Not Yo Momma's Depression by Chrystal Getz

Chrystal contacted me a few months ago about reprinting my piece about the first time I ran on the C25K program and we've been in touch since then. She is a wonderful, inspirational writer and I encourage you to check out her blogs listed below. But I am, as always, honored that she would share her story about dealing with depression here. Thanks Chrystal!


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People like to wrap depression up in a neat, tidy little box. Inside the box are sadness, tears, and perhaps some suicidal thoughts. But there's nothing neat or tidy about depression. It comes in many shapes, forms, and sizes. It can be something you just "have" or something that is brought on by an event or series of events. There are many different faces of depression. This is mine.

I can feel the darkness moving in swiftly. It comes from no where and without warning. I dig my heels in and prepare. I know the darkness. I've lived in it before and survived. Barely. I'm able to fight it off on occasion. More often than not, however, that dark cloud centers itself solidly over my head and follows me wherever I go. When I think of clouds, I think of something light and fluffy. This cloud is oddly heavy. It's a storm cloud as the worst storm you can imagine moves in. I can barely breathe as the weight of the darkness seems to be squarely on my chest.

I've tried to fight it. I'm an intelligent person, after all. I should be able to determine what my mood is. I should be able to take deep breaths and just move on from the daily irritations. Everyone gets upset or has a bad day, right? This is so, so much more. If you've never lived it, you can't possibly grasp the hold the darkness has on you.

I find myself frustrated by people who want to label it. Depression, they suggest. I'm not depressed! Depressed people are sad and sit around crying. I'm not sad and I'm certainly not crying. What I am is angry. I'm angered by people, sights, and sounds. Everything is amplified and completely unbearable. I'm also not suicidal. Suicide is one of the most selfish acts by a human. (Before you judge my opinion on that, please know I earned that opinion the hard way.)

The sound of someone, anyone, talking makes my heart race and it takes everything in me to not just scream at the top of my lungs so they'll go away. I want to be left alone with my anger. I'm so incredibly crabby I can't even stand myself. The anger is exhausting and I only want sleep. I want to be away from the people, sights, and sounds that are a normal part of life, but which are, in those moments, unbearable sources of anger. I want to be away from myself because I can't stand the anger; the crabbiness.

The hardest part of living in the darkness is being fully aware I'm stuck in this madness and not being able to do anything about it. It's as if I'm having an out of body experience. I'm watching myself react completely irrational as if it were a movie. I'm screaming at myself on the "screen" how ridiculous I'm being. But there's nothing I can do about it. My rational self watches helplessly as my irrational self goes through the motions waiting for the cloud to go away.

And it does. The cloud vaporizes as quickly as it arrived - swiftly and without warning. I can feel it disappear and I suddenly feel lighter. I approach people cautiously, just to be certain it is indeed gone. I breathe a sigh of relief. A deep breath; one I was unable to take even a moment ago. I proceed through my days as happily as I did before the cloud arrived. Because I am a happy person. I have a great life. I don't allow myself to think about the cloud or the person I become while it's hovering over me. I focus on the positive things because I am blessed to have so many.

Those are the things that get me through the storm.

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Chrystal Getz is a working mom, wife, personal trainer, and aspiring writer. She is currently pursuing a certification as a Lifestyle and Weight Management Specialist and dabbling in vegetarianism. A mid-western girl who has been transplanted to the east coast, her hobbies include sarcasm, over extending herself, and working out. Her passion for fitness has manifested into a facebook page and blog (or two). She's a straight shooter who loves to motivate people. She doesn't believe in diets and fads, but rather hard work and moderation. (Seriously, who could give up chocolate and beer?) Her realistic approach isn't for everyone. Only those who are looking for results.

Contrast

Depression words:
failure
rejected
numb
frustrated
haunted
suicidal
manipulated
worthless
dark
inadequate
cold
overwhelmed
hijacked

Community words:
capable
safe
blessed
valuable
forgiven
effective
peace
hope
strength
beautiful
unique
meaningful
loved

The contrast of living with depression alone and sharing your struggle with someone else is stark. For the stories where these words appear, check out the Not Alone book.

