And It Never Stops.

It's just too hard and exhausting. As if my body wasn't heavy enough, weighed down with lead and my mind a deepening grey fog I just can't see past. I have to hold it all together, pretend everything is good. And for as much as it looks like I'm not holding things together, there's a cracking dam with the weight of fifty monsoons held behind it that you don't see.

But I'm desperate to hide what's going on and it takes more energy than I have. With two sweet babies to care for, every action and emotion I live is nothing more than ammunition against me. And with everything able to trigger an outburst of anger and tears, I try to let little things brush off. But most of the time, I'm unsuccessful. It's those little things that some how carry more than they ought to. I've lost it, breaking down over too many boxes of cereal or anticipating a treat which never comes and even missing a green light when I had nowhere important to be. But, it's the uncontrollable sobbing I hate and it lingers for days.

When I was first married, I tried to hide my tears. Locking myself in our bathroom I would turn on the faucet and shower. I tried so hard to keep my tears and the deep sadness that can only be vocalized in aching moans muffled under the sound of steady water. He knew. And he didn't quit understand. After three years of marriage he still doesn't understand and to be honest, I'm not sure I do either. I've tried so hard to recall a moment from my childhood where I was completely, fully happy. The kind of unabashed happiness that only a child could feel. And I came up empty handed for so long, I stopped trying.

Depression is something I've lived with for almost my whole life. It was normal, my normal and I thought that was how everyone felt. Many afternoons were spent laying on the fresh grass, feeling the leaves under my body, sliding thru my fingertips and watching the perfect soft white clouds float by while I fantasized about killing myself. Just to finally be done, to see past the iron fog and be free. My fantasies gave me comfort.

It wasn't until Junior High when I was finally given the label of depression. And it was that label which caused many people to tell me that I have this illness because of a secret, un-repented sin. It was when a family member told me that all I had to do was repent to God and my illness would go away, I listened. I repented for everything I could think of and even things I hadn't done but I possibly would do. I begged God but God hadn't taken this thing away, so I hid. I spent too many years closed off, living shackled to an illness I did not want.

I spent my early adult years going on and off my medication and drinking. Drinking so much I never remembered what happened those nights. Each night before going out I knew, I knew I wanted to drink until I forgot. I wanted to forget me.

It was the grace of God that delivered me from those circumstances and gave my life accountability. When I was twenty-eight I married the man I had always dreamed of. I met him at church years ago and I knew that night, that Halloween night he was the man God made me for. He didn't even know I was alive. When we both finally grew up we met again and a little over three months after our first date we were married.

It wasn't until after I was married and had my children that I saw a mental health professional. She explained that I had moderate to sever depression. This was nothing new to me. I even have a family history of mental illness. She adjusted my medication and what she said next was the most comforting thing I have ever heard. She told me that I am not "broken" or "defective" as I spent my life believing. She looked me in the eye and said: your fantasies of suicide are just symptoms of your illness. They are there to tell you something is wrong and your medication needs to be checked. She adjusted my medication, added a booster which is not in generic form and thus costing a little over a hundred dollars a month. Yes, those pills are worth it but the guilt is what is more costly. That money is being taken away from my kids, the household finances and is squandered solely on me. As if I did not feel selfish enough, with my many illnesses, physical problems and destructive emotional baggage. I feel it's as if Aaron would spend over a hundred dollars on allergy medicine every month just because he has a runny nose. Somehow, the booster just doesn't seem so worth it anymore. Not when there's diapers needed and fresh fruits and vegetables and clothes for my children because they just grow too fast.

My children, my babies. I never thought I would have these two incredible kids. And it was 'my babies' I answered when the Doctor asked me what stops me. The answer seemed obvious, a truth buried so deep in my heart and mind I didn't even need to think about it. Looking at me closely, she asked: When you think about killing yourself, what stops you from doing it.

I didn't expect my throat to close up, to spasm as I replied, Who would take care of my babies?I'm their mommy.

Out of the suffocating life of a disassembled, in-cohesive mind, that one clear truth is solid. The depressed mind is different. We process things in away that makes no sense to us. My mind is weak and unsteady. It seems as though everything is defined differently for me. My bad days do not stand for having a bad hair day or a series of inconvenient incidents. My bad days are marked by me being numbed, laying in bed and staring at the same spot on the wall for hours. Being drained of everything to the point when the tears trickle down my face on their own accord and not caring enough to stop them, not being able to stop them. My bad days are marked by me longing to die. And my good days, I'm dressed and able to smile, even if its for a moment.

Since my mind processes things differently, when I read "The Yellow Wallpaper", I honestly couldn't see that where she was, was a mental institution. I just didn't see it as everyone else did. And because of this, I am constantly assessing my responses and behaviors. I have a mental script of how normal people would react and I follow that to a large extent.

My husband asks me if I've taken my pills, usually when I have a normal response to something he's done or said, or didn't do. That's when I reassess my response, just in case and yes, it's what a "normal" wife would do, I angrily yell, YES! Because what he's really saying to me is he's perfect in his behavior and I'm just the crazy wife. Then I quietly think, did I? I think I took them when I gave Ava her Tinker Medicines. I must be taking them, my thirty day supply is steadily decreasing...