I’m having one (or two) of those days.

Every Monday morning, dropping my son off at daycare is difficult.  It’s difficult for him, it’s difficult for me.  Don’t get me wrong, daycare is the greatest thing for him and it’s doing him wonders.  He spends his days with people that I trust to care for him and to help him learn and grow.  I’m pretty fortunate that I didn’t have to investigate daycare, the place my son goes to is run by my aunt and it’s also a place that me, my brother and my cousins went to growing up.  Being around other children has helped my son with his social skills, even if he’s been around adults his entire little life.  He learns something new every day, and I’m really thankful for that.

So let me continue with this thought wave before I pass out.  This is a depression fueled blog entry and I have to ride this wave out or it’ll chew me up and spit me out, possibly leave me for dead.

Much like every Monday morning, my son clung to me for dear life.  He was hugging my legs as I was putting his belongings in his cubby.  He was hugging my legs again when I was signing him in for the day.  I tried to get him to go and have breakfast with his friends to which he said, “No.”  When I picked him up to give him a hug goodbye, he hung onto me again for dear life and didn’t want me to leave.  There were no tears this time, in the past there’s been screaming and crying and the ultimate, “NO NO NO MOMMY NO.”  So that’s a plus, right?  As I told him to help his teacher make his breakfast, he smiled and went to her without a problem.  This was one of the rare Mondays where it was somewhat easy for me to say goodbye and go.

Truth be told, it’s hard.  It’s not easy for me to say goodbye and go.  It’s worse when we get a three day weekend together, I leave the place crying.  Again, I know this is the best thing for him.  It’s also the best thing for me, too.  I have to have a life outside of being his mother, and he has to have a life outside of being my son.  Sounds weird because he’s only two, but I want him to have friends, I want him to be social and not be awkward like I was.  When I hear that he’s such a good boy in class, it fills my heart with joy.  When I see how the other kids get excited when they see him every morning, I get so happy.  I don’t have the wave of guilt that I have to work all day…that lasts all but five minutes and once I leave the room and head out to the car, it hits.

It’s such a push and pull.  One minute, I’m at peace with all of it and then in an instant, I’m not.  I don’t want to be criticized because I’m a working mother, and unfortunately that happens.  I don’t want to be revered because I’m a working mother, either.  The barrage of, “I don’t know how you do it” and “You must be so exhausted” can get well…exhausting.  Yes, I’m tired.  Yes, I sometimes wonder how I manage to get dressed, put on makeup and dress my son in under a half hour.  (Side note: dressing a toddler is like a full body workout, I burn about 800 calories every morning)  But I do it, and seldom do I complain because this is the life that I’ve signed up for and the life that I want.  We are often consumed by wanting what we haven’t got and not appreciating what’s in front of us but I’ll be honest – this is what I’ve always wanted.

As I sit here and think about the events of my Monday, I will tell you that coming home to my son running up to me with a huge smile on his face, “MOMMY!” it’s all worth it.  It’s the best part of my entire day, and I have to keep this in mind on those Monday mornings where I leave the daycare in tears because I’m sad my unlimited time with him on the weekends has come to an end.  Perspective, I guess.



It’s been seven hours and fifteen days…

Okay, not quite.  I just wanted a reason to type Sinead O’Connor lyrics today and this was a fitting time.  I looked at my planner today and noticed that it’s been one week over a month that I’ve been going to therapy.  Technically it’s been one month, since my therapist was on vacation one week.  Now I think about what’s happened in this past month and if I’ve come far, or even moved at all.  Let me tell you this though…admitting that you need to talk to someone is hard, but actually going and opening up is harder.

My first appointment, we played the getting to know you game where he asked me the basics about myself, my background, what brings me to talk to him.  And at first I felt nervous and then I remembered that this doctor knows nothing about me and that he’s here to help.  He’s not going to judge me, he’s not going to make me feel less than I am, he’s going to help me.  I walked out of there feeling pretty good and knowing that I want to continue and give this a shot.  He’ll start with, “How are you?” and then I take it from there.  That question seems pretty broad but I know that he wants me to be honest about how I’m doing and every visit I tell him.

My anxiety and depression wasn’t hurting my marriage, but it wasn’t doing it any favors.  It wasn’t helping with my relationships – some of my friends really are saints for dealing with my constant, “Are you mad at me, did I do something?”  A friend even said to me once…”Marie, do I need to be mad at you?  Is there a reason why I should be?”  When everything in your head is fighting with one another for space and room, it’s so hard to see what is real and what isn’t.  Sometimes, I think someone’s upset with me because of the way they said hello, or how they walked past me, or how they hush up when I come by.  Anxiety and depression will tell me that everyone hates me, but anxiety and depression are the worst liars in the world.  Therapy is helping me see this clearly.

If you want to say, “Marie’s nuts, she’s going to therapy” or “Only crazy people go to therapy” then you can x out of this post and forget you ever knew me.  I’m serious.  There’s this notion that people have about those who do go to therapy to deal with their day to day life in a better manner.  Do I call myself crazy?  Often.  Am I really crazy?  No.  I just suffer from an illness that can not be seen in the same way that chicken pox or even some cancers can be seen.  I think things that don’t really exist because my head is telling me that it’s happening.  I have distanced myself from negativity because I couldn’t take it anymore.  I couldn’t have people in my life that talked about me the second I left the room or whenever they had a moment.  I have stepped out of situations that have started to cause me stress and anxiety.  I know that sometimes it sounds awful to say, “I’ve got my own problems.” but man alive, I do.  And I cannot help everyone else when I’m a disaster and dealing with a boat load of problems.

Since therapy, I’ve made a lot of changes in my life.  I have to focus on getting my thyroid under control, so I’ve changed my eating habits (it’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle change).  I have already lost weight, I already feel so much better.  The past two nights I’ve been in bed before 10:30, and when I wake up I feel pretty great.  My anxiety kicks in every now and then, sometimes I find I’m easily annoyed but I have learned how to deal with it better.  I have another session today, and I always look forward to them.  I need to work on me, my husband and son shouldn’t have to be subjected to the darkness that resides in me and likes to pull me in when things are going great.

Sometimes all it takes is an unbiased person to make you feel less pressure on your shoulders.  It’s very hard to come to terms with, but I can say that a month later, I handle situations a lot better than I had a month ago.  I’m still going to take my Zoloft daily, therapy does not take the place of that.  Now that I’m on an increased dose, it’s additional help for me.  I’m going to continue to go to therapy as long as possible.  I’ll more than likely be on Zoloft for the rest of my life.  There’s no cure for what I suffer from, but there’s help.  There is always, always help.  You just have to want it.