Living for Eternity?

This weekend Jason and I finally got around to watching The Invention of Lying with Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner. I know it's weird to talk about a movie that's two years old, but it really spurned some interesting conversation around our house.

A brief synopsis for those who haven't seen it. Basically, Mark Bellison (played by Gervais) lives in a world where no one lies. They simply tell the plain truth always. For the writers of this movie, this also means no religion either. One can look at it as calling religion fiction, or simply that it's not something that we can KNOW, but regardless, for a long time in the film, there is no religion. When Mark sees the fear that his mother has about dying, he makes up the idea of a heaven-type place (eternity of happiness with those you love) to bring her comfort. It's overheard by the hospital staff and causes a whole rush of events that end with Mark creating a god-like character who speaks to him and tells him who is in and who is out.

There are a number of fascinating discussions that can be had after watching that movie (particularly when you've got an atheist and a Christian in the house together!), but one scene that really stood out for me was near the end.

Things aren't going as well for Mark as he feels they should be and he's sitting around the pool with some loser-type friends, drinking some beers. Mark asks this group of misfits why they aren't out living their lives and one replies that since the man in the sky is going to give him an eternity of happiness, he's not too worried about happiness in this life. Sure, he might be kind of miserable in this life, but eternity is coming and drinking gets him to eternity sooner, so what's the problem?

Now obviously I disagree with Gervais's idea that religion is equivalent with fiction, but I have seen this kind of attitude among the faithful. We cover up depression by saying that we're simply longing for heaven. We don't need to care for the environment because God won't let us destroy it. The single woman in church gets overlooked because God is her husband.

I don't want to down-play how a relationship with God impacts the lives of a believer, but sometimes we allow it to keep us from having a closer relationship with those around us. We use it as a mask to keep us from interacting in an authentic way with those who need us most.

I want the abundant life that Jesus promised. Not later, but today.

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Do you ever find that you use your relationship with God as a wedge in other relationships in the here and now? If you are not a believer, have you seen that with those who are Christians?






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You Are Not Alone

I stumbled across Tamara on Twitter not terribly long ago and it took almost no time to realize that we were totally kindred spirits. She writes a fantastic blog, is dead funny and makes me laugh almost constantly. I'm crazy blessed to have her in my virtual village and I'm honored to have her as a guest poster today. If you're interested in sharing your story, you can send me an email.



photo © 2008 Lawrence Murray | more info (via: Wylio)
I've only just begun it, but I can already tell you: Writing about depression is hard. Writing about my faltering faith, my personality defects, my physical flaws, my parenting struggles-- that's easy. That's stuff everyone goes through; I know I'm not alone. But Depression is a sinister demon, and it's a damn good liar, and it loves to whisper, "You're all alone."

Writing about depression when I'm not having an episode is hard because it forces reflection on something so dark. But writing about it in the midst of it would be impossible. When Depression attacks, sometimes the most I can do is just get out of bed, and even that is unwelcome and trying. Forget productivity,  fuck creativity.


Depression strips me of my energy until I am bare useless. I sleep, and I sleep, and I sleep, and still I am tired. Body-tired, mind-tired, soul-tired-- dead tired.


Depression overcomes me and I am helpless to fight it off, and, exhausted, my mind and my heart succumb. It tells me that there is no one who sees or hears my pain, and even if there were, there is certainly no one who cares enough to touch it.  And I listen, and I believe.


Depression toys with my emotions so that I am alternately weepy and apathetic. Both everything and nothing at all can make me cry-- sobs that go soul-deep and find no catharsis and begin again.  And then, mood changed out of nowhere explicable, I will be unmovable. My normally soft heart will not care, cannot care, about anything or anyone. And the demon Depression gets off at its own sick game.

photo © 2009 Julie V | more info (via: Wylio)

But although it lies, Depression is half right when it says that no one understands, because some of the people closest to me do not have to fight this particular demon, so they cannot grasp its power. They think I ought to snap out of it, shrug it off, perk up, rejoin life, carry on as usual. But what they don't understand is that I am not free to do any of those things. I am captive, I am bound.


