And it's a pretty massive deal when it marks survival.
I made it.
I'm here.
Holy crap.
I'm. Here.
Sometimes I feel like I have so many words to describe the battle of depression. Often, though, it renders me speechless because it's everything and nothing, all at the same time. It's everything because it takes over and incapacitates and destroys and siphons. It's nothing because you can't see it or predict it or recognize tangible symptoms or patterns. There are times I feel like I could give sermons and reach out to all of the people in the world who have struggled with the debilitation of it, and there are other times when I feel like I need to shut up because mine is "only temporary."
Postpartum.
It is defined as the period of time following childbirth. But how long is that time? And how long does that time feel? And how long is that period of time when it describes your depression?
Eternity.
Depression runs in my family, as is often the case for most things in life. My beautiful, talented, smart, charismatic, feisty, strong-willed grandmother had it. My beautiful, talented, smart, charismatic, loving, sensitive mother has it. My grandmother dealt with it during a time when it wasn't spoken of. I can't even imagine what that must've been like. Depression tells you enough lies as it is. To throw the idea on top of it that you, and only you, are dealing with it because you don't know what it is? That must have been a literal living nightmare. My mom deals with it amongst peers who are finally willing to label it, but they still bury it under the stigma they believe it holds: "You're 'less than'." "You're weak." Or, my personal favorite, "You can pray it away...".
*insert fits of maniacal laughter here*
But than again, I'm "lucky." I was able to honestly say it had gone away when CC was about 6 months old. With Daphne? About 9 months. This time? I can't say. Maybe 10-11 months? Pretty sure it's gone.
Pretty sure.
When I was in high school, I lost my voice ALL. THE. TIME. I was hoarse more often than I wasn't. I was always singing or yelling... or an unfortunate combination of both. And every time I would lose my voice, a panic would set in. "This time is the last time," my anxiety would tell me. "This is it. You've done your voice in for good. Your one gift is gone forever. You will never sing again."
That's how my postpartum depression has felt. After dealing with it for the (officially) 3rd time (jury's still out on whether or not I had it after Malia), even though I mostly feel like I'm back, there's the quiet hum in the recesses of my soul that tells me it will never go away for good. Not this time. "This time is the last time," it tells me. "This is it. You're stuck with it for life. You will never function as 'you' again."
But the anxiety attacks are gone and have been for a while. Most of my anger is triggered by something pretty much any sane person would be angry at. I don't cry at nothing anymore. Ok, I do. But I've always been a crier. However, the hot tears of anguish that are accompanied with an inability to breathe or even focus on the reality of the situation are gone. I am capable of looking forward to things. And, most importantly, the catalyst - my son - is never the cause of my frustrations. Oh, sure, that will change in another year when he's officially a toddler and a terror. But right now, I look at him and am overwhelmed by the blessing he is in my life and the joy he fills my soul with, just as his sisters before him have done. And, while I infinitely love my children from the beginning... liking them and being grateful for them is something that takes me coming out of the fog, haze, and weight of a disease.
Forgetfulness is an interesting thing, though. I know that it wasn't that long ago that I was huddled in a corner, hyperventilating, my body wracked with inexplicable sobbing. And yet, here I am, at the other end, telling myself of the things I've learned: more patience, more gratitude, more humility, more empathy.
Not gonna' lie. Would like to have learned it another way.
I am not a private person, much to the chagrin of my very private husband. I have been open about my struggles from the beginning. It's interesting to see the faces of people when they hear me admit it; almost like they wish they could unhear it because they don't know how to handle it. Tell someone you've battled cancer, you're a hero. Reflect upon your struggles with diabetes, you're a saint. Share that story about the time you ran a marathon in spite of your history with asthma, you're a warrior. Reveal that you're fighting depression, and you're... fragile. And that's total bullhockey (pardon my french). Since my own personal battle with depression has begun, I've discovered that some of the coolest, most interesting, inspiring, admirable, capable, and strong people I've ever met are also battling depression. Fragile, my tukhus! (Again, with the french. Well, technically, yiddish).
But women have reached out to me. I can't explain the feeling I get when someone comes to me in private and confesses their own battle, seeking guidance and refuge, and how I'm almost PROUD to say, "I know how you feel."
PROUD of the PAIN?!
Why, yes I am! Because I'm part of a special club, now. A club with some pretty prestigious members. And our pain is unique. But it's always valid. If I could say one thing to a person fighting depression, that would be it. "Your pain is VALID. It's not a cancerous tumor or a broken bone or a heart attack, but it is still VALID." That, and talk about it. TALK, TALK, TALK. Don't suffer alone. And don't be ashamed. Find someone you trust, and get it out.
Yes, in a week, I will be celebrating the 1st birthday of my last child. But, tonight? I will quietly celebrate my survival.
Now... who's gonna' buy me a cake?
