I started antidepressants again after two years of being off of them. It feels like defeat. It’s not, but it still feels that way. And that’s coming from someone who openly advocates for women’s mental health. What kind of a double standard is that?
I didn’t want to be here again. But you know what else I didn’t want?
To waiver between anxious insomnia and never ending exhaustion.
To be sick all the time because there are no breaks and there isn’t enough sleep to heal.
To feel the rage and anxiety and stress come up into my throat and out of my mouth in the form of screaming…at my kids and husband.
To wake up every morning afraid to go into the kids’ rooms, because I’m terrified they won’t be breathing.
To have a constant, physical feeling of dread in my stomach that I can’t shake.
To feel like not having the time to exercise, or find a therapist, or get alone time to breathe–all the things I was able to do for most of these last two years but am unable to do now–isn’t because I’m not trying hard enough. Right now, there really is no time.
To feel like I have to defend my right to say that.
Given the circumstances of late, anyone would be feeling down and anxious. I can’t pretend anymore that I’m strong enough to handle it all. And that’s with a village there to help me through.
There’s a life raft in a bottle by my bedside. Maybe it’ll only take three months to pull into shore this time. Maybe it’ll take three years like it did the last time, I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not doing this alone, and that’s how I know it’ll all be okay.