Others, out of well-intentioned, utterly useless ignorance, may point to my Christian faith and say, "You're too blessed to be depressed." And their trite rhymes poke new pain in a deep wound. As many times as I have been attacked by this demon, I have turned to my Savior and begged, "Why?"


I don't know that I'll find an answer in this life. But I do know a few things: Writing about depression is hard. Living through it alone is harder.  And there's nothing like writing down 453 words of truth to stick it to a liar.


You are not alone.

Tamara Lunardo writes the blog Tamara Out Loud: Thoughts on Real Life and Real Faith. A full-time mom of five, part-time freelance editor, and big-time Jesus freak, she lives in Florida with her husband, Bryan, who not only puts up with her insanity but also buys her white wine when he sees it coming on.


Please visit her on Twitter and Facebook!

Getting Better: Running to Find Myself

Mile 1

I stepped onto the front porch in my sweat pants and slightly tight T-shirt that clung uncomfortably to my pudgy torso.  It was unseasonably warm outside for an October afternoon. The sun was out, the sky was blue, and it was a gorgeous day.  And I felt worse than I'd ever felt in my entire life.  I stepped off the porch and set my foot to the pavement for the first time in over 15 years, determined to run as far and as fast as I could. If I couldn't run from my problems metaphorically, I'd run from them physically and in the process, hopefully do something good for myself. Hopefully.  As I took my first stiff steps down the sidewalk, I let my mind wander in an attempt to recover.

photo © 2010 iyasser .com | more info (via: Wylio)I couldn't believe it. The worst case scenario I had imagined had just come true. I had no job, no career, no prospects, no goals, and no dreams for the future.  How could this have happened?  The previous year, I had been a teacher, directing a music technology program at a community college, a job that turned out to be much too far over my head and just two years earlier in 2008, I'd been a brand new dad with a five-month-old son in an audio production career that I loved with a job that I didn't but was decent enough.  When I quit my job at the college in May 2010, I was sure that I had a new gig at Big Toy Company, that my triumphant return to professional audio production was waiting for me.  My career had been progressing rapidly but now there was nothing but silence.

The last major hit I took, my failed application to Big Toy Company, simply crushed the little hope I had left and blew it away in a single puff of stilted breath.   Through the first half of 2010, I progressed easily through their application process knowing that I was going to quit my teaching gig at the college no matter what happened.  I had great phone interviews.  I was flown out for a personal interview.  I heard positive feedback from the interviewers.  Contrary to my usual practice, I let myself believe in myself, that I had a chance at obtaining my goals.  But when their deadline for a decision came and went and again all I heard was silence, my stomach dropped.  I knew that I was not getting the job despite all the energy, hope, care, and love that had I poured into my application.  It was frustrating at the least, infuriating at the worst.  My life was on hold and since I'd already quit my teaching job there was nothing left.

The point at which my career disappeared in a single mirror-smashing moment of shattered dreams was when I stumbled.  I fell headlong into a major bout of depression, deeper than I'd felt in a long time.  As a surprised and stunned stay-at-home dad, my son kept me busy, but I still had a very difficult time focusing on anything that may have needed to be done around the house.  I would often catch myself staring into space or in my own little daydream world.  Day after day, I would wake up before he would call for me from his crib, my head heavy on my pillow and dreaming of leaving, of disappearing, thinking only of the life I could potentially lead and nothing of the one I would be leaving behind.  I hid these thoughts from my wife and family.  But the day I lost control, the same day I yelled at my son for no good reason and began uncontrollably wailing and sobbing on the basement floor, was the last straw.  I couldn't hide this anymore and I couldn't avoid my responsibility to demonstrate maturity and respect to my son.  I revealed my issues to my wife and she encouraged me to seek help through counseling.

