history, I've struggled with depression since my teens. I have a very strong family history, with two suicides on my mother's side. My third diagnosed depression occurred in 2003. I was told then that I may need to be on medication indefinitely. However, in 2015, I noticed that I was forgetting to take my meds some days, even though I was feeling better than I'd ever felt. I decided maybe I'd try to live life Prozac-free.

Last year was really difficult for me. Pierce's graduation from high school was totally overwhelming as we now have to figure out how to parent an adult with autism. Reagan's junior year has been challenging for ALL of us. Then, winter hit. It was one of the most cold, gray, and wet ones in recent history. Winter has always been tough for me, even when I was on meds. I look forward to Spring every year; as the plants and animals awaken, so do I. Only this year, the awakening didn't come.

I had no interest in attending the Nashville Lawn and Garden show. This is, for me, a highly anticipated event. I missed it for the first time in about 12 years. The things that used to bring me such joy (singing, gardening, dance workouts, church) became laborious.  I was crying every day, but since my job is in retail, I crammed all that sadness down as deep as I could and put on the happy customer-friendly face. I thought that Spring should be bringing me all the happiness that winter sucked away from me, but it wasn't happening, and to me, that meant that I was broken. When I started thinking that I would be in a better place if I just didn't wake up tomorrow, or imagining dying in a car crash and feeling relieved that my pain would be over, I knew it was time to tell Tim that this was more serious than just "winter blues".

I don't have a happy end to this story yet. I'm back on medication, this time for life. It's a higher dose than I was on before. The crying has stopped, but the sadness is still there; I feel kinda numb and unable to express my feelings. I think the higher dose is also interfering with my sleep. It may need some tweaking. Spring in the garden center is BONKERS, and this Spring has just been all around harder than previous ones (depression aside), for various reasons. At the end of my day, I have nothing left in the tank for anyone or anything. I've been going to bed around 9 every night. Instead of a restful day off, I'm attending counseling every week. It's emotionally draining. There's A LOT of junk to unpack. Tim has been incredibly supportive, taking time out of his busy work schedule to accompany me on appointments.

Much like a high-functioning alcoholic, I consider myself pretty good at wearing the mask of normalcy. Many of you may have seen smiling pictures of me over the last few months and never knew anything was amiss. Like the picture above of me wearing a wig at a birthday party. Yep, I'd cried that day, and didn't feel at all like going to a party. But I did. I'd remind you that Robin Williams had such an incredible gift of making people laugh, but inside was a tortured soul that ultimately put his suffering to an end. Not that I'm comparing myself to the genius that was Robin Williams, but you catch my drift. Be gentle with me. Patient with me. My faith is shaken and I'm quite fragile, even if I seem to be handling things well. And most days, I don't want to talk about it. I'm working hard to get better. I thank God for the positive people in my life right now who are constantly whispering, "You're going to be okay" when I'm incapable of believing that myself. Please don't suffer in silence. Call your doctor or the suicide prevention hotline for help (1-800-273-8255).