After my miscarriage, I decided that I desperately needed some help. Of the professional variety. Which was quite surprising to me, because historically, I had always outright refused and even scoffed at any suggestion of seeking therapy.
But this was different. I was in a deep, dark hole and could hardly even see the light. I knew I needed a trained professional to help pull me out of this suffocating pit of sadness. So, I randomly searched for someone in my insurance plan who was geographically desirable, and within a week of a cold call, I was sitting in an office, telling a stranger all of my problems. It was a bizarre and frightening experience for me.
To be honest, the miscarriage was probably just the final straw on top of my depression. The one thing that made me admit that I needed help and just couldn’t handle my own shit any more. I had been sinking and barely treading water for years before, but stubbornly thought I could eventually get myself out of the treacherous waters I was trapped in. This event finally sunk me, but also propelled me to accept a life-preserver.
It was dreadfully hard for me at first. I am not very good at opening up and sharing my feelings and emotions. I am a very closed off person. I build walls for good reasons, and I’m not too keen on someone trying to knock them down to find out what’s cowering behind the bricks. But I had to do it if I was going to get better. There was no other option. So I slowly started chipping away at my protective layer to get to the gooey underbelly of hurt and emotion below. It was difficult and painful.
After quite a few months of therapy, I realized that I needed some greater assistance. My therapist had suggested on a few occasions that I might do well with some prescription medication. But, I was firmly anti-meds. So, I rebuffed this suggestion outright at first. I actually accused her of trying to fix my problems with drugs instead of doing the work of being my therapist. I was in a bad place and it was a horrible reaction. But eventually, I came to realize that she was right. I needed more help.
Cue a referral to a psychiatrist and a prescription for Wellbutrin. And suddenly, the haze started to clear. It was like I could finally breath again. Everything felt more stable and real. The drugs actually made me feel like I was finally sober. Instead of dulling my senses, everything felt sharper and brighter. It felt real again.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself. There were no more random crying jags in the middle of my work day. I no longer wanted to come home from work every night and just sleep. I spent more time with my kids and was a much better mommy than I had been in a while. It was drastically and distinctly noticeable to everyone close to me. Some didn’t know what had happened, but they knew something was different. A good different, for sure.
While my head was clear, I could really dig deep in therapy and try to heal some things that had previously seemed irrevocably broken. I made excellent progress and found myself crying less and less each week, which was nice, because I was really getting sick of those damn tears. I was slowly healing. Shedding those weights that had been holding me down. Sadness. Loss. Guilt.
And then a strange thing happened. It started with just a glimmer. Then grew stronger and stronger until I couldn’t deny that is was an actual desire. I tried to ignore it, but it persisted, until it turned into an all-encompassing need. Much like Glenn Close, it would not be ignored.
I wanted another baby.