Exposed

I've been in a bad way.
A deep funk.

Most days, I can claw my way out of it and be okay.

For the past 3, it's like I've been clawing with bloody stubs. I've made no progress out of the pit. It's been dark and scary where I've been living.

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This isn't new to me. I know... some of you are shaking your heads, trying to refocus your eyes on what you're reading. "Stacy?? Depressed? No." It's true, though. All my adult life, I've battled this demon called Depression. I've treated it several times... just enough to get over the hump and until I'm on an upward climb again. My Mother lives with it but doesn't treat it. HER Mother treated it off and on; her manic depressiveness caused a great deal of hurt to her children and everyone else around her. I refuse to be like either one of them. I WILL treat mine.

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The problem with me is, it takes me too long to recognize the signs. I'll live with them for a long time, handling them as they come up, expertly hiding the symptoms for months on end. I don't want the world to know. I don't want ME to admit that I'm hurting. There's no REASON I should hurt. There's no reason that this rage should well up in me like it does. There's no reason that it takes every ounce of can-do to drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I have a perfect life. I really do. I feel huge guilt for being depressed. Makes no sense, I know. I. AM. NOT. DEPRESSED.

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And yet, I am.

And that r e a l l y pisses me off.

Last week, I finally broke and decided to do something about it. The first step was admitting the problem. The second step was taking medicine for another problem I've been in denial about. I hoped that the Synthroid, which should regulate my thyroid, would also regulate my seratonin. Who knows, right? It's all hormones. I should mention here that the Thyroid Disease is also a gift from my Mom and Grandma. They both fought with synthetic thyroid all their lives. My Mom still fights it. She's been on the medicine for almost 30 years, and still can't regulate her thyroid. She has Hashimoto's Disease, and the worst case of Grave's Disease that most have ever seen. I wonder. What HAS all this fake thyroid done for her besides give her grief and send her back for blood work every few months? I do not want to start that cycle. And yet, I don't want to be sick, either.

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So I started taking the Synthroid last Tuesday. My last night of normal sleep was Thursday. Since then, I've only had a cumulative 12 hours of sleep. I toss and turn in the dark, making up tunes to the background rythym of the ceiling fan.... counting the headlights that dance across my ceiling from the street below... before finally giving up and coming downstairs. I surf the net, but don't have the mental energy to respond to emails or to post on the message boards I love. So I lie down and watch MTV and VH1, surfing between them to avoid the hip hop crap that makes me so cranky... hoping the music will eventually lull me to sleep.

I wonder if the Synthroid is causing the insomnia. I wonder if the Synthroid has sent my depression spiraling out of control. Or is it the acknowledged FACT of the depression that gave it freedom to expose its ugliness?

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When it gets really bad, I avoid people. I don't answer my phone. I hide from the mailman, just in case he wants to make small talk on the front porch. I don't make eye contact with anyone, especially when they ask, "How are you?"

"I'm okay," I lie.

I pretend to have headaches so I can go to bed.

I get really angry really fast over really stupid things.

I resist hugs, kisses and kindnesses.

Last night, against my will but not having the strength to protest (because they were trying to help), I went out with Cara and Kristi. When the waiters began singing Happy Birthday at the table next to ours, I almost came undone. They were loud and off-key and obnoxious and it went on forEVER. Then the tears welled up in my eyes. TEARS! Over a stupid SONG that a few months ago, I'd have joined IN with.

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Nothing pisses me off more than crying. It's funny, really. I cry really easily over stuff that has nothing to do with me. Movies? Books? Sermons? SONGS? Oh yah. I cry. But when it's personal, I'll sooner turn purple and pass out in my soup before I'll shed a tear. And when I MUST... when the tears can hide no more, I'll only cry in secret. In the shower with the water at full blast... on the street with my legs at a full run... in the car with the radio blaring at full volume. Then I dry it up and return to life. Pissed. I hate to cry.

