There are several times, in the past 3+ years, where I would’ve described my being at the bottom of the pit of life.
But, this year, 2018, has shown me that those times prior, were truly just half way down.
I’ve officially been to the bottom.
I hesitated in saying that because, I truly believe the worst things that could happen in my life would be if I lost my husband or one of my children. But, I believe that anyone who feels and believes and lives out that their life isn’t worth living anymore, that they’re truly in the cesspool of the bottom of life’s pit.
A Little Backstory
Maybe some of you are aware that the last 3+ years, I’ve struggled with health issues. The most prominent of those issues being with anxiety, depression, fear, and panic.
Ive literally been to every doctor around. From the most prescription happy doctors to the most crunchy, natural ones. I’ve been prescribed every single antidepressant known to man, and I flushed them all down the toilet.
Never convinced. There’s something else here.
I spent thousands and thousands on bloodwork and supplements. In fact, as I type this in the coziness that is my local LabCorp Facility, I am about to get even more blood work done.
Chiropractic care, Nexalin treatments, foot detox baths, laser therapy, homeopathy, muscle testing, and anything else you can imagine except for acupuncture. (I was never quite brave enough for that).
Everytime, aside from the time I presented with hyperthyroidism in 2015, it was just: “Low Vitamin D/semi-wonky cholesterol levels”.
A potential suspicion of Lyme Disease or some sort of other chronic illness still looms over my head as of current. I went to the best doctors on the east coast to find that out last Friday. But, does it really matter where it’s all come from?
And if it comes up as none of the above , I’ll have to swallow and digest that my brain is just running the show and depression, anxiety, and panic is the “thing”.
But, You’re a Christ-Follower
In January of this year, January 3rd to be exact, I had my third encounter with Jesus.
At 2:30am, after two days of prayer and fasting, I woke up, abruptly, from a deep sleep.
I sat straight up in bed and opened my eyes.
Jesus was everywhere I looked.
Just standing there.
Smiling at me.
This occurred for maybe two full minutes, in which time I nearly beat awake my poor husband. I begged him to open his eyes and see what I was seeing, but he saw nothing and told me to go back to sleep.
I continued to fast and pray for eight more days. Determined that this would be the year that God and I would be stronger than ever before.
I had 11 specific prayer requests, three about my maladies, and he answered all of them during that fast...
...except for the three about my healing.
I can’t begin to tell you how many times in the past few months that I’ve gone back to this moment and rolled my eyes in disgust. Why would Jesus visit me and just smile as if everything was going to be alright?!
Crashing Head First Into Rock Bottom
For years now, I’ve dealt with near continuous anxiety and panic. As the months waned on, my list of fears grew exponentially.
It began with some simple health anxiety. And after that first panic attack, I was terrified of having another.
By the end of 2015, I was a full blown hypochondriac and eventually experienced continuous electricity going through my body from the moment I would wake in the mornings, until the unconsciousness sleep provided me at night.
I couldn’t sit still.
Did you know that simply shaking your leg up and down all day burns nearly five-hundred calories?!
I had the most muscular right leg in my family back then.
Panic attacks became my default mode. I could go anywhere and feel like “this was it”...my moment to die. No place was safe from these automatic responses.
The park, Aldi’s checkout line, buying movie tickets, sitting thru a movie, Church, drive-thru’s, driving, waiting for any length of time, checking the mail, being the passenger in the car(which I was all the time at my worst), picking up our groceries, waking up in the morning, and eventually just being in my own home.
Depression began to creep in slowly this past January. And before I knew it, everything I used to have a desire for had left me.
Dancing sounded like torture. Music was merely noise...like fingernails on a chalkboard.
The thought of doing anything beyond just sitting down and wanting to die already, was too much.
I stopped caring. And, I didn’t even want to stop caring. It just happened.
Winter pressed on with a vengeance and so did this dark cloud. A cloud that filled up heavier and heavier, just waiting for the release of the deluge it was holding tight to.
After I had the worst panic attack of all on February 9th, one in which my children had to assist firemen and paramedics in our home, the whole dam broke and left me desperate to stay above water.
Now my very “safe zone” wasn’t safe. Anxiety and panic had filled my walls up to the ceilings and I absolutely hated my life 100% for the first time ever.
Nothing to live for, I thought.
Tired of struggling. Tired of my brain playing tricks on me. Tired of fighting.
All I wanted to do was die.
They deserve better. Everyone did.
So, I pushed them all away. And I became seriously suicidal.
Depression Doesn’t Care If You Have It All
Unless you’re my husband or mother-in-law, the following description of what I’ve experienced this year won’t give you its full effect.
They are the only ones who really know how bad it got.
However, I must be candid here, as I always have been. Because, this is real life and my reality. And the truth sets us all free, even when the truth is tough to admit.
Every morning, for about six weeks, I’d wake up, wail and sob uncontrollably until about 11am. I’d have panic attack after panic attack, but this time, depression held its hands. They were like this dynamic super duo that held me in an altered state for hours.
