I expected him to say no. Maybe to gasp like what I said was ludicrous. Had he laughed like I was joking I wouldn’t have been offended.
It took me by surprise when he agreed.
I told my husband I was considering going to therapy thinking I would have to explain my motivating factors. But I didn’t. In fact, he was the one spouting off reasons I hadn’t even thought of yet. His honesty didn’t offend me even if it did smart a little bit. But mostly because it was another sign that I wasn’t holding my shit together nearly as well as I thought I was.
I thought I was at least giving the appearance of juggling it all – even if it was sometimes somewhat clumsily. That people on the outside couldn’t see the suffocating turmoil going on inside. Because the truth was, I was barely functioning.
I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. I was tired all the time. But when I laid my head on the pillow at night, sleep was still a long way away with my mind boiling and bubbling.
I had no appetite, but I ate everything in sight.
I had no motivation to exercise, but the state of my body made me want to crawl even deeper into the hole I was wallowing in.
I wanted to be better for my children but holy shit they annoyed the hell out of me! Why couldn’t they just go away?
I felt so lonely. Isolated. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unloved. Ignored.
I avoided everyone. Just leave me alone.
Why couldn’t my husband help? Didn’t he care about our family? No, stop doing it that way, you’re doing it wrong.
I lost interest in everything and even the things I continued to do I just barely skimmed the surface.
But there was nothing wrong. My finances that had been the strangling me for most of my adult life were under control. My marriage that just a few years ago had been at the precipice of ending was thriving – we were more in love now than on our wedding day. Our kids were happy and healthy and out of the needy, high-maintenance little kid stage and were turning into awesome big kids. Everything was “good.” But I couldn’t get out of this funk.
It was a comedian that opened my eyes. Taylor Tomlinson’s “Look At You” special on Netflix hit a chord I didn’t know was strung. You shouldn’t cry while watching a comedy special. Right? But her commentary on seeking therapy and medication to treat her mental health sounded enticing.
But mental health care in America is fucked up so by the time I got the courage to ask for some help, it was still a 6-week waiting list to even get evaluated to see what therapist I should be matched with. I didn’t realize how thin the thread I was hanging by was until I showed up for that evaluation appointment only to find out someone had canceled it. I stood at the receptionist’s desk choking back the sobs that were determined to bust forth. I barely made it past the exterior doors before the floodgates couldn’t be held back any longer. I sat in my car hysterically bawling while trying to Google and register for an online therapist.
Online therapy didn’t turn out to be the permanent solution, but it was definitely a port in the storm that was fixing to drown me. Identifying the root cause and how the baggage of my past still haunted me has helped. It was a much-needed start.
A real life in-person therapist followed and though I’ll drive up to the office for my appointment wondering what I’ll even talk about, I really feel all talked out, is there really anything going on? my appointment will fly by and I’ll find myself back in my car breathing a huge sigh from the relief of releasing a weight I didn’t even know existed.
Since I’ve started dealing with my issues (depression and anxiety) I’ve begun realizing how much these disorders have colored every piece of my life. I wasn’t able to comprehend how much of my life was affected by my mental state until I started healing. My gardening journal hadn’t been touched for an entire season and mounds of produce went to waste. Commitments for a volunteer activity I didn’t touch for eight months. Bills unpaid. Home improvements neglected. A blog untouched. As I started coming out of the fog that had enveloped me, I had to start digging out of the mess I had pushed aside because I just couldn’t even.
Seeing the mental and physical debris scattered around me initially sent me to another dark place of guilt and self loathing. Feeling like a failure and seeing the proof all around me. Hearing the criticism of the peanut gallery of so-called friends and supporters. It hasn’t been a straight shot out of the depths.
The thing I’ve learned about mental health is that it’s not all or nothing. You’re not “all better” or “depressed.” It’s not one or the other. It’s most often cyclical, or at least that’s been my experience. I can be flying high just fine and then find myself drilled into the ground. I have had to learn my triggers and prioritize what fulfills me, what I need both mentally and physically. I have to manage the things that drain me and stay aware of the things that will grate away at my vulnerabilities. I’ve had to face head on the things that I can’t handle well and admit that they can debilitate me even with the best of intentions (stress, time constraints, mess, hunger, social interactions, and my own high expectations and impossible standards).
But most importantly, I’ve had to admit that all of this is ok. It’s ok to not be ok. It’s ok to need space. It’s ok to be late. It’s ok to not be perfect and not have it all together and to be a mess sometimes. It’s ok to show up to church late with my hair still wet and the kids with syrup on their shirt and not wearing “church shoes.” It’s better that my son is late for baseball practice than to show up on time, but having been screamed at for half an hour. It’s ok to go to Target with my hair a mess and to recognize that having the matching bin set for my pantry isn’t going to make me a better mom and wife. It’s ok to provide store bought cookies of whatever the hell my husband picked out than the color-coordinated themed treat I think I should send to school. It’s ok to let the bean plant die. And the cucumber plant and peas.
And it’s ok to not hide that you’re not ok.