journey back from the other side

Come hell or high water, I am determined to not be here tomorrow. By “here” I mean the dark pit I’ve found myself uncomfortably settled in for the past few years. How many years? I’m not exactly sure. The abyss has been familiar to me — I’ve been an infrequent visitor over my lifetime, with some brief sojourns there. But this last time was different. I’d dare say it lasted more than a decade.
It was definitely after the birth of my daughter, but it wasn’t related to her birth. I remember those heady days of being a new mom. I loved every delicious second of motherhood to my marvellous girl. She was amazing. But I was scared — her dad and I separated 20 days after her birth. I was a single mom. It didn’t really faze me, though; it was the only kind of motherhood I knew. Me and her, alone together. I did have postpartum depression, but that was hormonal — I wasn’t depressed, I had intrusive thoughts. There was still the bliss of waking up next to my marvellous daughter. I loved everything about her. I was in seventh heaven.
I don’t know exactly when the depression started. I remember talking to my doctor about it. She told me my feelings were totally human, totally normal — anyone in my circumstances would feel the same way. What I needed wasn’t treatment for motherhood, but life skills to navigate the difficult situation I found myself in: my separation, my responsibilities around my late father’s estate, the debt that had to be repaid. I was drowning, but I wasn’t drowning because of motherhood. If anything, she was my saving grace.
I’m not sure exactly when the light went out. All I knew was that I was struggling. My doctor retired, and my new doctor prescribed an antidepressant and thyroid medication. Were they successful? No. Now I had this immense guilt on top of everything — the guilt of being a disabled mother. My depression disabled me. But those were still the good days. I still interacted with people, especially for my daughter’s sake. Slowly, though, the walls started closing in, and I found myself in hell.
There were other extenuating circumstances, too numerous to go into. But I was in hell. I was no longer myself. I didn’t find joy in anything — not even motherhood, especially not motherhood, because that’s where I felt like the biggest failure. Not being myself meant I couldn’t be fully present. And yet I still did things for her sake, until I couldn’t anymore.
The past two years have been the most difficult of my life, and believe me, I’ve had a difficult life. And then things became untenable.
It was literally do or die. Every time I thought I’d hit rock bottom, I’d fall even further. I lost almost all of my connections, one by one. The medication wasn’t working, so the dosage was increased — it didn’t even make a dent. My therapist suggested that some of the intensity I was feeling could be tied to my ADHD, and that I needed to start taking that medication more regularly. Truthfully, regularly. There was a small shift. But it was small.
My “aha” moment came when I started reading Lost Connections by Johann Hari. I stumbled on him one night while doomscrolling after a mind-numbing day of watching Frasier reruns. His premise brought me back to the words of my original doctor: a lot of what we feel is actually an appropriate response to the situation we find ourselves in, but somehow, thanks to the DSM-5, we’ve managed to pathologize our responses. Research has found that most people who experience a loss or catastrophic event, followed by an extended period of stress, develop depression — and for most of those people, medication isn’t the answer, because it isn’t fundamentally a neuroreceptor issue. I’m probably oversimplifying his ideas, but that’s what landed for me.
So here’s my deal. His book gave me the impetus to change. My daughter has inspired me to change — she’s the biggest reason I want to. I want to give her a mother who is balanced and present, who can help her through the perilous teenage years instead of further complicating them.
A few weeks ago, I was trying to give her a rousing motivational speech about having chutzpah, about rallying and going after one’s dreams. She looked at me dubiously. I asked why she was so surprised — I’m a go-getter! She looked at me, incredulous. You? A go-getter? I spend most days conducting life from my bed. I hardly leave the house. Who the hell was I talking about? That’s when it hit me how far I’d drifted from my own true self — from the spunky person now crushed under the weight of the 80 pounds I’d gained.
I want to tell you that I am inspired to change. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. And I will win at life with the shitty hand I was dealt. I will not give in, and I will not give up. There’s too much life left to throw in the towel.
So my promise is this: to put down, for posterity, my journey back from the other side. Maybe it will help someone. Maybe it will be read by no one. But on the off chance that it might help, here you’ll find my journey back to me.
Wish me luck. But most of all, wish me perseverance. I hope I make it to the other side.
Much love,