I’d scream and scream and yell at
God and Mike and myself.
I’d over turn tables, throw anything in my reach at the walls, and bang my head against the ground. I’d punch cushions and the walls until my knuckles felt like breaking. I’d lose all of my energy and hyperventilate to the point of almost passing out every morning.
It got to the point where I wasn’t doing life at all. Screw everyone and everything. I hated it all. I didn’t want friends. I didn’t want my family. I wanted to go away and begged, several times a day even, for someone to just take me in.
Finally, after realizing that the supplements, the oils, the countless bloodwork and appointments were getting me nowhere, I decided that maybe I need to get on a medication once and for all. And not flush it this time.
Ladies and gentlemen, you can have it all and still experience the deepest and darkest pit.
Which makes no sense. It doesn’t. I know. And that was THE MOST frustrating part for me. Knowing that I have it all and I can’t even have the eyes and the mind to enjoy it. It was impossible. Like throwing a feather at a freight train, nothing I tried helped. Not even Bible verses. Not even prayer. Nothing took it away. Nothing.
So, I stopped reaching out to God. I was done. And up until a few days ago, I was still done.
Here’s the deal: I’m super prideful. I spent over three years spinning my wheels, dumping medications down the toilet and doing everything in MY power to will this all away.
Sometimes the answer to our problems lies in a tiny green pill. A tiny green pill that literally made me shake with fear everytime I opened the bottle.
I’m five weeks removed from that low moment where I called my primary, smack in the middle of my morning meltdown, and she translated my broken, hyperventilated speech into somehow understanding that I needed an appointment for meds and NOW.
I’m five weeks removed and I no longer cringe when I open that bottle. In fact, I am happy to take it because I’m seeing pieces of myself again.
The Worst Day of My Life
Two weeks ago, after experiencing four straight days of conquering fears, having energy, and laughing for the first time in months, I woke up under the darkness again.
During this particular morning meltdown, while my children were safely spending the night at their Grandmothers house, I placed myself in front of the knife drawer in my kitchen.
I contemplated which one would serve me best: the carving knife? The steak knife? The paring knife?
I just had so much pain in my head. Not in the physical sense, but mentally, I was writhing. It hurt so bad. The medicine had betrayed me. The last four days were a joke. I saw life as better off without me.
So, I took out my pain on my left forearm.
Over and over. I just wanted to release my pain. I just wanted to put the mental pain with a physical pain.
And, hours later, after the cloud lifted from me around noon, like it always does, I felt remorse. I felt awful. I felt guilty and stupid. Idiotic. Irresponsible.
After two consecutive days of accompanying my husband to his job site, sitting in the van for hours with our children, I realized that this...THIS was rock bottom.
But, it gets worse...
The following Monday, after four straight weeks of my husband having to work at home, I had a follow-up concerning my dosage.
This follow-up led me to an hour long drive to a Psyc Ward in Charlotte to speak to a Psychiatrist about a more “fine-tuned” medication plan.
Naive as I was, I walked into that place thinking that a simple 20 minute convo with the on-call doctor would be my experience.
However, what I actually experienced was, how do I say...a tad more “involved”.
I was treated like an imminently suicidal patient.
I was stripped naked and inspected in every crevice. I was humiliated as the security wand went over my naked body. I was commanded to put all of my belongings into a special plastic bag and I was given scrubs to wear that were the ugliest shade of tan.
I wondered what was happening. I told them with the sweetest, non-psycho person smile I could muster that I was just here to discuss a possible med change with the doctor.
They didn’t care. And they told me to go sit in the “day room” with the other inmates and that my lunch would arrive on a tray.
Six hours and 75 almost panic attacks later and I got my stuff back. Vowing never to return again.
A waste of time.
“Stay the course,” said the Psychiatrist.
A twenty minute/$1000+ meeting that led to those three simple words.
I was DONE.
Tired of serving the Lord, at this point, I was so hurt.
How could he allow this to happen to me?
I didn’t belong there, yet, I was forced to experience it all. The screaming, the cursing, the smells, the bleakness...a line of small children that were stacked from smallest to tallest, led by security guards down a hallway that had a “faux skylight of the real sky”. These people never see the real sky. The windows are frosted all the way up, minus a foot of clarity at the top.
I saw syringes and fights and nurses holding down bodies that couldn’t contain themselves.
I dared not show my internal panic here in front of these people, lest they inject me with something, too.
“You’re so sweet,” one nurse chided as I was putting my street clothes back on at discharge. As if she could see from experience that I was probably the most sane person to wear that hospital band.
Glimmers of Hope
Here’s the truth now: if last Tuesday was the shit at the bottom of the pit of life, Wednesday began the climb upwards.
I’ve driven my children to the park. Alone. Twice. Something i hadn’t done in four years.
My husband went back to work and I could be trusted again. Panic attacks were spacing out. Depression was walking away from me. I started talking to my sister again some. I hadn’t spoken to most of my family in months. They’re all in Texas anyway. They can’t really help me.
I still don’t know why or how or what concerning these struggles. I may never understand.