the gist of it

I was a good kid. I gew up in a lot of chaos, so I controlled my outside image as much as possible. There was a ton of fighting between my mom and dad, and after they divorced, my mom and step-dad (who are also now divorced), and I used to pretend like none of it ever happened. I was slightly an overacheiver, always had good grades and good behavior, As a teeneager, I stayed out of my horrible house as much as possible: I cheered, danced, had a part-time job, had volunteer jobs and stayed with my friends the rest of the time. I occasionaly went to parties, and didn’t have sex (my parents were abnormally strict for no reason). I couldn’t wait to go to college. Everything went smoothly for a few years. I joined a sorority, had a ton of friends, and a few not serious boyfriends, pulled a low B average without doing much work,and went to parties all.the.time. But, by senior year I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I couldn’t pretend to be like everyone else anymore, and the depression started sinking in. This is ususally about the age that mental ilness starts creeping in, and I’m sure it was exacerbated by my first true hearbreak and a lot of booze and recreational drugs. I dropped out of classes, started looking for love in all the wrong places, and went out pretty much every night. (Who remembers this girl?) That was the first time I thought about suicide. I remember sitting in my bedroom, on the 3rd floor of my sorority house, and wanting to climb on the roof and jump off. I called my mom to come get me, and she didn’t (you will see what an impact this had on me later in life). And when she didn’t, I didn’ t show up for work that day,took sleeping pills to make the bad feelings go away, then woke up and decided to go out (this would be my fall back coping skill for a long time) and keep pretending I was fine. This was the beginning of a long period of self-destruction, solely out of the fact that I didn’t realize what was happening with me, and even though I knew something was wrong, I was NOT going to admit I had a mental illness. I was NOT like my father. I did NOT have daddy issues. I was NOT falling into a hole of drug and alcohol abuse. I did NOT have bulimia, I was just trying to lose a little weight. I was just party girl-right? I look at pictures of myself during this time, and I look at how drop dead gorgeous I am, but behind my eyes, you can see I’m dying. I moved a lot during this time: back to Rochester, to NYC, to Boston…searching for happiness,yet drowning in sorrow. I had another bad relationship during this time (“we only accept the love we think we deserve” -Perks of Being a Wallflower) that will need a seperate post to really discect. A few really traumatic events happened within a few year period, that deserve full attention later. I met my husband when I was 24, and we were pretty crazy, but our relationship has matured over time. After we got married, I thought that things were finally settling down. I got pregnant right away (by surprise!) and had a good pregnancy, and we welcomed Emmersyn into the world. A few months after she was born, I started feeling off. She was a wonderful baby, which made things easy. Then why the hell did I keep having flashes I could throw her. (Holy hell was this scary!) I immediately called my mom for help,and after the fact went on medication and went to therapy. But, I did get through it. However, I still didn’t make a connection between drinking and feeling mentally unstable (that would still take a few years). Things went on pretty normal for a few years (as far as my mental state) until my son Ian was born, I had postpartum, again, but this time was worse. I though I was going to sqish him under the bed. It was the first time I went to the hospital. That was an experience! Once again, I still felt like shit, but didn’t make the connection that the alcohol was the main factor in why I wasn’t getting any better. After a year and a half of basically drinking constantly, we moved to Florida and I went to rehab. My depression was so bad, and I couldn’t see through the haze to find anyway to get better-I had to quit drinking. And,I finally did. Well, things were going great, I felt like my self again, I was going to be ok. This was when I finally got diagnosed with major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety and PTSD (I was already in recovery from bulimia at this point) I was 35 years old before I got a true diagnosis.But, then, the worst day of my life happened, Ian drowned. At first, I went into fight mode. I was going to save his life. I was going to take care of him. I was going to make sure he had the best of everything. I adjusted amazingly. Then, things quited down. I didn’t have enough left to do but to live this new life, and I couldn’t handle it. I had a complete breakdown. I wanted to die, and I almost did. I was trying to drink myself to death. My husband finally gave me an ultimatum, and I got myself help again.Am I proud of my actions during this time? Absolutely not. But, something like this demolishes every part of you. I went through the next 3 years having depressive episodes a few times a year, and it was usually after a big emotional siutation (like Ian being in the hospital) and I would literally just get so tired after I couldn’t function. Other than these episodes, I was amazing. I got my teaching certification and started teaching at an alternative school for kids with mental health isuues, we got a nice four bedroom house, we had baby John (no post-partum this time)! Life was hard, having a son with Ian’s medical issues, but we were a loving family and we made things work. And then, unexpectadly, we lost our Ian. I don’t where my mental health is right now.I did my stint in a residential facility (it made a world of difference) and now I’m just doing my thing to keep my head above water. Therapy, medications, acupuncture , TMS therapy, taking a leave of absence from work, and writing this blog. I can promise you that no one who has lost a child is mentally ok. Not even a little bit. Don’t try to make us. But, I’m doing me best to not let it harden me, to not make me angry or hurtful, and the only way through this is with love and grace for myself and my family.