For and Against

Over the past couple of months, I’ve had an incredibly hard time putting into words how I felt. Well - maybe it had less to do with the words and everything to do with that “Publish” button - the one button that would spin my post into the blogosphere, never to be gotten back. So, instead I remained fairly quiet. Posting photos and lists and random odds-and-ends. I started many blog entries, just to delete them after writing only a few paragraphs. “Just put it out there!” A friend told me. But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t explain why - I just couldn’t.

I suppose I’m just not totally convinced that anyone really wants to know the things that run through my head on a more-than-occasional basis. I’m afraid to fully divulge the pieces of myself that I’ve held secret for so long - the things that still haunt me. Like now.

I could feel it coming, ever so slowly-like water, slowly edging up to my body- only to wash over me and then retreat - never threatening. Until one day, the waters stopped receding. Instead, they kept rising. Until I though I would drown. And then I forgot who I was. No, wait. I didn’t forget. I just stopped. My craft room and supplies laid deserted. The laundry began to double like jackrabbits - or was that the dust-bunnies and cat hair? I found it hard to sleep - and yet that’s all I wanted to do. Tears replaced the laughter, and finally - the will to even “be” was beginning to fade too.

I figured that at this rate, I was nothing more than a waste of space anyhow. So, why bother? And, then I caught myself eye-ing the medicine cabinet - and I knew. A battle has been waged. You see, I knew where this was all going before I got here - I just thought that I would have so much more time before it got to this point. I really thought I had more time.

But, this was nothing like last time - and yet, it was everything like last time.

At 15, I began to use my arms as a means of release. With a razor as my sword, I would release the pain inside of me. And, for a while - that was enough. But, then it wasn’t. And, so… 3 years later, I attempted to free myself. And, that too didn’t quite work out in the manner which I had originally intended it to.

(And, for that I’m thankful.)

The point is, I’ve been here before - and, knowing how it (almost) ended last time - I wasn’t going to take it lightly. I confided in a few close friends, and then made a call to request anti-depressants.

I was torn. I felt like I was admitting failure - that I was a failure - because I couldn’t do this alone. I felt like I was failing my family because while I knew these pills might help me, I also worried about having to pay for them out-of-pocket due to the lack of insurance - and thereby “wasting” that money when we might need it for something important later on.

After all, what if I wasn’t worth saving? What if this little pill was necessary for the rest of my life to simply make me hapy? What kind of a mother would that make me? What kind of a woman would that make me?

Despite the conflict in my brain, I called up my old once a year doctor (from back when we had insurance), and explained over voicemail how I needed anti depressants. The sound of the neediness in my voice echoed in my ears and I silently hung up the phone, hating myself even more. I was no longer strong - I was weak. Incapable. maybe even lazy. But for damn sure, I was going through a lot of Kleenex.

That afternoon, the prescription came through. And for once - in months - I felt hopeful. I felt like the end to the pain and darkness was near. I took my happy pill.

And, then a message came through in response to a thought I had posted. “Glad to see you’re finally being positive about something.”

With that, I shoved the pills to the bottom of my purse, so they wouldn’t serve as a constant reminder to the negative person I had become. Once more, I struggled with the feelings of inadequacy. Maybe I really am just negative. Perhaps I have no right to claim “depression” or these little pills. Maybe this really is…just me. The thoughts got worse, and began to spiral again - this time, only taking days instead of months.

Then, it clicked - something inside of me clicked. Screw it all. This is NOT me. This is not who I am, nor is it who I choose to be. For me, this is not a matter of war between myself and a a demonic evil. For me, this is a battle within - a battle in which, I am both fighting for and against myself. A battle where I must choose which part of me I will let win, and which part of me must lose. And, it all must start with that one little pill.

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