Mile 2

photo © 2009 Steve Newman | more info (via: Wylio)

My feet pounded the pavement quickly with comfortable repetition.  The first leg of my inaugural running route was initially downhill.  It felt good to move again, to sweat, to feel the warm fall breeze on my arms and face.  The smell of the season, a swirling mix of decaying leaves and freshly cut grass, was a gentle perfume to my nose as my breaths grew increasingly heavy.  Having not run for so long, I felt like I was relearning to breathe.  I had been out of shape so long that I'd forgotten what it was like to feel the heady rush of endorphins that running can create.  As I began to feel better, I continued to recount my recent experiences that led to my current state.

I began seeing a counselor in August.  I'd been told by my counselor that not being able to hold a steady job was a red flag for bipolar disorder.  But I'd stayed in some very crappy jobs, like the job in the shipping department at a media warehouse, for more than 18 months and most of my jobs were left behind for either good reasons or reasons out of my control.  Cable modem installer?  Laid off.  Data entry for a mortgage lender?  I had quit to go to graduate school.  How could going back to school be a symptom of bipolar disorder?  But there were other symptoms that shed more light on the problem.  I had had symptoms such as racing thoughts almost my entire adult life, especially at night.  I would awaken and my mind would refuse to shut down, racing through either good ideas or bad memories depending on my current mood.  Spending sprees or simply urges to shop, mild though they might have been, were a common theme.  Wanting to cry and to feel sad coupled with feelings of hopelessness were also a regular occurrance.  Suicidal thoughts, though actual attempts had always been absent, were yet another issue that remained uninvestigated.

Another issue was unearthed during my counseling sessions in addition to the bipolar diagnosis, one that I suspected but always wrote off as being a fad, a psuedo-psychological issue, thanks to popular culture in the 1990s.  Since my childhood years, my self-esteem had always been a struggle.  Being a common target of bullying in my neighborhood and school growing up probably did not improve my chances of a good self-image, but I chose to listen to the bullies rather than ignore them.  Misguidedly taking the bullies' barbs as truth was nothing but a mistake.  As an adult, even people that barely knew me had the insight to tell me, "You're being too hard on yourself."  I would constantly call myself stupid, un-talented, or just plain useless on a regular basis, verbally punching myself in the face every chance I got.

Mile 3

photo © 2010 Keith Ramsey | more info (via: Wylio)Finally my hustling, burning feet brought me to the bottom of the hill, sweating, panting, but still feeling energized.  If I was going to make it home there was nowhere left to go but up.  A long climb lay ahead of me and I stared up at the top of the hill already tired but knowing I could make it if I tried hard enough.  I had always been self-conscious about my body image, worried that people would make fun of me from the relative comfort of their cars or homes.  I put all of my unreasonable fears aside.  If they were going to make fun of me, so be it.  I needed to do this for myself.  For my wife.  For my son.  I kept running, shins hurting, out of breath, up the hill as car after car revved past.

Several weeks of counseling were devoted to exploring useful tools I could use to improve myself behaviorally.  One major step was correcting my self-esteem, which had always been in the proverbial toilet.  To correct this is a day-to-day, sometimes moment-to-moment battle.  But a psychologist named Albert Ellis developed a therapy dubbed Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy (REBT) that has seemed to work for me.  Whenever I have a negative thought about myself, before those thoughts propogate and snowball in my mind, I must insert a corrective question, a self-checker, that challenges the statement I am making about myself.  For instance, before I finish the thought, "I am a useless person because I am unemployed," I must insert a question or a challenge, "Why?  How?", and ask myself if what I'm thinking is rational.  If it isn't, I must discard the idea.  It's a challenging thing to try to reverse a lifetime of thought patterns, but with the help of this system I am starting to succeed.

As for the bipolar bit of the equation, I have been on medication to treat both mood swings and depression for a combination of two months.  It seems to be working quite well.  In conjunction with the general consensus among the mental health professional community, my most effective path to success has been through a combination of talk therapy and medication.  I don't want to stay on medication forever, but I must stick with my doctor's recommendations if I am going to lead a normal and effective life.

