It's Not You, It's Me

After graduating college, I moved into a vintage studio apartment, worked at my first "real" job (meaning I had health insurance), and was head-over-heals in love with a man who would eventually become my husband. Life was great and simple and wonderful. I was living my dreams. Unfortunately, after about a month of living my dream, I was finding it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. I would scoot myself to the edge of the bed and sidle myself down on the floor where I would take some deep breaths for about ten minutes so I could make it into the shower and hopefully get on with my day. When I got home from work, I would hole up and watch television and sob for hours. My heart was constantly racing and my stomach was a neverending ball of pain. The things I once enjoyed (walking, reading, hanging with my guy) didn't really mean much to me anymore. I was being crushed by anxiety and depression. This was something I had never experienced before. Normally, I am a pretty optimistic, happy person who enjoys her life. Sadly, I could pinpoint exactly what was triggering my emotional breakdown (something I don't really want to go into now, but suffice it to say that I felt like I was letting a lot of people down), and there wasn't much I felt that I could do to change the situation. After a couple of months I went to see a doctor who prescribed anti-depressants, which felt like I was taking a sleeping pill. I slept for almost a week before I switched to something else that really seemed to relieve a lot of the pain I was experiencing. After six months I was medication free, and really was feeling back to myself, although I would occasionally feel bouts of anxiety set in during stressful situations.

Yesterday Mike came home from work to find me in our bed under the covers. Charlie was taking a nap and John was playing around the house. I just felt I didn't have anymore to give that afternoon -- I was tapped out, and couldn't face the world. I have been worried that I have been heading down the path to full-blown depression these last few weeks. It has snuck up on me; it hasn't been as blatant as it was the last time. I haven't wanted to be around people. I haven't wanted to get dressed or exercise. I felt exhausted and disgusting. I felt guilty and nervous. Last week was a better week than the week before -- I decided to shave my legs and not allow myself to wear stretchy pants and tennis shoes -- but this week has been a little harder. Without the chaos that used to surround my life, and the distraction of focusing on others' problems, I am left with a lot of time to worry and fret about myself.

I was talking to a friend about what I was experiencing, and she said it sounded so much like post-partum depression. I suppose it could be. I didn't really have time to be depressed after Charlie was born -- I went back to work when he was less than a month old. Whatever is going on, though, I'm going to keep talking about it and setting goals for myself. If I learned anything from my own experience with depression (and counseling so many other people who dealt with it), it is that emotions have ebbs and flows. Nothing is permanent. The sun will come out tomorrow and tomorrow is another day and all that jazz.

Amy