It was a dreary day and I was standing by the window with tears streaming down my face. The kids were whining in the background. The house was a complete disaster. I was trembling and my knuckles were white from gripping the chair. I felt sick to my stomach anxiously waiting for my call to be answered. In this moment, I felt absolutely defeated, embarrassed, and ashamed.
It took me [three] weeks to build up the courage to just call the doctor. It had been over a year and a half that I had ‘lost’ myself and I had finally gotten to my breaking point; I needed help.
The doctor gently urged me to come in, and I reluctantly agreed. I packed up the kids (which at one point had seemed like a Mount Everest of a task) and off I went not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what kind of judgment or fate awaited me. To my surprise, I was met with kindness, compassion, and empathy. I was reassured this was NOT my fault. It was a chemical imbalance. There, sitting on that table, the words were finally spoken out loud; I was severely depressed.
A Long Time Coming
It was something I had suspected for months but did not want to come to terms with. I kept thinking if I just held out a little longer, things would get better. But they didn’t. In fact, they got worse. Each day that passed I felt hopeless and unworthy of being a mother. I knew my kids were not getting the best version of myself because of my inability to fully be there for them. My marriage was crumbling before my eyes and relationship with God was strained.
