It's been a long time since I posted anything on this personal blog. I didn't realize just how long until I logged in and saw the last post dated 2019. So much has happened in my life between that post and this one.
Many of you know that in late 2019, my dad lost his battle against Myotonic Muscular Dystrophy. It was a long, excruciating battle. It's a battle my younger sister and brother continue to fight.
What you may not know, is that during those last couple of years of his life, and the year following his death, I too was fighting my own battle. For over a year before he died, I would go down to visit my dad as much as I could on the weekends. The visits were hard, seeing his decline a little more each time, and on my drive home I would think about what I would want to say in his eulogy, because I knew that he would not be with me much longer. I would try to create special memories on his birthday, or Christmas, but I was always wondering in the back of my mind if it would be the last time. I would lie awake at night and think of all the questions I wanted to ask him before it was too late, and imagine what it might feel like when I couldn't ask him any more.
And then, he died.
And all that time I had spent thinking, anticipating, and imagining what it would be like when that day came, amounted to nothing more than practicing the backstroke in my bathtub, unaware that a 1200 foot tsunami was about to crash down over me.
His death swallowed me up, and I felt like I had been swept down so far beneath the water I wasn't sure I would be able to swim back up. And, if I'm honest, I wasn't sure I cared either way.
I began to think about life as a series of losses that I couldn't avoid. A loss that began with my dad, but I knew that many more would follow, and there was nothing I could do about it. I questioned everything I believed. I questioned the meaning of life. I could barely get out of bed for a full week, and when I finally did, I felt like a shell of myself.
I remember going away with Ben for a weekend in the spring to celebrate our anniversary. We chose a small B&B nestled on the Chesapeake river. We sat together on the deck, overlooking the water, the blue skies, the boats lazily making their way to the marina, and I just cried. I asked Ben, "Will there ever be a day that I feel truly happy again? Just happy?" I had lost hope that it was possible.
Meanwhile, I kept trying to carry on as normal. I've always had a reputation as being the strong one. But the pandemic made things even harder. My kids were home all day, needing my help with school, and there was no easy way to escape to a quiet place to process all that I had been through. I was tired all the time, and often just going through the motions to make my family happy. But there were many, many nights that I went to sleep thinking I didn't care if I woke up again.
Later that summer, I began experiencing panic attacks. Small things, inconsequential things, like when Ben's car battery died 5 minutes from home, and my heart began to race uncontrollably, my throat closed and it was hard to breathe. I felt like the world was spinning and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it to stand still.
It was time to ask for help.
That's when I began to see a counselor. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety triggered by profound loss.
Profound loss. It's a term I wasn't familiar with before, but it perfectly describes what I didn't know how to articulate. Profound means a great depth, like the ocean. So deep that it can't be measured.
That's like what the loss of my dad was like. And not just his death, but the dying process itself. My counselor gave me permission to admit the trauma I had lived through. She helped me see that the trauma I had shouldered, and continued to shoulder, was life altering, and that it really was as bad as I felt like it had been. She gave me permission to feel whatever it was I needed to feel without guilt. And, when the time was right, she gently recommended that I see my doctor for medication.
And so, I've spent the last 7 months or so seeing a counselor weekly over Facetime. I've been on anti anxiety/depression medication almost that long too.
The changes were small at first. A few weeks after I began my medication Ben came home to find me making the kids laugh with silly voice impersonations. He wondered if I'd had too many cups of coffee that afternoon. The kids asked if I had eaten too much sugar. But I hadn't had any! I was just feeling silly. It was in that moment that I realized that not only had I forgotten what it felt like to play, my family had forgotten what it was like to see me play too.
Since then, things have continued to get better a little at a time. I've started to take better care of myself, like the decision to put Caleb in daycare twice a week so that I have quiet time to heal and to reconnect with what brings me joy. I've begun dreaming and making plans for the future. I'm seriously considering returning to school in the next year or so to pursue a law degree. I've begun to think about the future as a place of possibilities, and less like a death sentence of loss and grief.
Last week, I had to call my grandma to tell her goodbye for the last time. It was a hard phone call to make, and yet, I was able to have a conversation with her unlike any I was able to have with my dad. I told her all she had meant to me, and I thanked her for being such an incredible force for good in my life. When I got the news she had passed, I braced myself, waiting for the tsunami to come again. To suck me underneath it's massive, dark waves.
But it didn't come. Of course, I was sad. I still am sad. Life was just so much better with my grandma in it. But as I reflect on the difference between this loss and the one last year, this time I still have hope for the future. I want to wake up in the mornings (not to be confused with wanting to get out of bed... it's so cold here in Canada...) I want to study for the LSAT, and play fetch in the snow with my puppy, and use my Alexa to play pranks on my kids. I want to live, and dream, and hope.
This is a lot to share on the internet. At first, I was really embarrassed to have to see a therapist and go on medication. I felt like strong people should able to handle life without that.
But I was wrong. Strong people know when to ask for help. Strong people have a tribe behind them, to help carry them through trauma and grief and loss. Strong people go on medication when they need to.
I'm sharing these personal details because I have always believed in the power of a story. My story, your story, our stories, can help people. By being open about our triumphs AND our struggles, we can give someone else the confidence they need to reach out for help.
If you are reading this today, and you can relate to being underneath a tsunami, not sure if you're going to make it out, not sure if you care, I understand. And I'm here to tell you, just keep swimming. Reach out for a lifeline. A friend, a therapist, your doctor. There is hope for the future, even if it doesn't feel like it today.
I'm living proof that it can, and will, get better. <3
