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Rochester Local

Learning from My Lowest Low

depressionGrowing up, Spring was my favorite season. I loved the changes in nature, the return of some of my favorite critters, and Easter (when I got to see all my cousins!). As an adult, that changed. April became a month to hold my breath, not breathe in the new life happening outside.

You see, I’ve been pregnant nine times. Of those nine pregnancies, only two made it full-term. Those two pregnancies each started with a positive test in April, and rather than rejoice, I was terrified to get my hopes up. April of 2018 left me worried in a different way. Two years ago, April should have been a month marked with new beginnings and celebrating; we were finally moving from our cramped, overcluttered home in Rochester to a house I thought we’d never be able to afford in a movie-perfect neighborhood in the small town I teach in. I should have been celebrating, but instead, as our home was being stripped of boxes and furniture into a moving truck, I was tucked away in the farthest corner I could find, completely lost inside my head and falling into a black abyss of embarrassment and failure. 

As I saw my family’s home through the eyes of some amazing, self-sacrificing angels from our church, I realized how much I had given into my recently-diagnosed anxiety. I realized that what I experienced after the birth of my daughter was much more than “the baby blues.” I had let my family down; I had given in to the beast that is mental illness. I was broken, shattered. As friends tossed what was left scattered around the house into boxes, I felt like I could hear their thoughts: “Poor, Heather,” “What happened?” “How have they been living like this?” That was a question I needed an answer to: How HAD I been living like this? When did it start? How did we go from hosting birthday and holiday celebrations that filled our house with laughter, to looking like the beginnings of an episode of Hoarders?

Weeks after the move, my husband and I shared a lightbulb moment, an epiphany. We both knew I did not “do” failure well. Maybe that was because of my anxiety; maybe it was how I was brought up, pressured to succeed; or maybe my Enneagram 3 was the culprit. Regardless, we were able to figure out when the house began to fall apart and when I had begun to break and distance myself. Both of our children are rainbow babies. I experienced two miscarriages before our son. Before our daughter, we experienced 4 miscarriages and 1 ectopic pregnancy.  My body had failed me repeatedly, which left me feeling like I had failed my husband and my son, who had been begging and praying for a sibling for years. Once I was pregnant with our daughter, I couldn’t keep up with mom-ing, wife-ing, teaching, and housekeeping. I retreated from the responsibilities and let them go because I felt I just couldn’t handle them.

After the birth of our daughter, I looked around and was beyond embarrassed by what had happened in our home. We hadn’t only outgrown it; I had given up on it. The piles, clutter, and mess became a trigger for what I now know was my anxiety. Instead of it coming out in waves of panic or nervousness, which is what I thought anxiety was, it came out in anger. I was becoming someone I didn’t recognize; I was a mama dragon spewing red-hot words of anger and insult. I was snapping at my son, destroying our precious relationship. I was lashing out at my husband and hurting him, hurting us. I learned too late that anxiety can come out in flames, not just a shadow lingering in the background. It had taken control and was working to steal away what was most important to me, my family.

It came down to my husband, my rock and anchor, giving me an ultimatum to finally seek some much-needed help. The stigma associated with mental health had me feeling like I had failed, again, but I did my best to subdue the beast and make an appointment with my doctor. Talking with her forced me to realize not only how far I had fallen, but it also gave me the guidance and strength to know I could get my life back. After only a few days of medication, I was absolutely shocked at the hell I had been putting myself through. The tornado of constantly spinning thoughts of to-dos, self-doubts, and worry settled and organized itself. I felt like I could actually breathe. I started to believe in myself again. I realized how powerful that tiny pill (and a half) really was and that the stigma related to mental illness had gotten the best of me. 

Sometimes the truth is tough. The beast (my anxiety) has been there most of my life. Now that I am aware of my triggers or when I am having an off day, I can pause and breathe before I attempt to navigate the challenging moments and to let those around me know that I’m having a tough day. I know that a quick walk and removal from the situation helps, mindful breathing practices help, working out regularly helps, slower-paced music helps, and a really good hug helps, too. I have a tattoo on my arm to remind me daily “Breathe in, Breathe out, and Move on.”

Looking back, I know I used my anxiety to fuel my successes by multi-tasking as a high schooler and college student and striving to do well in everything. As an adult, I know the beast doesn’t like the multi-tasking as much. I can see my anxiety coming out when I’m beginning to balance too many spinning plates; the fear of one falling can be too much. I’ve learned I can say “no” to extra plates and focus on the ones that mean the most to me. When the beast starts creeping up to knock the plates down, instead of getting angry, I can let them fall, because I know that I will have help putting the pieces back together again. I look around and find beauty in the chaos rather than run from it. I have learned to ask for and accept help and see it as a strength–not a weakness. The beast isn’t gone, but with help, I’ve learned to tame it and not let it run my life anymore. I look back at that moving day as my lowest low; a moment I can’t be proud of, but I can appreciate how much I’ve grown in just two years. 

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