Emerging from the Deep

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.