Surfacing

I haven't been able to write lately. I haven't been able to read blogs. Pulling the covers from over my head and putting my feet on the floor every day takes all the effort I can muster. I have lost interest in everything around me and just surviving each day is all the challenge I am up for.

I can't say how long it's been like this. J.R. says three years ago is when he started to notice it. And he was right--I saw it too after he told me. But there were other things I attributed it to: Noah wasn't sleeping through the night, even at a year old, and we were exhausted; I had changed jobs and was miserable; we moved to a new house and were dealing with the stress of not just settling into a house, but settling into a larger mortgage and more commitments.

Then there was the infertility, the twins, and so many other things. So many distractions. So many things to take my mind off of the reality of what I was creating around me.

Three weeks ago I was making a wedding cake. I didn't have the right kind of cocoa powder. And I broke down. There were tears, declarations of inadequacy, frustration, sobbing, irrationality. Looking back now, I can see how minor the whole thing was. But in that moment, the stress and obstacles and frustrations overwhelmed me completely. I just...couldn't.

I can count so many moments like that. Breaking down in tears trying to make the week's grocery list. Hollering at the kids because why can't they just get their shoes on? Yelling at J.R. because I need to yell at someone. So many moments of "I can't."

I know motherhood is stressful. I know we all have our breaking points. But I also knew that this was more than that.

Two days after the wedding cake incident I called the doctor. I just couldn't anymore.

I have read the stories of so many other mom's who have struggled. Moms who have admitted that they need help--more help than just a babysitter or a good friend can provide. I have read these stories with sympathy and understanding. But I have also read them thinking that it would never be me.

It's been difficult for me to admit that things aren't okay. As a mom, admitting that I need help means I can't handle the job, that somehow my kids are getting shortchanged. I never thought it could happen to me because I have an amazing husband, four phenomenal kids, and having them to love is supposed to be enough. Saying it's not enough might mean I'm not happy, and fundamentally I am. Fundamentally.

But in so many other ways, I'm not. And sometimes, it's too much. Sometimes I can't stand the thought of giving another bath, making another dinner, reading another bedtime story. It's more than just the monotony of our routine or the repetition of motherhood. It's a crushing weight, trapping the breath in my chest, making it impossible to function. Flooding me with resentment and bitterness.

Sometimes in moments where I'm under stress or pressure I lose the ability to be rational, and I react with anger, frustration, tears. Through it all, there is something in my mind that knows I'm not being rational, but it's not strong enough to stop the emotion, to keep my mind from seizing up on the problem and not the solution.

My husband and I scuba dive. When you're under water, there aren't any signs or landmarks to lead the way back to the boat. It's difficult to find markers in a forest of seaweed or coral. So in order to get back safely, you have to rely on your compass. As you get closer to the boat, you can hear it--the reassuring hum of the engines telling you that you've made your way back.

I have a compass, I can hear the engines hum. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get back to the boat. And I'm running out of air.

I have sat on the stairs with my husband, crying, wishing for my life, my self back. Because sometime along the way, I stopped being her.

Monday I saw the doctor. She walked in the room, asked me how I am, and I started to cry. I left with anti-depressants.

And that is difficult to admit. Because it means that I cannot do it alone. That I am not infallible. That somehow, somewhere, in the depths of this life, things are possibly not just right.

The things I write about here, and the things I don't have become too much. I feel crushed, robbed, trapped, isolated. I need to find my way out; I need to find a better place. I don't know if this is the solution, but it's a start.

I always thought I would be strong enough not to need help. I am trying to learn that admitting I need help makes me stronger.

I'm hesitating as I look at the publish button. I have read this until I could possibly recite it. I don't know how to write about this all without making it sound trivial or melodramatic. I don't know how to convey the desperation I feel, that J.R. feels, that I'm certain my kids could one day feel. But I know if I don't write this, I won't write again. So...