I Know the Way Out

Lately, the universe has been dropping some hints that it's time to tell this story. I met an amazing woman during my last marathon who was running in memory of her brother who committed suicide, and I believe we were meant to meet. I am drawn to these stories, and I feel like I might be able to make a difference, but I'm not sure how just yet. Maybe this is it. 

I've always had anxiety with a probable side of depression. I didn't understand it when I was a kid, hell, I don't totally understand it at 41. But I do know that what my parents called "worrying" back in the 70s was really a bigger thing. Everyone worries. Most kids don't agonize over and replay every single interaction, have insomnia, make themselves sick, and isolate themselves. 

I've talked about this in other blog posts, so I'm just going to quote myself when I describe how anxiety feels: 

"The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."

After I had my daughter in 2008, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. Only it didn't feel like postpartum depression. It felt like how I always felt when big changes happened, like the roller coaster was coming off the rails. I've always had difficulty adjusting and coping with change, and bringing a colicky baby who wouldn't eat into a house I'd shared alone with my husband for 10 years was a big adjustment to cope with.

This time, this feeling I was having was given a name. And a drug. I was given anti-depressants and some Xanax and told that this was a hormonal thing that would likely level out over my child's first year. It didn't. Oh, I got better at being a mom, and Claire and I figured each other out. Yet, I still had panic attacks that were directly related to my insecurities as her mother, and actually felt even less like myself on the drugs, which I didn't connect to the pharmaceuticals. I just thought I was losing my mind. I didn't level out. 

In 2010, when my child was two, I was alone with her and had such a severe panic attack that I had to run outside and throw up. I've shared that before on this blog, but I didn't share how serious it was. I was convinced that I was going to have a panic attack every time I was alone with my child, and I didn't want to live if that was true. She's my light in this world, and if I couldn't be her mother, I didn't want to be. 

So, what do you do when you're sick and you're worried about your safety? Both of these things were true, it doesn't matter that I was the danger to myself. You go to the doctor. I went to the emergency room. This was life or death, and I even called my nurse sister who agreed: get there fast and get help.

At the time, I worked for the hospital I drove myself to, and I knew that going there meant I was going to see people I worked with. 

I walked up to the desk and told the woman through tears that I was a danger to myself. I was put in a room in the emergency department. I was given a cup with pills and water to take them with. I asked what the pills were and I was told they would calm me down. I was left alone for a while. I was wheeled up to the locked behavioral health unit. I was given more medication. I was asked to hand over the string from my sweatshirt and sweatpants. I was left alone again. I went through an intake procedure. I was put in a room and told that I would be seen by a psychiatrist the next day. Until then, I was staying there.

I cried myself to sleep to the sounds of other screaming patients in the unit. I woke up and was told I had to attend group therapy. I went and listened to stories of severely mentally ill people who made my problems look like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Soon, the psychiatrist came and told me she didn't think I needed to be there anymore, and, even if she did, it would only be for 72 hours. I couldn't imagine spending 72 hours in that place, so she sent me to a group home. I lasted 2 hours there. It wasn't the right place for me either.

So I went home 24 hours later with a follow-up appointment with a therapist for a week later. Only nothing changed. I actually felt worse about myself. I still didn't know how to be a mother. I still didn't want to be alive if I couldn't be a mother. I felt, again, like I was screaming for help and no one could hear me. 

Thus began the most self-destructive period of my life. I stopped taking anti-depressants, and I lost my trust in the medical system. By the end of the following year, I was separated from my husband, and I had split custody of my daughter. The worst thing I could imagine had happened. I had pushed everyone away, I was living in an apartment alone, and I hated myself. My decisions reflected my self loathing. I didn't deserve happiness, or a husband who loved me, or to see my child every day. I didn't feel like I deserved love.

I was at rock bottom, right? This is the cliche. So, how did I get out? It was a recipe of ingredients, not just one thing. I took a new job (because the rest of the stress in my life paled in comparison) that introduced me to some people who made me feel like I wasn't worthless. I traveled for that job, I stayed busy, and I let it distract me when I didn't have my kid with me. When I did have my kid, I spent a ton of time with JUST HER and figured something out: I'm kind of good at being her mother.

I started to feel like myself again. Sometimes I had anxiety, but I didn't feel like it was out of my control. It felt like ME. I now know that it's likely the anti-depressant combo I was on was making me feel worse, not better. I do not blame this for all of my actions, and I'm going to say this: do NOT go off any prescribed drugs without consulting multiple doctors. I very nearly lost my life during the time I was adjusting to being drug free. But one day, the sun came back out. I remember going to the doctor for a check up around this time and they said I should go back on anti-depressants to deal with my life stress. I looked at them and said: "It's time for me to feel again. I'm going through some tough times, but this is life. This is me." They prescribed them anyway. I didn't take them.

It was around this time that I signed up for my first half marathon, and training for it changed my life. I found out that eating well, staying busy, and working out made me less likely to have anxiety. I found out so much about me. I have depression and anxiety, and I always will. I just accept these things as part of what makes me ME. And all this running. Yes, all this running is now a part of me. It has to be. That's the secret: most runners I meet have found their peace out on the road, running at dawn. 

By 2013, I had my husband back, a home again, and a life that I now felt I deserved. There was no secret recipe. It was hard work. It was marriage counseling. It was therapy. It was learning about me. I'm not perfect, and I'll never be, but I'm here, and I'm worthy of being here. I fought hard for my relationship and my family.

There's a story in a scene from one of my favorite TV shows, The West Wing, that I will link to below, but here's a quick summary: a guy is in a hole and can't get out. A priest walks by and says a prayer, keeps going. A doctor walks by, writes a prescription, keeps going. His friend walks by, jumps in the hole. The guy in the hole says "what the hell are you doing? now we are both stuck down here." The friend says "yeah, but I've been down here before. I know the way out." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQJ6yqQRAQs

I know the way out, but it's not the same for everyone. And I'm sad to say the cure doesn't exist in the hospital. It can be a beginning though. They will keep you safe from yourself for a short time, but the work will begin when you leave. Every time I hear about suicide, I think about that person and how they probably looked for help and didn't find it. I think about leaving the place that was supposed to help me, feeling worse than I did before. I think about how it could have been me. I think about how I have more to do to help change that experience for someone. 

I promise to be that friend to you, to help you find your way out. What I know now, what worked for me, it might not work for you, but I'll hold the flashlight. 


"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise."
- Victor Hugo