But there is one final piece of the puzzle, a prescription that I have given myself, that has done more good than I have ever imagined.  I stuck with the running and added yoga and lifting weights to the mix as well.  I now run at least three days a week and I am over half way through a program called Couch to 5k, designed to get inactive people onto their feet and running 3.1 miles in two months.  I even purchased new shoes recently, ones designed solely for running.  Athleticism has long avoided my attention throughout my life, but I am now deadly serious about running my first 5k in 2011.  I have a goal for the first time in almost a year.  The exercise seems to be doing my brain and my body more good than all of the other therapies put together.

Mile 3.1

Gasping for air, I made it up that hill.  It wasn't pretty by any means.  It was ugly, sweaty, painful, and to use an understatement, unpleasant.  My shin splints were killing me.  I slogged the rest of the short distance home until I arrived in my own driveway.  Staggering in a circle trying to cool down, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time:  accomplishment.  I had forgotten all about the people that might make fun of me.  I had forgotten about all the loss and sadness that I felt.  My only goal had been to run home.  And I had done it.  The greatest part of the entire experience was, however, knowing that if I had done it once that I could do it again and through practice, get better.

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If you are like me, you've gone your whole life believing that your state of mind is simply what it is and can only be endured, not helped. I am not the first and will not be the last to say that if you experience any symptoms of depression or other related mental disorders, please see a doctor, counselor, or psychiatrist that can get you the help that you need.  An exercise regime, while incredibly valuable, is only a single tool among many that need to be utilized in the process to better your mental health and above all, get better.

Chuck Larish is a composer, songwriter, and sound designer.  He enjoys writing, running, video games, board games, and being a father.  Follow his musical output at CharlesLarish.com and the Quad Mini Jasons blog.  You can also fan, like, friend, follow, and listen to Quad Mini Jasons on ReverbNation, Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, and Last.fm.  Follow his personal blog at the echoing green.

Through the Mirror Dimly

I've known today's contributor my whole life, as Megan is my sister. I'm so honored that she would share her story here. Megan is a really phenomenal woman, and it is a joy and privilege to have her in my life. If you'd like to share your story, you can send me an email. 

Before I begin to tell my story I feel the need to make a few disclaimers.  

1. What I don’t know about depression far outweighs what I do know.  
2. Everything I thought I knew about depression changed drastically when I actually experienced it.

photo © 2008 Viktoria | more info (via: Wylio)
The second of those two disclaimers is where I believe a lot of confusion exists. People who have not experienced depression or anxiety often have a lot of misunderstanding, confusion and judgment about the kind of person who will experience depression.  I lived much of my life in that confusion and judgment. I used to think a person could prevent depression, stop depression and snap out of depression but my experiences with post partum depression quickly changed that opinion.

In all honesty I probably experienced post partum depression with my first child but never really admitted it and it was not bad enough to warrant serious concerns. After my second child was born there was no denying the awful anxiety and accompanying depression  For me the anxiety was stifling and terrifying. Even the simple things in life created anxious spiraling thoughts. My heart raced and my breathing was labored. I never knew what might bring it on but I would mentally, emotionally and physically jump from A to Z in a few seconds. 

I felt horrible for not being able to control anything that was happening to me. I yelled, I cried, I panicked and I felt unbelievably guilty all of the time. I knew what I wanted, I knew I was blessed yet I was unable to function normally, to accomplish simple tasks or to snap out of whatever was happening to me. My breakthrough came when I finally admitted that I needed help. After 4-5 months of wondering everyday what was wrong with me and how could I be such a horrible mother/wife I confided in my mother, my sister and a few trusted friends. I chose to seek balance through herbal supplements, progesterone cream and counsel of friends. For me simply admitting that I didn’t have it all together and that I was unable to do everything on my own made a huge difference.

I would like to say life improved immediately after I knew what was going on but for me I didn’t feel normal for the whole first year after giving birth. Anxiety still plays a part in my life in a way I never remember before this experience but it doesn’t plague me in the same way and I am more aware of admitting it now.

