and then i saw a darkness

I've been longing to write a letter to you, here in this languishing neglected blog, a place where I can be nothing more or less than honest. I am compelled to articulate some part of my recent experience frankly; I fear doing so, too. I don't think I've been ready until today.

I also haven't had a spare moment until this morning. It's gorgeous outside. My two big kids are with my mom at an amusement park for one last blow out before school, Beatrice is at the playground with a babysitter, Mike is feeling better and is thus more independent, and I am sitting outside at a favorite local spot with a laptop and a latte. It's too luxurious; it barely computes.

Something happened to me recently. It only lasted a few days, but I'm going to call it what it was: depression. I didn't exactly meet the diagnostic criteria but for the first time in my life, I was really inside depression. I've seen it from the outside countless times as a clinician and friend and family member, but I'd never known it firsthand. 

You guys. It's really, really bad. Like, crushing. Here's how my stress-induced version unfolded: Mike went inpatient for six days to begin his second round of grueling chemotherapy. During that time I endeavored to move our family out of a friend's house, where we'd been for about five weeks, and into my mom's house. [Quick background for those who don't know: Mike's cancer came back. We found out in July - on my birthday, honestly - and after much deliberation decided to stay in Lancaster while he has more chemotherapy to prepare him for an eventual stem cell transplant.]

That time of countless trips back and forth (with the immense help of friends and family) was overfull with managing my kids' disorientation and anxiety, visiting Mike in the hospital whenever I could, cleaning like a madwoman in the bedroom and bathroom in anticipation of a possibly neutropenic Mike's return. In the midst of so many logistics relevant to moving homes again, I began to notice my head was really, really hurting. After we arrived at my mom's, I kept popping Advil and unpacking boxes and despairingly looking around, trying to figure out where exactly five people's things could fit in her relatively full house. Where to put backpacks? Clothes? Books? I wanted to solve every problem at once. I didn't want Mike to come home to chaos. I stayed up too late doing things like reorganizing books in order to find space on the shelves.

Other things started to go wrong. My contacts on my phone mysteriously disappeared.* Mike went through a terrifying, difficult fourth chemo day in the hospital (which we now know is part of the deal with this regimen) and I wasn't with him and thought I'd break with worry. I went through every box and realized I could not find the file with all my CEUs that I needed to renew my social work license in Maryland anywhere.** My head and whole face hurt so much. More Advil. I hadn't gone running in two weeks. I had started looking for a job and remembered that, oh yeah, job hunting while under duress totally sucks. The children were increasingly upset that mama was crying often and in a foul mood; I seemed to be failing to provide them with emotional steadiness at every turn. I feared I would not be able to coordinate Mike's staging procedures that he needed arranged in New York during a narrow window of time. I tried to register Gabriel for soccer and learned the U10 boys registration was already closed. 

What?? No soccer? We can't even have fall soccer?! How could cancer take that, too?***

I felt shaky and woozy and after Mike came home I finally realized I was really, really sick. I had been for a few days, and but for that raging sinus headache, the whole-body-sickness had been thinly covered over with a layer of adrenaline and urgency. Until my body said enough already. Stop it. 

Kind grandparents helped with the kids and I took to my bed when I could. It was hard to stop working on the move. But when I could actually settle, this is what I did in bed: cry. I wept with a despondency and fear that I could not shake. The specter of hopelessness kept emerging before my eyes and threatening to take away every shred of high functioning and cheerful mojo I had left. I stayed sick; the kind of sick in which climbing a flight of stairs is a real challenge. 

What would happen to us? If I can't continue to carry my family at the level of an Olympic gold medalist, I thought, we will be lost. 

It sounds dramatic. It was. 

I knew that something was really wrong, and that depression was settling like a cloud over my vision, because I wanted to hide away from everyone I love. I wanted a cave in which to disappear. I couldn't bear to have any loving eyes on me; it would amplify the reality of the disaster I found myself in. And also make me cry more. [Did you call/email/text me during that time? I am so sorry. I simply could not make myself respond.] 

I couldn't bear to see anyone from the regular world, in which people casually believe in the dependability of their own futures. Facebook, full of summer vacation pictures and anniversary shout outs and beautiful healthy athletic people, was an instrument of torment (that I finally put aside). 

I've never felt that way before, not in thirty-nine years on this planet. And wow, today I am profoundly grateful for the normally sunny temperament that I just happen to have been born with. When times get tough, it is my wont to reach out. The whole desire to isolate thing was so disorienting. I noticed it, could not recognize myself, and felt worse still. 

But after a couple of days of this, I called my friend and former colleague Kirsten and asked if I could see her and possibly get a prescription for some antibiotics. I couldn't stand to be sick and sad anymore.**** I met her on her front porch after our kids were (mostly) in bed and told her that everything was a mess and that I was really, really sick and not getting better. She listened, offered some gentle advice, sent a prescription to CVS. I made it home, exhausted and relieved.

That was the first turning towards a restored sense of self and hope. Someone else took care of me. Exhale. Then I wrote an email to Edith and told her how bad everything was. I cried while writing it but knew in my heart it was a good thing to do. I was sick for a few more days, but not in my heart. I knew it was getting better; the cloud lifted. I no longer felt the need to hide. 

From start to finish, the slide into whole-being illness and the emergence into recovery was probably about five days. But it was real. As with all traumatic, terrifying experiences, I think one has to speak it. Tell the story. That's the only way I know to tame it, to domesticate it into a regular old memory that can't jump out and scare me. [Related: I know this post has been a very long description with scant poetry or wisdom on offer. Are you still reading? Your loyalty and stamina are admirable!]

I have to keep trying to make sense of it all. So far, I've come up with a few things: 

Last week confirmed my intuitive and clinically-informed sense that our bodies and moods/spirits are entwined in complicated and unknowable ways. To take care of one is to take care of the other. 

Also, chronic stress really messes with one's well-being. Duh, right? But we all need reminders. 

My tedious, near obsessive prioritization of creating time to exercise is, it turns out, good and completely necessary.

Reaching out for help is a profoundly healing act.

And finally: I was afraid to let anyone know how deeply I was struggling. I felt ashamed because in that moment I saw myself as ineffective, weak, helpless. Honestly, I feel a little afraid right now, telling you about it. 

But I think it's a good thing to do. My vulnerability is the raw and powerful real thing that I have to give you. I feel brave today. 

What our family is going through is immensely fucking hard. I know I'm not the only woman out there who has run herself ragged taking care of her family in the midst of mountain-sized challenges. Our numbers are legion. So I say this most especially to all of my sisters-in-heroics out there: taking care of ourselves is always, always worth it.

*I got my contacts back, eventually, in the form of an Excel document. And after three trips to the genius bar and many hours on hold with my carrier, I now have a new shiny phone. Happy ending.

**I'm putting the pressure on the PA State Board of Social Work to send me a photocopy of my file, which contains all my CEUs. They exist! I just need to convince someone there to send them to me. Week two of trying...

***I played the cancer card and they opened up a spot for Gabriel. His first practice is this Tuesday.

****I had a good talk with a big-hearted therapist first thing today. Went for a run yesterday. I'm on it!