This morning, I woke abruptly from a restless sleep. I moaned and groaned about the late night battles with our boys who seem to think sleep is optional. Add it to the night time nursing sessions with a still growing baby girl and, well, I'm beyond exhausted.
There has to be a word for more than sleep deprived. You know, when it's been years since you've had a full, rest filled night of sleep? I mean, I tell my husband I'm tired, but that one little word doesn't sum up how depleted I feel most days.
I reach for my phone and the moment my eyes adjust enough to the light, the panic sets in. We're late...a half hour late, to be exact. Somehow, I forgot to set my alarm and now I have about twenty minutes to make school lunches and get everyone out of bed, dressed, and fed before loading them all up in the van hoping and praying we can make it to school on time.
In my sleep deprived stupor, I nearly stumble down the stairs and I cannot control the fear in my voice. "Everybody get dressed NOW! We're going to be late!" I rush to make my daughter's lunch while she rushes to get dressed, all the while holding back the rush of tears that is sure to come.
My husband comes down with a smile and asks me to start breakfast. My words fall out like poison and I feel powerless to stop the panic attack that comes next. He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. "Let me help you," he pleads. "Don't push me away."
Slowly, the panic recedes and my breathing settles. My knees feel weak and I want to crumble on the floor, but he won't let go.
***
It was only a few years ago that I had pushed him away and he was fighting to help me find my way out. Panic attacks became daily occurrences and it was a battle just to pull myself out of bed. Tears came without any warning and I didn't understand why the one thing I wanted most was just so hard.
I wanted to be a mom long before I met him. I dreamed of holding my firstborn in my arms and watching her grow. I knew I'd have a daughter first and I knew her by name before she was even conceived.
But the reality of sleep deprivation and the overwhelming feelings of anxiety over EVERYTHING brought me to a place I never thought I'd be. I picked up the phone to call my doctor and the next thing I knew I was filling a prescription for a medication that became my lifeline.
I grew up hearing whispers about what mental illness can do to a person and a family, but I never really understood how real it was. There were days my sleep deprived state mixed with the dark thoughts and feelings I couldn't shake and I thought I was losing my mind. I felt like a horrible mother, a terrible wife, and awful Christian.
But then I began to speak out, to share my story, and I realized I wasn't alone...and that it was okay. There was nothing I did to cause it. It wasn't my fault. Mental illness is just that - an illness.
The day I took the last of my pills and tore off the label of mental illness, I stopped talking about it. Every so often I would raise my voice, but, mostly, I wanted to move on and put it behind me. There was a part of me that just wanted to forget it ever happened...until I came face to face with it again.
***
The postpartum days following the birth of my third child were incredible. I felt as though I was being given a second chance. I was enjoying every moment, even the late night feedings and I was soaking up gratitude for this gift of another child. I was afraid I couldn't handle another pregnancy and another postpartum, but here I was, holding my third baby and the days of panic attacks and all consuming tears were far behind.
When I found out our fourth baby was on the way, I was nearly exploding with joy. I had always dreamed of being a mom of four and I couldn't stop praising God for answering my prayers. But then the bleeding started...and we said the hardest goodbye to a baby whose short life had already been forever imprinted on our hearts and lives.
Losing a baby broke me more than anything else. The grief nearly overwhelmed me and, though I still believed God was good and was learning to praise Him even in the storm, depression and anxiety began to find their way back.
I knew that mental illness wasn't ever something I caused, but I always thought I could prevent it from happening again now that I knew what it was like and had fought my way out. I didn't ever want to go back there.
***
When I woke up puking on New Years' Day, I was terrified. I knew without even taking a pregnancy test and I was frozen with fear as my husband and kids danced and celebrated around me. "I just can't bear to lose another baby," I whispered and he just held me tight as the tears came.
For the next eight months, I had to fight fear every single day. I couldn't seem to stop the what ifs and the panic that rose every time I wondered how long it had been since I felt her kick and every time even the slightest aches and pains surfaced. I felt so often like I was holding my breath until she was here safely in my arms.
The funny thing about anxiety is that there is really no rhyme or reason to when it will surface or how you can stop it from happening again. I hoped and prayed the anxiety would lessen when she was here, but when I found myself lying in a heap on the kitchen floor gasping for breath while she rolled around and smiled at me I realized I couldn't pretend anymore. I needed help.
***
The day I went to see my doctor I didn't want to tell anyone, but the words slipped out to my mentor mom at MOPS as I left the meeting early. She hugged me close and urged me with her eyes and her promise to cover me in prayer that this was my brave.
I didn't want this to be my brave. I wanted to be okay this time, as though I had to prove to myself that mental illness didn't define me. As I sat in the waiting room, my knees weak and my hands shaking, I remembered my husband's words from just days before.
"You take medicine for your asthma, medicine for allergies...and so you take medicine for anxiety. It's the same thing and it's okay," he said, so matter of fact. To him it made perfect sense and there was no shame in it. He knew what I was struggling to believe - that I was more than asthma or allergies or anxiety.
My hands didn't stop shaking until my doctor walked in the room with tender eyes and encouraging words. She didn't question me or shame me; she simply reminded me that the medicine that worked before would work again and that it would be okay. I walked out of that appointment feeling as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, but I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.
I kept quiet and I urged my husband not to tell anyone either. A few people knew, including my family, but there was a part of me that was still afraid to admit to everyone else that I had postpartum depression and anxiety...again.
But this morning, when I saw the concern my kids had as they watched my panic attack unfold and listened to my daughter pray for me when we finally left for school, I realized it was time. For my sake, for their sake, for every other mom, sister, friend who struggles - we need to share our stories to break the silence and end the stigma.
My kids have seen my struggles, but they've also seen me reach out for help, they've seen my husband stand up for me and hold me close in the middle of it, they've listened to me answer their questions, and watched us learn how to cope and live in spite of it. My daughter asked me about it this afternoon and after I explained what a panic attack is, she hugged me tight...and then ran off to play with her brothers.
She doesn't see labels when she looks at me - she simply sees a mom who loves her and, though she sees me struggle, she also sees me fight for a better life. So, for as long as it takes and as long as I need it, I'll take that one little pill, and I won't stop fighting for a better life for me, for them, and for so many others.
