Hulk Mom

You might've seen that May was Mental Health Awareness Month.  It seems to me there are too few months and too many things of which to be aware for one to ever stop stepping on pedestals and demanding that the rest of the world cry a little.  Even so, all throughout May I wanted to step up and say out loud (and here I am finally hitting "publish" in August) that last year I finally took a more direct route toward better mental health. I started to take Zoloft for anxiety and depression.  From what I understand, the CDC says 1 in 7 women ages 15-44 have filled a prescription for an antidepressant.  If that's the case, then why do so many people talk about a mental health "stigma"? Why do I feel bold in writing this?

Because by nature I'm a pretty timid person, such that saying, "No, thank you, I'm full," when someone offers me a second helping makes me feel like Joan of Arc?  Partly so.

But also because I have been around people who make hush-hush comments such as, "Well, you know, she went all crazy" (i.e. started going to counseling) or, "He's on all sorts of pills" (e.g. an SSRI and an herbal supplement).  Please, watch yourself the next time you talk about someone who is struggling with anxiety, depression, panic attacks, bipolar disorder--your subject of discussion may not be around to hear, but you may be silencing someone else unlucky enough to be overhearing.  I haven't met anyone who is truly disdainful toward those who struggle with mental health; it's the undertones, insinuations, and insensitive terms that drive the silencing.  And silence is poor treatment for mental health disorders.

Anyway, I want to describe what got me to ask for help--for personal catharsis and to encourage others who may feel a similar way but are wondering if they're "just grumpy," "moody," or "must not be a good person."  In December 2015 I had my second child, and several months into life with two children I started to experience rage over small problems. My reactions to toddler tantrums or the dilemma of needing to hold two children at the same time went beyond normal anger and impatience. I can only describe it as feeling like a entirely different person took over my being.  For a long time I fought this, thinking that 1) "It feels like the Incredible Hulk takes over my body" was a lame excuse for "I actually have no self-control or virtue" and 2) anxiety or depression only manifest as rage in men.  (This is simply not true.)  Every evening, usually after dinner and before nursing Eloise to sleep, I felt overcome with a sense of utter dread and doom.  I usually couldn't identify a trigger, which almost made the feelings worse; without a trigger to address, I didn't know how to quell the dread.  When driving in busy traffic and/or heavy rain and likely with an inconsolable baby crying in the backseat, my vision began to blur at the edges.  This was not an imagined problem; this was a physical manifestation of severe anxiety.  Every time a plane flew overhead, I did not react as though I live in the country with plentiful first-world luxuries and the strongest military protection; I was convinced we were going to be bombed, and I couldn't exhale until the plane had passed.  If I had a to-do list of concrete tasks, I became compulsive about finishing them.  I was driven by some deep-set lie that accomplishing X, Y, Z, and then some, would make me feel at peace.  This was more than just being a busy-body or being highly driven--it was compulsion.

It was the conviction that my wooded backyard would soon be blown to smithereens that finally got me into my midwife's office.  It wasn't until I spoke that fear of being bombed out loud--heard myself say it--that I recognized it as an irrational fear.

This is what I want to make clear to people who have never experienced depression and/or anxiety firsthand.  Mental health disorders throw you into a cave.  You weren't born in that cave, so at first, you are able to remember that outside the cave there is sky, sunlight, and sturdy trees.  These memories may be a consolation at first, but they become increasingly hazy over time. Inside the cave is only you, entirely alone, unable to see anything in the total darkness, and also unable to reach the walls of the cave, no matter where you wander--which, over time, fools you into thinking there is no cave at all.  You, alone in the dark, becomes the only reality you know.  In every patronizing or insensitive comment overheard, the darkness intensifies while the cave becomes less real; you begin to believe that the fears and feelings that are crushing you are simply the way life is, the only way it will be, forever.

Let's say you muster the clarity long enough to recognize the cave and gather the courage to get professional help.  My experience is that in counseling, someone steps into the cave with you; you still cannot see the sky, but at least you are less alone for a time.  In prayer, you meditate on the sky, sunlight, and sturdy trees that you used to experience; you still cannot feel the sunlight, but at least you can acknowledge its existence for a bit.

For me, Zoloft removed the cave completely. Lifted the cave, raised it overhead, and smashed it to the ground, breaking its impenetrable walls to bits.

It took about four weeks to kick in--that's pretty textbook.

After four weeks, the good started to make me happy again.  The beautiful moved me as it should.  The true made me rejoice.  I cried at sad things and laughed at silly things.  I could begin a task and leave it unfinished if I needed.  It still wasn't easy to stay calm, but it was no longer impossible.  I don't know that I can describe the sense of wonder that comes with a mind and heart that react appropriately to the world after being only numb, bitter, stressed, or enraged for so long.

It is a life liberated.