10 years ago I was sitting at my sister’s kitchen table, head in hands, heart pounding, dreading the drive home. It was only 2 and a half hours from Orange County back to 29 Palms, but to my mind, the distance felt impossible. We’d all been having breakfast together and the conversation was full of “Guess what? Mental illness runs in our family!” stories, which sounds like the worst Christmas ever (it was), but the knowledge that I came from a line of loonies was mildly comforting. The reassuring part was realizing that several people in my family history who I thought were normal (relatively), actually did have mental issues in their past, which meant there was hope for me. Too bad it took me losing my mind to hear about them losing theirs.
I remember the tears running down my face as my parents guided me to the front seat of the car the way executioners guide a prisoner to the electric chair. I kept repeating “I can’t do this” and Josh snapped, “All you have to do is sit there!” God bless him, I would have left my sorry behind sitting on the curb. I was so wrapped up in my own head at the time; I’m sure he’s the one that got our three little boys in the car (5, 3 and 5 months), loaded all the luggage, and then had to deal with a crazy wife who begged him to pull over so she could throw up on the side of the road when she felt the car closing in on her.
Looking back, I’m surprised no one took me to a mental hospital. I would have fought them tooth and nail, like an addict resisting rehab, but I needed an intervention. That Christmas trip revealed the rapidly growing, gaping holes in my psyche that I’d refused to face over the past 6 months. Sure, most people don’t call their husband at work and beg him to come home because they are scared of being alone with their children and most people don’t construct exit strategies in their heads as they decide whether they can make it to the grocery store without having a panic attack (I couldn’t), and most people don’t compulsively check their pulse all day long looking for flutters or skipped heartbeats that are a sure sign of impending bodily doom. But I was still OK . . . sort of. Right? Even though I knew I wasn’t, the alternative (either medication or mental hospital) was worse.
So why this depressing topic on what is supposed to be the Merriest of days? Because this morning, this story, was the beginning of my end. My rock bottom, my wave the white flag moment, my emperor without his clothes. When I couldn’t enjoy a family Christmas party without escaping to a back bedroom to breathe deeply, when I couldn’t sit in the front seat of a car as a passenger and all I desperately wanted was to be home, when I saw a Christmas card that someone sent my sister and I wistfully said I envied them because they were smiling, when I hid in the bathtub of our crappy hotel room because it was a small and warm space and everywhere else felt too big and scary . . . that was it. I was done. Broken. Rock bottom. The end.
I don’t remember exactly when he said it, but one of the most hurtful (but best) things Josh ever said to me was “Robin, you are an anchor dragging our family down. I don’t know how much longer I can hold us up.” That Christmas showed me the weight of my anchor. I felt its heaviness and felt it dragging me under the surface, and as I was choking and gasping for breath, the fear of living with it finally outweighed the fear of what it would take to get rid of it.
I made it home (an ugly trip made a little easier by Christmas Day (zero) traffic) and the next morning, I called the hospital and made an appointment for ASAP. The next several months weren’t pretty, but I was headed in the right direction. I found myself at the bottom of a huge hole and it took about a year to claw my way out. This March I will celebrate my 10th Zoloft birthday (it seems like I need to create an AA type of chip for that occasion!) and I will bask in the irony that the thing I was most afraid of (medication for my brain) was an integral part in saving me.
So, Merry Christmas! Today I will enjoy my time at home alone with the kids and be thankful when Josh comes home from work because I’m happy he’s here to start the grill and not because I’m afraid of myself. I will drive to pick up a few things from the store and smile that I can enjoy that freedom. I might take a bath to hide from the chaos of a busy week and not because I’m hiding from my life. But most of all, I will be the one smiling in photos because I have Joy and Peace. Incredibly thankful to have been in dark places and to be enjoying the light.