This is the only post that, as I'm writing, I'm a little nervous. No idea why- if you know me in real life then you probably already know this about me. If not, then...welcome to my life. You're gonna need to pull up a a chair. And wine. You're gonna need wine.
My personality is best described as goofy- I'm happy go lucky. I'm joke you if you can't take a fuck. I'm silly. I'm always doing something way worse than what you're doing (that's just so you can feel better about your life compared to me. You're welcome!) I'm non-judgemental. I love with every single bit of my heart. And hate? I hate practically nobody. I'm boring like that. I'm ADHD multiplied by infinity. I'm a hugger- I'm the Golden Retriever of friends- eventually, I'm gonna jump on you and lick your face. Plus, I jump around a lot when I'm happy, anyway (would totally wag a tail if I had one...fucking evolution!) Sounds pretty happy, right?
Yeah, usually it is and that's what's so fucked up about anxiety and depression- it takes an otherwise bubbly, somewhat normal person and reduces them to despair. (These days, I don't give a rat's ass about normal- normal is for people without courage. Please kill me if I ever seem to be edging over into 'normal territory'.) But after the oldest Baby C was born, I didn't recognize myself. And I doubt that anybody else would have recognized me either.
After the biggest Baby C was born, I cried every single day when I woke up. Every day without fail, friends. And it took me 6 months to leave the house. When I did, I had a horrible panic attack in the middle of the happiest place on earth- Target. I remember Baby C screaming while I tried to make it through the checkout line without passing out- everything looked like I was in a tunnel. My heart was beating fast, my chest hurt and I couldn't breathe. I wanted to toss my Baby C to someone better, more competent while I ran somewhere ending in an ocean with no cell phones. That far. I was overwhelmed. I was sad. I didn't understand a fucking thing about postpartum depression. But clearly, I had it. And it fucking sucked ass.
Anxiety and depression are prisons. And thieves. They're prisons and thieves who steal everything you love and replace all the beautiful colors in your life with shit. The most fucked up part is that when you should be the happiest of happy (you can have everything you ever want- but it just doesn't matter- getting up and climbing out of bed each day is a struggle) that's when it hits- like it's waiting...just waiting for you to let your guard down for a second. That's the fucked up news.
The good news? I figured out how to survive- it involved the very best of the best of friends- my girls- to whom I'm eternally grateful. It involved music that speaks to my soul. It involved love. It involved everyone who loved me and were willing to tell me that they loved me. (And medication, why lie about that, right?). Of course, there's help. And the light at the end of the tunnel? Yeah, it's definitely not a train- it's the sun.