i mentioned last night that i have had a couple of post ideas rattling around in my head for a while now, but i’ve been struggling with how to coherently write them up. i realized at about 4 this morning (you know, during that hour that i can’t fall back to sleep after getting up to pee) that part of my problem is that these 4 or 5 posts i’ve been thinking of are really all intertwined and i have no idea how to separate them. so i’m not going to. i’m just going to start rambling on and on until i need a break, and then pick up again tomorrow. i don’t even think i’m going to reread it before i hit publish, for fear i will chicken out. i can’t promise that it’s going to make sense, but i do
think hope that it will be some of the most meaningful stuff i’ve managed to somewhat articulate on here. with me so far? ok. here we go.
(this post details most of my longstanding history with depression, which i am just not comfortable with close friends and family knowing. most of it has been edited out. if i don’t know you in real life, feel free to email for the password.
for as long as i can remember, i have been fighting depression. it’s not that i didn’t have a happy childhood. sure, there were some issues, but it was really fine. but i was not a happy kid. and i really didn’t understand how the people around me were happy.
i began seeing my first therapist around the time that my dad first moved out. i don’t remember anymore exactly when that was, but it feels like it was during high school. my parents decided that my brother and i should go so we could talk about the separation. i remember she was a dumpy old lady, and we saw her in an examination room at the crappy old hospital one town over.
just before my first session with her, my best friend and i had gone to our principal, scared for a third friend of ours. she had gotten busted with pot in school, and we were begging the principal to not punish her: she had stolen the drugs from her dealer father. her horribly abusive father. the standard out-of-school suspension that she was slated to receive would be perfect for him: there would be at least a week for her bruises to heal before she was seen again by anyone outside of the house. in fact, this time, in addition to the routine beating, he submerged her hands in boiling water so she couldn’t take his things again.
needless to say, my dad moving out was the least of my worries at the time. in fact, the calm that descended on our house was a welcome relief. but the therapist wanted to hear nothing of my real issues. she kept going back to my parents’ marriage. she told me i was avoiding the topic because it was too difficult for me to deal with. i still remember, clear as day, her ending our worthless session by telling me that i had “separation anxiety with mild depression.” and that if i wasn’t willing to
talk about my parents work with her in our sessions, i would “never be normal.” who the fuck says that to a teenager?
i am now on therapist #8 in the last 15-ish years. some were pretty crappy. one, right after we moved to jersey, fell asleep during our first session. she didn’t wake up until the alarm on her watch went off to signal our hour was up. some were absolutely amazing and i can still see the effects they had on my life (and would give anything to tell them that all these years later).
sometimes i have convinced myself that since i can manage to get out of bed in the morning without a struggle that i have been magically fixed. and can stop seeing whatever therapist i’m currently working with. (although, to give myself some credit, there were quite a few in there that i had to stop seeing because of moving or their leaving the clinic i was at). my problem is, once i stop, i have a hard time recognizing that i need to start back up again. sometimes i don’t see it at all until R points out how sad i have become. and buddha love him, he has pulled out the you-need-help-or-this-isn’t-going-to-work card when need be. that may sound harsh to some people, but having someone call me on my shit because they love me and are worried about me is one of the best things anyone has ever done for me. i am a very lucky girl.
i’ve been seeing my current therapist for about a year now. recently, we’ve pushed my sessions back to once every three weeks instead of once every two. i am very proud of that fact, that i am doing ok enough to not need session as frequently. i don’t think that she quite understands infertility and the baggage that comes with it, but she is wonderful with helping me recognize that patterns and problems.
but as much as i can acknowledge how far i have come, and how well i am doing right now, i am still terrified of the future. i am scared of getting too cocky and thinking that i can do this without help like i have repeatedly done in the past. i am scared postpartum depression. i am scared of maternity leave, and breastfeeding, and taking care of a new baby. and i am really scared of screwing this kid up.
but i think that’s enough for today. that was easier than i thought it would be to get out there, but i need a break for now. obviously though, you can see some of the places i need to go with this. at least i won’t run out of blog topics for a while though 🙂