{originally posted 6/21/2016}
6 1/2 weeks ago on a Friday, I finally mustered up the courage to admit to my husband how bad it had gotten on the inside. How hard it had become to leave my house, how anxious I would feel at the thought of having to be around people.
I told him how my senses felt like they would explode at times. If the TV was up too loud and the afternoon sun coming through our back windows was too bright, I felt like I would have a meltdown.
There is an old dirt road that runs behind our house that my son and I walk on every day. With tears running down my face, I asked my husband “why do you think I walk on the back road and not the front?”.
I needed help. And that next week I took the terrifying step of asking my doctor for medication.
As someone who has spent most of her life priding herself on being perfect, it felt like I had failed. I tried to meditate, journal, breathe, scream, cry and white knuckle my way through it. I thought if I just kept trying it would get better. It didn’t.
In the days since, I feel more like myself than I have since last Fall. I don’t feel on edge and on the verge of losing it constantly. I have been able to attend a completely packed concert with my Mom and sister, talk to strangers, laugh and smile a whole lot more with my husband and son. In short I am able to live a lot more freely.
To me, this is no different that someone who takes blood pressure medication or visits a chiropractor for a back issue. I am taking care of myself with medication that allows me to more calmly live my life. Maybe it won’t always be a need for me. Maybe it always will. Either way, I am not ashamed.
And you shouldn’t be either. Ask for help, and keep asking until you get what you need, not only to cope but also to thrive.
I am not ashamed.
Ah, sweet friend…how I can identify with this. I had a miscarriage 2 1/2 years ago and nothing was quite the same after that, My moment of asking for help was when I woke up one morning and laid there thinking about how great it would be to never have to wake up again. I felt like I was at the bottom of a deep, dark well and that I was unable to see light at the top. I had no idea how to get out of that dark place. Thankfully, I was aware enough to realize that I was in trouble. I talked to my husband and tearfully tried to explain how deeply lost and weary I was. A day or so later I was in the office of my excellent psychiatrist and was placed on two different medications; one for depression and one for anxiety. It took a little while for the medicine to kick in (about 6 weeks to get to full effect), but I was feeling better within the first week.
Now, I feel human again. I can socialize again. No more panic attacks. No more blowing up at inconsequential things. No more being scared. It’s not that the medications take everything away. They don’t. They just make to where I”m able to handle those things. If I have to stay on them for the rest of my life, I will happily do so.
You are not alone.
Carrie, It’s like you described every feeling and thought that I had. I am so, so sorry about your miscarriage. I am so grateful to you for being honest about how you felt, what you did and how you feel now. The stigma of seeking help must be broken so women who feel the way that we do don’t feel so ashamed. <3
I’m dealing with my own loss right now (my second miscarriage) and this is my situation now. Having to muster up the courage to reach out because I’m too overwhelmed by everything on me own. Thank you mama ❤️
Oh Alexandrea – I am heartbroken for you. Please reach out to me if you need a friendly ear – there are many people I am sure that would be honored to help you and I am definitely among them. <3 to you.