My experience with post partum depression and anxiety taught me so much about control; I don’t have any.  I did nothing to bring on the anxiety I felt, I couldn’t snap out of it and as a person who always wants to be in control, that was awful. I am still learning that life is full of the unexpected and that I can never know exactly what will happen. For me, what I do know, is that God is always with me and that I have people around me that care about what I am going through and are willing to help me when I am open. 

Megan Wright is a wife and mother of 2 beautiful girls.  She spends her time reading, teaching, cleaning and trying to be crafty.  You can find her family news at Parenting Beyond and her own personal and spiritual musings at Cadence.

Depression Defined

Misty is Rich's wife, so I met her through him. However, we have become friends on our own, and I'm so thankful to know her. She is an awesome mom to her boys, an avid MOPS advocate, a great wife to her husband and a good friend. I'm honored that she would share her story with you here today. If you would like to share your story, send me an email.


Depression:

1. a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity
2. sad feelings of gloom and inadequacy
3. depressive disorder: a state of depression and anhedonia (an inability to experience pleasure) so severe as to require clinical intervention
4. pushing down; "depression of the space bar on the typewriter"

Okay, so #4 isn’t a “classic” definition of this kind of depression, but I seriously think it works here.  There are times that I feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders…that’s enough to depress anyone! Some days, everything feels like it weighs 20 pounds heavier.  My arms, eyes, the milk, my feet, the air…everything is so much harder to do.  It would be easier to just stay in bed.  Overwhelming exhaustion occurs, but sometimes with the inability to sleep.  Outrageous thoughts swirl in my head. Everything feels like it’s my fault.  We are out of toothpaste, my fault.  It rained, that’s my fault too.  My outlook is undeniably pessimistic.  Nothing will go right again.  Ever.  Typing this stuff out…I can see the absurdity of it, but it’s what is seriously in my head.  How do I get someone who has never had thoughts like this to understand me? 

Photo by ericmcgregor

Depression makes me seem like 2 different people.  I started this post with my depression under control.  Unfortunately, I opened the door a little.  It is sneaky stuff; it slips out when you aren’t looking.  So, going back to edit what I had written is really hard.  What I wrote before seems a little too upbeat at this point.  Crazy, huh?

My name is Misty and I am clinically and chronically depressed to the point that I am not sure that I will ever be off my SSRIs.  But, I am ok with that…most of the time. :)

This will not be an easy post for me.  There is so much to my story that contributes to my depression; I probably have 5 different post topics here!  I don’t talk about most of this with just anyone, but at my husband’s urging, I am going to share.  He says that this may help someone else, I am all for that! 

Depression seems to run in my family.  My mom had 9 siblings, while 2 died before I was born, 3 of her brothers committed suicide.  Three of my grandparents were alcoholics as well. 

Wow, this is not starting out well, huh?

Let me give you a little more background.  I was not raised in a Christian home, but I had a good home life.  I had a great mom and really never wanted for anything.  My father wasn’t really sure how to be a hands-on dad though and I can remember the first time he said “I love you.”  I was 16 years old at the time and I cried like a baby, which wasn’t unusual then.  My depression started when I was a teenager.  I think most teenagers go through a rough time, but mine seemed to be especially rough.  My 9^th grade year in high school was fraught with feelings of inadequacy (remember #2?) and I really questioned what my life was all about. 

Ok, deep breath.

When I was around 4 or 5 (I can’t remember exactly), I was sexually molested by my grandfather.  I didn’t tell anyone until I was 15 years old.  I had blocked the memories until they were triggered during a school camp.  That was rather traumatic, (understatement, anyone?).  I started having a lot of anxiety and panic attacks.  It got so bad that it was affecting my daily life.  I dropped out of college and went through several jobs.  It was during all this that I sought treatment.  We started with Prozac. I was 18 at the time and there was a huge stigma surrounding it, so we tried several different kinds of medication before I found one I was ok with.  I met my fabulous husband, Rich, during all this and I still can’t imagine why he stuck by me, but he did.  Thank you, God.

