Yesterday was mental health awareness day. Before George Mason died, I knew that things like depression and anxiety existed but I had no real idea what they actually looked and felt like. Until in July of 2017, I had a panic attack. Because our insurance was changing. I told Adam over the phone that he needed to quit his job and find one that carried our doctors, because that’s how panicked I was over this random happening in our life. Except it wasn’t random in my head. It felt earth shattering. To the point of needing to remind myself to breathe.
I didn’t know until that moment that I needed help. I didn’t realize that the edginess I felt every moment of every day actually had a name. It came on so slowly that the odd manifestations of my anxiety just became part of my daily routine and eventually felt normal. But that panic attack jolted me. And Adam. We both agreed that it was time for help. But what did that mean? Who did we call? I started with my OB. At this point, whatever I was feeling was likely in part due to those pesky post-partum hormones. She was a safe face for me to talk to, and man was she a gift. Because when she called me back, after my frantic message during/post panic attack, she listened to me cry, and obsess, and freak out over insurance. And then she got me on her schedule.
I walked into that appointment and wasn’t even sure why I was there. I was functioning. I was living a normal life. My so called anxiety wasn’t keeping me from doing life. Except it was touching every part of every day, and I didn’t know it. I had gotten to the point where I couldn’t go to bed at night without checking on Audrey; feeling her chest to make sure she was breathing. I was holding her hand a little tighter when we crossed the street and I was extra cautious when driving anywhere. Because I couldn’t handle losing another child. Not long after the insurance attack, I couldn’t get ahold of Adam. He was at work and I knew he was in meetings but I sent him a text with a random question. He didn’t respond. Which wasn’t abnormal for a day full of meetings. I let the first hour go. But after that hour I texted again, same type of question, this time pushing for a response. And when another hour went by, I convinced myself he was dead on the side of the road somewhere; so I packed Audrey into the car and was going to drive to his office. All because 2 or 3 text messages had gone unanswered. He finally answered as I was pulling out of our driveway. Anxiety was wreaking havoc on my mind and body.
These are the things I brought up to the doctor. These are the things that had become my norm. And it didn’t matter how much time I spent in the Bible or talking to wise counsel, or journaling through my emotions: these overreactions to normal life were becoming my every day. My grief counseling had been so helpful in guiding me through those hard weeks and months immediately after George died. I had so many outlets for those emotions and yet it completely went unnoticed that I was struggling to just do life. Those closest to me didn’t even know, and even Adam - who had talked me through my panic attacks - was taking my word for it that it was time for help. I was otherwise functioning.
It would take another several months of one-off counseling sessions and at least one more panic attack before I agreed I needed more than talking. My brain needed a chemical reset, and so I reluctantly started taking a daily low dose of Zoloft.
Reluctantly?! Why was it so hard for me to admit that there was something wrong with my brain? I don’t have a depressive personality. In a time when I should’ve been deeply depressed, I wasn’t. But man, was my mind out of control. The stigma of anti-depressants and mental health made me feel weird and icky about taking that daily Zoloft. I even remember telling the doctor that if this was something I was going to need for the rest of my life I wanted a different route. She basically assured me that the type of anxiety I was feeling/deaing with was acute and related to my trauma. And that I desperately needed chemical help with resetting those firings in my brain. She was right. 8 months later, when I was finally emotionally and mentally healthy enough to start trying for another baby, I began the process of weaning off my daily meds. And do you know what? I couldn’t tell a difference. My brain was working normally again. I wasn’t freaking out over text messages going unanswered and I wasn’t checking on Audrey’s breathing. I was even starting to sleep again. All because I asked for help.
I knew that going into this pregnancy I might start to feel those same edgy emotions. I was warned by my OB, my PCP, and just about every book I could get my hands on about grief and subsequent pregnancies. I’m thankful for my experience, because now I know what to look for. I know what anxiety looks like in my life and I can proactively battle it. It doesn’t have to get to the point of loading up in the car to search for my dead husband - because now that those reactions have a name, I can face them head on if they begin to creep in. And while I feel certain nerves when I think about this baby and all the ways that things could be wrong or perfect at the same time, I know it’s different right now. And that doesn’t mean it won’t always be true anxiety, but for now its just mama’s love in a period of waiting. My brain is functioning fine. Its my heart that is longing for answers and its got a pretty great guard at its door. When I feel those moments of worry and anticipation, I can run to the feathers of my Good Father’s wings, and take refuge in their warm embrace.
“He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” -Psalm 91:4
Photo by Ray Hennessy on Unsplash