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Which is why tonight was so very, very strange. I needed to go to Walmart for life's most basic necessities... cat litter and toilet paper, both of which we were completlety out of. Plus, I needed to get the kids out of the house, cause Darren's Monday Night Football/Bible Study group was meeting at our house. It took every last ounce of mental energy in me to find my bra, put it on, gather my checkbook and keys, and get us out the door. As we left, Dale was coming in. "Oh crap," I heard myself say, when I realized I'd have to speak to him. I met his hug from the side, mumbled "I'm okay" when he asked how I was, and made a beeline for the door. I didn't want anyone to see the tears that were already spilling. Mostly, 'cause I wouldn't be able to explain them. I had no idea why they came.

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Twenty minutes later, I was in the cat litter aisle. I just stared at it. My chin was quivering. Dani watched me, then looked at the cat litter, then looked back at me. Poor thing. She had no idea what to do. But she guessed right. She grabbed the cat litter and put it in the cart.

Two aisles over, I grabbed bath soap and dropped it in the cart. Then I looked for toilet paper. Up and down the aisles... and back. Couldn't find it. My cries were audible now... stifled bursts of breath, caught just before they exploded into sobs. And the tears were hot on my cheeks... not just balanced on my lower lids anymore. Now they were freely flowing. The boys watched me, their eyes like saucers. Dani stood a safe distance away, a look of terror and confusion and "What the heck" on her face.

Then the clasp gave way. The little mechanism that keeps the sobs at bay collapsed under the pressure, and there in the middle of Walmart, leaning against a display of Lever 2000 Pure Rain and Aloe Vera, I mumbled, "I can't find the toilet paper," and the sobs erupted. Big, ugly, air-gasping sobs. Tears dripping from my nose sobs. Snot running down my face sobs. It was an ugly cry. The boys, bless their hearts, didn't move a muscle. Shoppers gingerly went about their business around me. Dani came from behind and rested her hand on my shoulder, which made me cry harder. She'd never seen such a thing, and I knew it was probably scaring the living CRAP out of her. Yet, she acted with such grace and maturity, and even in my whacked out state, I was proud of her.

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Within minutes, I was fine. I was able to finish our shopping and was even able to hold a normal conversation with Dani. I thought it was odd, how calm I felt, and how suddenly it had happened. Later, at home, I told the story to Darren. He said quietly, "We were praying for you. At that same time... not long after you left... before we started our Bible Study.... we prayed for you."

At first, I wanted to be offended. Why had he told them? IS nothing sacred?? All of the Monday night shoppers at Walmart had to see me in The Funk, but at least none of them KNEW me. WHY had he shared it with people I love? WHY?

"What'd you pray for?" I asked.

"Actually, I didn't," he answered. "Dale did. I asked if we could pray for you, but Dale did the actual praying. And he just asked for release. That you could be released of whatever's got a hold of you."

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Ah. Release. Yes, that's what it was.
I didn't know it then, but those hot tears and ugly sobs were the release of months and months of bottled up anguish and fear. I felt so calm afterward, because I was FREE of it.

Sweet, sweet release.

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Has this made you uncomfortable? I'm sorry, and yet in a selfish way, I am not.

In my very first blog, I wrote that I wanted you guys to hold me accountable. I was talking about my writing. But now, I'm saying it again. I want you to hold me accountable. I know the name of this demon that plagues me: Depression. And I know the weapons I have at my disposal with which to defeat it. I just have to be willing to go into battle. I need you to remind me to get out there. For I have been called to fight.

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I have no idea who reads this these days. When I started it, it was for a few close friends. Seven days ago, Liz added a counter for me, and as I write this, it's up over 700. Who knows... maybe those 750 are Cara checking and rechecking 100 times a day! But maybe there really are that many of you out there. If you're reading this and don't know me, know that the girl you just got to know isn't the Real Me. And for those of you who know the Real Me and are shocked that you don't see her here... just know this. I'm here. In all my nakedness, with my raw wounds exposed, in a funk even I don't understand... I'm still here. I promise.