I found that I was really struggling with the memories, so I decided to try some counseling.  Now, at this point I also started going to church and I credit this for my sanity.  The counseling helped me face my memories so I could put them behind me, but Christ gave me peace.  I was able to come off the medication for a while too.  For once, I felt that I had things figured out and was doing ok.  I was even able to forgive my grandfather and had a chance to tell him so before he died.

After a while, I noticed a pattern.  I was able to come off my medication during the summer, but starting it again around October till about March or April.  Rich says that I am solar powered!  :)

Then a whirlwind came along.  My husband and I got married…we moved 7 hours away…I had our first child and he died 5 days later.  I was put on medication pretty quickly this time.  Only by God’s grace did we survive this time in our lives.  I went on to have another baby, Nicholas, about 18 months later and thought that my life was complete.  But he was born in the winter months and I was struck with postpartum depression.

Since then, we struggled with secondary infertility before being blessed with our son, Wesley.  Then Wesley was diagnosed with autism at the age of two.

I have been on and off medication since 1994, but more on than off…and it’s usually not a good idea when I go off it.  I am still trying to accept the fact that, just like a diabetic, I have a chronic condition that needs to be treated with medication.  It’s a daily struggle to push myself… I am learning to seek things that make me step out and pretend sometimes…this pretending will usually lead to learning the behavior and eventually enjoying what I am doing.  With my husband’s support and God’s love, I am able to push back and hold that weight off my shoulders for a little longer. 

Misty Chaffins is a married, stay-at-home mom to two boys.  Living life in small town WV, she shares some of it with readers on her blog, The Family Chaffins.  You can usually find her being a chauffeur for the children. Her hobbies include reading, making soap and generally pretending to be creative. You can connect with her on Twitter or on Facebook.

Little Miss Sunshine

Today's post was written by Katie McNemar. She is a huge encouragement to me and I can't tell you how blessed I am to be able to share her writing with you. If you would like to share your story, send me an email.

I never know when it’s going to happen.  Sometimes it will hit me when I am in the middle of laughing at a joke.  All-of-a-sudden, I’ll feel a million miles away even though I am, physically, still in the same location.  I feel totally alone even though I am surrounded by people.   I look at the people I know and I feel like I don’t know them anymore.   The feeling of panic starts like a wave.  It grows in momentum until it finally comes crashing down on me.  I break out into a cold sweat.  My fight or flight response has been activated for no real reason.  I want to run, but I don’t want to freak everyone out or look like a crazy person.  It takes every drop of energy I have to not run.  The world seems to close in on me; wrap itself around me and squeeze so hard I can barely breathe.  I wish I could just unzip my skin and run out of the body that has me trapped inside.  The inability to calm myself down or talk myself out of this makes me feel like I am on a runaway train.  My stomach starts cramping and I get hot.  More sweating. 

Sometimes I don’t know why I start feeling this way and other times I can almost predict that a certain situation will bring it on.   Whether or not it is a self-fulfilling prophecy; I’m not sure.  No matter the cause, I don’t seem to be able to control it.   I have managed to learn how to sit or stand there and try to look “normal”. As if the panic attacks aren’t bad enough, there is also the accompanying depression. Anxiety’s BFF.  The only way I can describe it is to say that it feels like I am living in a slow moving dark cloud or haze.  When people talk about hating to get out of bed to go to work, or talk about feeling too tired to clean their house, I wonder if it is the same intense feeling of exhaustion that I feel when I say those things.  I don’t hate going to work or cleaning my house, but doing both of those things, sometimes, is so difficult for me to do that I simply can’t force myself.  I am not one of those people that cry a lot when they are depressed, in fact, I am quite the opposite.  I tend to feel numb and apathetic.  I can’t cry or even feel anything.  I just float.  This...is my secret.

