Worth Living

I wrote this post a few months ago and sent it to be considered for a mental health blog. It wasn’t what they needed right now… but that’s ok. It’s my story from 10,000 feet up looking down. If you’d like to understand where I come from. Here you go. Maybe at some point I’ll start focusing on more detail. The years have sorta all blurred together, but the moments were intense.

My story is like a kite flown by the ocean. It is held only by a small piece of unending string, unfurling at a perpetual pace. The kite takes a dramatic dive appearing to be swallowed by the dark waves only to shoot straight up into the sky higher and higher tugging to break free. Up and down. Fast and slow. Wanting to submerge into the depths. Wanting to rise high above it all. An exhausting and sometimes dangerous dance. And when seen clearly... a fight for survival. 

Almost 10 years ago, at the age of 30, I had my first breakdown. Shortly after the birth of my second child
I was blindsided by such a tangible darkness it was hard to see anything else in front of me. Panic attacks gripped my days and the nights were filled with fear and pain I couldn’t describe. It wasn’t until I checked myself into the hospital with a plan to end my life, was I finally able to see a glimmer of hope. Courageously asking for help showed me that somewhere deep inside of myself... I wanted to live. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and it was my in-patient therapist who was the first to mention my mother was emotionally abusive. 

A few years passed. SO much therapy. An amazing supportive husband and core group of friends who stayed by my side even when I didn’t want them to. God remaining steady when I ran the other way. Rebuilding myself brick by brick and trying to not get discouraged when they seemed to topple and pin me to the ground. Shame seeping out of my pours as I tried to build boundaries with my family of origin. Each time they pushed back would trigger me into weeks of depression, panic attacks and wanting to die. Suicidal ideation was my friend… my comfort. I knew I wouldn’t act on it, but at least it was there. Depression whispered I was a disgusting and ugly burden to all those around me. Black and white thinking continued to hold me prisoner.

It wasn’t until three years after my hospitalization where I felt like I started to live again. I had begun the hard task of daily accepting depression and anxiety as a chronic illness. I had a devastating miscarriage but it did not destroy me. I gave birth to my third child and was able to be fully present feeling my ups and downs and yet not being sunk by them. From my perspective I was doing great. However my family of origin were still breaking down the boundaries I tried to create. My mom’s criticisms of my husband, children and who I was as a person, mother and wife knew no bounds. My therapist told me on multiple occasions cutting her out of my life would be best. The thought of that was too much to bear and so I continued to make myself nothing and her everything. But I was managing… I was able to juggle my three kids as a stay at home mom, smile at my friends and support my husband who was going through a difficult career change.  

Two years later we moved halfway across the country for a job distancing ourselves from my parents. I had a new therapist and was busy making sure my kids could fit into our new life. At the same time my parents visited multiple times. Each time bringing with them all of the old patterns and criticisms I had tried to escape. Before and after their visits I would be stuck in my bed filled with fear, panic and darkness. During their visits I tiptoed around their every move making sure I fit the mold my mom had created for me when I was little. I was nothing… they were everything. Even when it came to my own husband and children, no matter how hard I tried to not make it so, my mom trumped all. 

A year into living in our new home and shortly after one of my parents’ visits I had another breakdown. The pain of nothingness engulfed and imprisoned me… the only way out was death. My body started to freeze up for minutes at a time and my children would find me standing in the middle of the hallway unable to move or speak. I checked into a PHP program and began the next level of my healing. 

In the two years since, I discovered I have complex PTSD from the emotional abuse sustained by my mom. The depression, anxiety and panic - all symptoms of cptsd - are currently being managed by no contact with my parents, medication, weekly talk therapy, weekly somatic therapy, walks with my dog, art therapy and most recently… AA. I hadn’t realized I allowed another way of comforting myself in until it was almost too late.

Sometimes I look at my life with overwhelming grief at all I’ve lost. But mostly I try to take a deep breath and focus on right now. The days of living vs. surviving are a gift. The beauty which comes from my kids’ feeling safe, my husband’s pure love, and the courageous individuals who share their pain with me revive my soul. And the joy of discovering who I am free of the mold I was forced to live in for almost 40 years makes this life worth living.