Deep Blue Musings

It's been well over a month since the last post. Usually the first post after a hiatus would contain pictures and stories about all the fun we have had in the previous month. This time, however, is different. This time I was flattened by major depression.

Looking back, I can see that it had been descending for weeks, slowly seeping into my everyday life. At first it seemed insignificant, a bit of weariness from the stay-at-home-mom grind. I tried to ignore it, but, like a small child, that only made it more persistent.

I lived in a heavy fog that separated me from the rest of the world. I spent all my energy faking normalcy: I got up in the morning, prepared meals, and took out the recycling. All the stuff of my daily routine, yet nothing seemed real.

Gradually, the fog thickened. I began to skip activities and turned the TV to Nick Jr. all morning. Phone calls went straight to voicemail; e-mails went unanswered. I stopped doing laundry, stopped showering, stopped caring.

The fog had engulfed me.

Yet I forged on. In the grips of major depression, I could not see that I was depressed. I only saw that I was failing—as a mom, a wife, a friend, a sister, a daughter. I blamed myself completely and wondered how other moms kept their lives so together. The guilt I felt overwhelmed me.

Then, one morning, after taking the boys to preschool, I was completely unsettled. My mind felt wrapped in sandpaper, my nerves twitchy like live wires in the rain. I wandered aimlessly around the house and took stock of my failures: a long to-do list, dinner dishes in the sink, toys strewn all over the family room, smudgy fingerprints on the windows, etc., etc. It was too much.

I found refuge in my son's closet hideout. There my facade shattered and, finally, I wept.

After a while, I managed to call my husband at work. He picked up the boys at preschool and came home to find me curled in bed crying. I don’t remember much of the next few days, except a feeling of utter exhaustion and complete despair.

Thankfully, my husband took charge. He stayed home from work for days, called both sets of our out-of-state parents to arrange help, made an appointment with my doctor, and took care of the boys. (He is now an official candidate for sainthood.)

It has been one month from that morning in the closet: a month of around-the-clock help with the boys, doctor appointments, adjustments in medication, and waiting. Just waiting.

I can tell I am getting better. Slowly. I can feel the fog thinning and I feel hope that it will soon lift.

I debated whether to blog about this. It would have been easier to post a silly picture of the boys. But I decided there were many reasons to share the past month with you.

Because family and friends have asked me to be honest with them.

Because I have written about my feelings in journals since childhood, but that no longer feels like enough comfort.

Because I am learning a lot about depression and I need a way to distill the information.

Because when I tell people about this experience, I hear personal stories of how depression has affected them or their loved ones.

Because of the community found in blogging and the silence about mental health that still pervades our society.

And, finally, because everyone needs to feel like they are not alone.