Fingernail Clippers

Hi Friends!

Since my last post, several months ago, we have settled into our house, explored some of our new area, hosted holidays, made new friends and spend lots of time with family. It really has been a time of reflection, busy schedules, and getting into a new grove that is required with every relocation.

Now, you may be wondering, what happened? Why did you fall off the face of the internet? Well, there are a couple of reasons, but only one real reason. Yes, we have been extremely busy, our computer hasn't been working very well, and just life in general, but the real reason I stopped writing is I have been struggling with some pretty severe depression. No surprise I'm sure. I try to be honest in all areas of my life and I haven't held out on the emotional struggles I've had.

I always struggle with moving. I love new adventure. We are always planning our next move, but I always end up at the bottom of the depression pit. It's just part of my DNA. The first time I opening admitted depression was after I left the Air Force. I left a job I loved, a life that had given me so much meaning. A community that I felt connected with. I left all of that for a life at home with a newborn baby. Of course I was overjoyed to be a mother. I had dreamt of having a child long before I was ready. However, I never had envisioned being a stay at home mom. The whole idea of serving my family in that capacity was foreign to me. It didn't help that my husband still worked on the airplane I had just left. Worked with the same people I had seen every day. We lived across the street from the runway, and on warm English days, when we had our windows open, I could literally smell the jet fuel in my bedroom. The smells, the sounds, the visual reminders where all around me, yet I couldn't participate. Add quitting my job to the aftereffects of a very traumatic c-section recovery, which left me couch bound for nearly two months, and the hormones that come to every new mother, I was a disaster waiting to happen. I struggled with postpartum depression for nearly a year.

I suffered for a time after our move to California and then again when we relocated to Hawaii. After a time of being in Hawaii, my husband and I recognized what was happening, again, and that is when he told me to get some help. I found a wonderful therapist and she changed my life. I opened wounds that I thought had healed, but were only patched up. I found a purpose for my life. I started to love myself and those in my life that I had struggled to forgive. I eventually found great friends, found my groove, learned to live with lizards, and became happy.

And here I am again. The reasons we moved to Texas are many. We had many technical reasons behind the move, but ultimately we wanted to be near family. That aspect has been great! The girls are closer with grandparents, aunts, and uncles, than ever before. I am so incredibly grateful for those relationships and even if we end up moving away again, I know that this foundation will be enough to sustain them. When I found my therapist in Hawaii we discovered, together, that I needed medication. I was so reluctant at first, but overtime, and lots of conversation, I decided to give it a try. It was another life changing thing for me. If you have ever suffered from depression then you know the difference that comes with having the right medication. With my husbands new job came new medical insurance and as fate would have it we were uninsured for a whole month. That meant that I had to go off of my miracle drugs cold turkey. Then when our insurance was reinstated the new policy wouldn't cover the particular medication. It was the worst couple of months of recent memory.

I was more than just emotional. I was suicidal. Now, had I never been on medication in the first place I probably wouldn't have gotten so bad, but when you fix something and then let it fall all the way down, at once, things are going to get a little "crazy". I tried. I tried so hard. I called friends. I got out and exercised. I joined a play group. I KNEW that I was going to have a hard time, and I tried SO hard to combat it the best ways I knew how. It didn't work. I became scared of myself. My husband was terrified. I knew in my heart that I had a great life. I knew it and I recognized all of my blessings. I would say aloud all the things I had to be thankful for and that list was long. I am not normally a pessimistic person and that didn't change. I would tell myself to be happy. I would do things that usually made me happy, but I just wasn't happy. I cried, I was sick, I was tired. I felt like I had 50lb weights on each of my ankles. Weights with arms that were pulling me down no matter how hard I tried to stand up. The demons in my head replayed ever single bad experience I'd had in my life. I didn't just relive the memories, I FELT them. Every fight I'd ever had, every sexual assault, every harassing thing that I had already dealt with, and learned to move past, was suddenly attached to me like a lech, sucking the very soul from my body. I lashed out, I withdrew. I was a complete jumble of emotions and actions and I had no control over any of it. Like a bundle of balloons, strings all twisted and knotted together. I pulled at each string, but as I thought I had one area coming together, the others were simultaneously becoming more tangled.

The night that my spiral seemed to come to a climax was the night I physically hurt myself. Sure I had emotionally beat myself up for months, but I never put those thoughts into action. I don't even remember why I was so upset, but I remember running to the bathroom, barely able to breath. My head was not only pounding, the pressure made me feel like my eyes would pop out of their sockets. I thought about killing myself and taking the pain away, but it wasn't about relief for myself, it was relief for my family. I didn't want them to have to deal with me anymore. I didn't want my kids to see me cry anymore. I thought my husband could find a new wife, an emotionally healthy wife, that would, of course, love my girls, because who could help but love them. If all this happened then they would be so much happier. Of course I knew in my heart that this was ridiculous, but the demon, that was my mind, was screaming and thrashing about and using every inch of its being to try and convince me that leaving was the only way to spare my family the torture.

I frantically searched the cabinets. It was only the guest bathroom, so the cabinets were barren. I was searching for anything sharp that would inflict enough to cause me to see red. I did this almost automatically. The pain searing my ears, blurring my vision. The thing I found was a pair of fingernail clippers. I began clipping at my wrist at a frantic pace. squeezing the silver pieces towards each other as fast as I could and in the process tearing away the layers of skin. With each jab I felt more and more pain. Not sharp or searing, but dull pain. I clipped and clipped until I heard a knock at the door. I quickly felt shame and hid the device in the medicine cabinet. The sobs that followed would rival anything. I visibly shook. My nostrils filled with snot and my mouth became thick with saliva. All I could do was throw up and pray that some of the pain would leave my body, along with the insides of my stomach.

As if by some miracle, I roused from my intoxicated stooper. Intoxicated by demons, and pain and suffering. I quickly stopped my wailing and began to breath at a more normal rhythm. The pressure in my head subsided and I began to be able to breath again. I washed my hands and stared down at the small mark I had made on my wrist. It wasn't large. There weren't large amounts of blood, just a small trickle. However, the implications of what I had just done were not snuffed by the size of my wound. I had just purposefully hurt myself. I had been in so much pain that I thought my family would be better off without me. What an idiotic idea! How could anyone, possibly, love my children a fraction of how much I can love them. It just isn't possible. Only I can teach them the things I want to teach them. I could never let this pain get in my head again.

Just like that I was awakened.

Depression is so real. Quitting medication can be so dangerous. What if I had ran to my own bathroom that night?  My own cabinets filled with sharp objects. Or what if I had been home alone and ran to the kitchen? The reflection of that night makes me sick to my stomach. A few days later, while having a coherent moment, I told my husband what had happened. I wept for the obvious fear I was giving him. I sent a text to some of my closest friends and begged them to check on me because I knew I needed those reminders that I was loved. Right around the time that this happened is when my insurance issues were resolved and I was able to resume the use of medicine. Thank the Lord for modern medicine. I am well. I am happy. I haven't had anymore thoughts of hurting myself.

I am lucky. Not everyone has the support system I have. Not everyone has a partner that will recognize the signs and encourage them to seek help. Not everyone is in the situation to get medication. The next time you hear of someone taking their life, please don't think of them with hate. Please don't call them selfish. Please don't blame their family. I am such a happy person and always have been, but I wanted to kill myself. I have a wonderful family and I wanted to leave them. I have the best of friends and I felt all alone. Depression is hard.

Depression is REAL.