It’s been a year today since the day I spiralled so low that my husband had been worried I’d end my life.
I’d had a fight with Middle Man, the night before. The kind of fight that you never think you’d have with your kids, where you’re completely and utterly done for the day, but they just won’t go to bed. I yelled. I smacked him. He told me that he hated me.
“You’re the worst mum ever!” he screamed at me.
I drew this image, the words and thoughts spiralling through my mind. This is exactly how I felt.
I thought that by the next day, I’d feel better. I took my dog for a walk. I didn’t want to come home, I couldn’t face my family. I told my husband that I didn’t want to be here anymore. He read that as suicidal. Yet, I’d felt suicidal some 10 years earlier. This was different. It wasn’t that I wanted to end my life. I just knew that with every fibre of my being, I could not continue with the same existence. Something had to change. There had to be a light at the end of the tunnel. How was it that I was ‘living the dream’, yet wanted so badly to escape my reality? How could I want to run away from my family? It just felt so hopeless and exhausting.
For the past 5 years, I’d been trying to ‘make myself well’. After Mum passed away from cancer, in the depths of my grief, I’d tried seeing a psychologist, exercising, yoga, meditation, a 6-day silent retreat, eating well, probiotics, not drinking alcohol and practicing daily gratitude. I was helping to facilitate wellbeing workshops (how ironic!) for several years during this time. I knew what I needed to do to get well. I’d read what the latest research had shown would be helpful. Some of the actions I tried worked for a little while, or in certain contexts (like when I was on my own). Yet, there I was, feeling overwhelmed, enraged, guilty, ashamed and utterly exhausted almost daily. It was time to get some professional help!
It was serendipitous that the following Monday, I was able to get an appointment at our local GP, which was usually booked out for weeks in advance.
“We’ve just had a cancellation this morning”, said the receptionist.
Not only that, I was able to get in to see my psychologist the same week, as I was already on the books. I was overcome with relief, as I left my doctor’s office. How had it taken me five years? Five long years to say the words…
“I need some help, I’m not coping”.
I wondered whether my ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder) from childhood could be affecting me all these years later. My GP referred me to a psychiatrist. The earliest appointment available for new patients was the end of July, nearly seven months away. Too bad if I was in crisis!
I was prescribed anti-depressants and thankfully the dosage and type I was prescribed started to work for me quite quickly. I tolerated them and I started to feel the fog lift. I could manage my moods a little better. The anger that had consumed me – my default emotion – started to dissipate into frustration or irritation, as opposed to full-blown rage. When I finally got in to see my psychiatrist, she helped me to understand how the noise, mess and chaos of life with children could be triggering my nervous system so constantly. On top of that, the difficulty I have always felt in regulating my emotions (very quick to anger), and my consequent outbursts at my kids and husband, were contributing to all of the negative emotions (guilt and shame) I was feeling so often. She reassured me, that if I was on my own and able to have more control over my time and space I may not need any intervention. But this was not my reality.
So with the right medication, mental health support and understanding, I’m in a hell of a lot better place than I was a year ago. I’m very fortunate to have a supportive husband and family, and enough financial resources to get the help that I needed. I recognise that this is not the case for so many others.
I still lose it at the kids and talk badly to myself sometimes, but at least I haven’t wanted to run away lately. So that’s a win!