Earlier
this summer, my friend committed suicide.
…
This summer is the first since becoming a
mom that I’m financially required to find employment. As a teacher, I’ve cherished vacationing with
my kids. The summers I’ll have with them during which they’ll actually want to
spend time with me are numbered.
I’m losing this summer, and my mood is slipping. I’m maintaining the regimen that worked to
pull me from my last bout, a struggle with postpartum depression. Despite it, I’m
slipping further. My sleep is disturbed
by nightmares and insomnia. My heart
pounds, my mind runs the gauntlet of terrifying possibilities. My limited patience is entirely spent on students,
leaving nothing for family. I am short
tempered, difficult to please. Loading
my body with fat and sugar, staunching the slippage though self-medication, makes
me slow and grotesque. I am withdrawing
from touch, retreating into distraction.
Depression is my brain combatting itself.
The axis powers spread a dark cloud of self-doubt and dissatisfaction, a
lethargy that encourages me to shut my eyes and sleep the hours and realities
away. The cloud obscures my blessings
and achievements until I am yearning for a new reality.
The allied powers struggle to maintain the
light, sending fading distress signals: sleep, take time for yourself, journal.
It feels impossible, but, with the fading
clarity that the allies maintain, I make the decision to push.
…
I was 8-years-old when I had my first
panic attack. Dressed in a flowing gown
with a crown of silk flowers nestled in my hair, I was Cinderella for the
Halloween parade. The kids around me
twirled and laughed, showing off their costumes, jumping at the opportunity to march
through the surrounding streets. I lay
curled in the fetal position atop the reading table. Gasping for breath, eyes
locked, the world outside the blackness of my lids was distorted. The droning buzz of adrenaline in my ears did
nothing to dampen the sound of my heartbeat.
It wasn’t stage fright, it was the fright
of what would come later, my father would be waiting. He was out there. He was my monster.
As the parade began, I saw his face. A wave of intense nausea gripped me. I
searched the crowd for mom, my safe place.
I’m sure she could see it, the sickness closing in. In line with the
miracles that moms perform daily, she found a friendly neighbor who spared me
embarrassment, allowing me the vomit in the privacy of her bathroom.
The
stress continued to manifest. Having
been a daycare baby, I had always been comfortable leaving my mother, but when
the shit hit the fan, I developed such intense separation anxiety that it
crippled the both of us.
As my mind became overwhelmed, I became
physically ill. Vomiting, diarrhea,
cramping wracked my little body. Mom schlepped me to doctors, searching for
answers. They couldn’t cure me, couldn’t
find a physical reason for my symptoms.
When medical intervention failed, she turned
to a child psychologist. But, I was
ashamed, frightened of the chaos that would result from my confession. I lied. I created a feasibility: he wouldn’t allow
me to suck my thumb. That’s why I hated him.
For the next 5 years, it continued.
For some victims of sexual abuse, fat is a
protective measure, a way to make oneself less attractive.
On my 13th birthday, my father invited
me to a celebratory dinner. Instead of a
restaurant, he parked on a lonely road. His disgust was disguised in the warm
tones of concern: “I’m telling you this for your own good...because I love you…You
could be pretty, if…No one will want you, no one will love a fat girl…” Staring
into the side view mirror, wiping away the rapid tears, I was silent. I didn’t
give school bullies the satisfaction of seeing the hurt, and I would be goddamned
if I would give it to him.
He was a powerful bully, the sabotaging voice
in my head. But, that night freed me. I would never again allow him his custody, never
allow myself to be taken. My icy silence towards him was an implicit threat:
“Take it to court. See what will happen to your career, your freedom, your
reputation if I talk.”
I cry for that little girl, as if she is
separate from me. Yet, I know that she is me, because I carry the long term
effects of her experiences.
…
My friend killed himself. It would be
dishonest to say that I was shocked. In our 16 years of friendship, his
emotions ranged from grumpy to solemn to depressed to distraught with few
exceptions.
In the two years after my youngest was
born, I lived in constant terror that my children would be harmed. I ferociously clung to the people I
loved. My obsessive thoughts would race,
plunging me into breathless, pounding, disorienting panic attacks. I was
desperate to keep from drowning. I
couldn’t stop it, couldn’t help it. I
was trying.
Yet, I was fortunate. My anxiety and depression never mired me in
thoughts of suicide. I was never plagued
with the belief that leaving would be less painful than staying.
I
want to be angry at him for leaving before he biologically had to, but it isn’t
that simple. Depression is a
disease. There are treatments, some
effective. My regimen pulled me out.
But, he was terminal. He died of his
depression. I can’t be angry. He fought the battle for the 16 years I knew
him, long before that. The disease won
the war, and that isn’t his fault.
…
I’m fighting now. Exercise helps, walking for miles, sweating
in the sun, pulls the jitters from my joints, exhausts my body so that I can
sleep and heal. The prescriptions help
to sooth my body’s angry chemistry.
Watching mindless TV, reading, snuggling my children, dates with my
husband, talks with friends…it all distracts, but it isn’t a cure. I win the battles, but it’s my endless war.