I’ve been struggling with anxiety and depression since I was around 9 or 10 years old.  In a small town in the early 90’s there wasn’t much talk of kids with anxiety and depression.  There wasn’t much talk of anxiety and depression in general.  I know now that I wasn’t the only one that struggled with these issues as a kid.  I was sent to all kinds of doctors and specialists, but no one could make sense of my strange symptoms.   I hated going to school because I was so embarrassed by the fact that I felt out of control.  I did everything I could to cover up my issue.  I didn’t go to sleepovers, I didn’t have friends over.  I even begged my brother not to have friends over.  During Christmas or birthdays I would only want my family around and even then I would sometimes stay in my room in my PJs.  I couldn’t help it that my family knew, but I did all that I could to hide my problem from everyone else. 

My physical symptoms were so painful and real that it was hard for my parents to accept that it could all be psychosomatic and a direct result of an anxiety disorder.  My parents took me to doctors until someone gave me a diagnosis that made sense to them.  How do you look your screaming, crying, miserable child in the eyes and tell her that her pain is all in her head?  Finally, I was diagnosed with possible irritable bowel syndrome and food and environmental allergies, but that didn’t make it go away.  In fact, it made it worse.

When I left home and went to college I finally went to see a therapist.  I was officially diagnosed with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder when I was 19. I remember my therapist saying that she couldn’t believe I had struggled that long without treatment.  It was nice to finally have a name for the monster that controlled me, but at the same time it was another secret I had to keep.  Therapy never really worked; mainly because I refused to be honest with my therapist.  The drugs didn’t help either. Even if they helped with the anxiety they made me feel out of it; and I certainly didn’t need to feel any more like I was in a cloud.  For years I was off and on different medications until I finally gave up on them altogether about 4 years ago.  I haven’t been to therapy or taken meds for over 4 years.

Not many people know any of this about me.  My goal over the last twenty years has been to cover it all up as much as possible.  I don’t talk about it.  I don’t blog about it; at least not explicitly.  I have become an expert at hiding my secret, even from my own family and friends.   I allow very few people to get close enough to me to find this out.   It’s easier to keep people away than it is to figure out how to hide this fact from people over and over again.  Over these last twenty years I have developed my own ways of finding a comfortable way to deal with my anxiety and depression.  Being out of control of your feelings and your body is embarrassing, depressing, and exhausting.   For years after becoming a Christian I felt guilty or broken because I still struggled with these feelings.  I felt that if I could just “pray right” or be “right with God” then all of my issues would go away.  The deep deep emptiness and hopelessness that plagued my youth and young adulthood was mostly gone, but the anxiety and depression still remained…and remains to this day.  Literally…today.  I am anxious about writing this, because now you know my secret.

The light you see when you meet me or see me isn’t fake.   That’s real.  My positivity, joy, and peace isn’t fake.  It’s all real.  Most of the time the smile isn’t fake.  But the joy and peace that come with knowing Jesus doesn’t always mean that you will be “happy” or “calm” or not have struggles.  Maybe the anxiety and depression remain with me like a thorn in my side so that not only will I remain humble, but that I will be able to always empathize with people that suffer or struggle.  I pray to be completely released from it and believe that one day I will.  Maybe today.  Maybe the secret of it all allowed the depression and anxiety to keep its claws in me.  Maybe telling you my secret will take all of its power away and all that remains is the memories and experiences of a battle fought and won.  I pray that to be the case.  If it’s not, then all I have to say is….In my weakness, He is strong.  And He is the purpose for my life. 

If you are struggling with anxiety and depression, please know that you are not alone.  Feeling like no one can understand or help is one of the most damaging parts of these disorders; and it simply isn’t true.  You are not alone in your fight.  And neither am I.  Let today be the day that you stop trying to fight this battle alone.  There is hope.  There is relief.  

Katie McNemar is a twenty-something, Jesus-loving girl that grew up in small town in WV and now lives, works, and plays in Washington, DC.  She writes a blog called The Dailies, which chronicle her random ramblings as well as her journey to draw closer to God.