Stuck

When Kevin died I got stuck. I couldn't "do" anymore. As an oldest daughter, an over-achiever and a doer, that inability to move, to feel so stuck in my brain to the point of being immobilized, added an extra layer to my pain. From the outside I don't know exactly what it looked like. Because I did the expected- honored Kevin with a burial and memorial and handled paperwork. Because I did the required- finished my own treatment and had my mastectomy. Maybe it didn't look like everything had stopped. There were small signs, but they also could be neatly explained away by grief. Halloween decorations that stayed until the new year when my mom finally came and took them down. Sleeping irregularly. A house full of papers and mail. Not being able to cook or clean. I got up most days (and managed to shower on some of them) but there is no doubt- I was stuck.

Depression is not something that I thought I was susceptible to.  Not because I thought I was so special or extraordinary but because I had never really learned what it was or how to recognize it. First and foremost, Mexicans don't talk about our feelings, our pain, our trauma, we just keep going. We are a resilient people- culturally when things are hard we just push through them until we are on the other side. I don't remember knowing anyone who went to therapy growing up. Psychiatrists and therapy felt like a very Caucasian activity or something people on tv did. No need to talk to anyone other than your mom about it. Instead, people were sad for a bit and then they got over it. Or at least I thought they did. And if they didn't- well that was their personal weakness. Second, I grew up in the 80's and 90's. The only thing I remember about mental health is the 90210 episode where the kid kills himself (now that I think about it though- maybe that was accidental and more about gun violence- who knows) or Jessie Spanos taking too many caffeine pills to cope with her overburdened schedule. There weren't words for mental health, feeling your pain, and there was no movement to care for your mental well being like there is now. 

I started therapy for the first time in the middle of dealing with infertility. It was such a heavy burden in my heart and I didn't want to lay that at the feet of my husband, my family or friends. Heaven-forbid I do that. (see previous comments on perfectionism, over-achiever, oldest daughter, doer of all the things). So I started seeing a family therapist specifically about about my infertility. She was a very good therapy 101 class, but ultimately not the right therapist for me. I'm very good at evading real feelings, talking around issues and not doing any thing to change how I'm feeling. It was still good to have the support several months later when we found out about our couples cancer. After Kevin passed and my surgery I took a break from this therapist, which in turn meant I took a break from the work of therapy. I continued to push through. I managed to do a few things, like start the process for adoption, get a new job, finally buy a bed frame. And I thought to myself, "Well I'm getting out of bed. I'm doing something. I'm fine. This is fine."  

But dear reader- as you might have already guessed, I was most definitely not fine. I was crying all the time. Privately, but over everything and anything. Yes I got up and got my kid to school and occasionally even socialized but all of that felt like the heaviest, hardest things in the world (not to mention this was all during a pandemic). The hardest task of all was starting and that meant I needed to find a new therapist. I could write entirely separate blogs on both procrastination as a coping mechanism and finding a therapist being harder than finding a romantic partner (but I'm trying to stay focused here- another therapy topic). Anyway, it was hard and slow and took me an entire year to finally be able to do it. I started with a new therapist in summer 2021. I shared my whole terrible backstory, which by now also included the recent passing of my beloved grandparents and adopting a child. I was a hot mess, trying to raise a daughter (who I most definitely encouraged to do therapy) and I needed help, which I thought we would just talk our way through. Three sessions in my therapist told me that she wanted to share from the clinical diagnostic tool therapists use to diagnose depression. She read off the list and I was like "check, check, check. Oh no, A million check marks!" It was like "congratulations- you have clinical depression." I was shook. Again- I still held onto this naivete that it was not possible for me to get depression. We don't get depression. We are strong resilient people. We overcome. We push through. Turns out we were wrong and probably in the deepest part of my heart I already knew that. 

The next step on this journey was to recommend medication. I needed some help to rebalance my brain chemistry because two plus years into this, my brain just wasn't doing it alone. I was also super resistant to this even though my logical brain knew something needed to change. I talked to my PCP, we discussed what a mild anti-depressant might be able to do in conjunction with my therapy. I cried at the appointment. I was embarrassed, overwhelmed and I didn't want to be on something for the rest of my life. Luckily my PCP is a practical but empathetic doctor- her answers were "This isn't for life (yet). No one sees what on your medical history but me. And even if they did so what- there's no shame in taking care of your mental health." 

So a year ago I begin taking an anti-depressant. In the same way that I take a medicine to fend off cancer, I take a medicine to fend off depression. A friend that I shared this with told me "you don't realize how far from your normal you've gotten until you get back to it." And that rocked me again. I hadn't realized how bad it was until it wasn't that bad anymore. I sit here today feeling so thankful for for access to help and support. I'm a huge proponent of doing what you need to do to take care of yourself. I started this post 10 months ago and it took me this long to share this because there is still a lot of stigma and shame around mental health. I worried for a long time that seeing a therapist, being diagnosed with depression or taking something for it would affect my job, my relationships, my adoption, my life. But actually, not addressing it would have affected all of those things anyway. 

https://211sandiego.org/health-wellness/mental-health-services/