Having battled with anxiety and depression (alternating) for many years, I’ve often wondered, if given the choice, which would I choose. Well, I guess I was just given that choice. And I made it. And I’m quite bitter about it.
I’ve never had particularly strong depression. There were two or three periods of time where it got pretty bad (maybe really bad,) but overall, it’s more low key. My guess is that it would be classified as moderate depression. It sucks and it drains me of so much, but it’s not gonna kill me.
Anxiety… Well, I guess you could say that’s a different story. I’ve dealt with this for much, much longer. Sometimes I guess it can be a bit manageable. I’ll shake a lot and run every where that I go. I’ll make every little thing into a monumental event, but it’s manageable. I think according to most profiles, at those points, it would be classified as moderate to strong.
But then there are the other times which can happen as little as maybe once a month or as often as every single waking second (well, not only waking because I dream anxious dreams as well) of every single day. This is the anxiety that was classified by people in the know as being “severe.” This is the anxiety that makes me read descriptions of clinical anxiety and chuckle because none of those lists seem to describe the severity of what happens in my body and to my mind.
Quite literally, the sensory world ceases to exist. I can’t see things right in front of me. I can’t hear people talk. I can’t really even easily get out of bed because the anxiety is so loud that it forces me silent and still. I just recently came up with the most accurate metaphor to describe this situation. It’s like those anchors you use to hang very heavy pictures on the wall. It starts out just looking like a plastic or metal screw, but when you hammer it into the wall, all the claws punch out and then grab onto the wall in multiple areas like an octopus’s tentacles. They don’t let go. It doesn’t matter how much pressure is exerted on them, they have wormed their way into the fabric of your wall becoming part of its very structure.
Checklists of anxiety don’t describe that. Not in the least.
Two years ago this month, I found out I was pregnant with the Goose. Because I wanted to do everything perfectly, I stopped taking my prescription antidepressants. “I’ll be fine,” I thought. “It’s only nine months. It’s a finite period of time. I can overcome these challenges.”
But, it turned out, I couldn’t. I had panic attack after panic attack, each lasting days on end. I wasn’t able to get out of bed some days. On the days I could get out of bed, I couldn’t focus on anything. I kept Magoo safe. That was about all I could handle in one given day.
And the choice became very clear to me. Either I go back on the antidepressants, or I lose the pregnancy. There really were no other options that I could see. A baby simply could not survive in the environment I was providing. And in the off chance that she did survive, there was no doubt in my mind that she would pay lifelong consequences for the environment she spent her first nine months in.
So I called my doctor. And I cried for about an hour before the phone call and an equal amount of time after. I cried all the way to the doctor’s office, and my voice choked through the whole conversation. I sat there staring at the pill for quite a time before I could convince myself to swallow it. But a week later, I could function again, and my heart was no longer pounding all day every day. I could eat again and I was no longer hyperventilating. By baby was safe.
I was grateful that I had the choice. Grateful that there was a medication that was deemed safe during pregnancy that would allow me to safely carry the Goose to term without exposing her to the hell that the anxiety hormones were surely presenting to her.
And I have stayed on that medication since then. Sadly, it’s not terribly effective, but it works well enough to keep me and the baby safe. It was safe to take while I was nursing the Goose.
It just kind of sucked because the anxiety was greatly lessened, but I still felt depressed every day. The thought of facing a whole new day overwhelms me. I see things that should bring me joy, and they oftentimes don’t. But I figured it was just because I couldn’t be on an effective medication while pregnant. And this was a sacrifice I was very willing to make for the baby. The more effective drugs are less safe for him/her, and this depression isn’t strong enough that it should cause any real problems for the baby in the future.
Then through an amazingly and uncharacteristically irresponsible twist of events, I forgot to fill my prescription. For five days. If you have ever been on an SSRI, you know that this was a bad idea. I don’t make mistakes like that. But I did.
But then something happened. I woke up on day five to a different world. The dark fog that had been clouding my eyes for years was gone. I no longer felt lethargic or hopeless or worthless. I was shaking like a leaf (unmedicated anxiety plus withdrawal from the medication,) but I was myself. I had a desire to do things and see people. I was excited about life. I spoke faster and with more passion than I had in many months. I felt free. I felt like myself. I wanted to cry because it was as if I had found something I never even knew was missing.
And then I realized what it was from (neglecting the medication), and I realized that I was given my choice. Face anxiety or depression.
And not for one moment did I even hesitate in my decision. This depression sucks and it robs me of so many moments, but I can live through it. My baby can live through it. I can’t say the same about anxiety.
Now for anyone considering taking an SSRI, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. They are incredibly effective. I have been on multiple different types and they have worked. Most work with very few, if any, noticeable side effects. They can and do save lives – both physically and spiritually. I consider them one of the miracles of modern pharmaceuticals because I don’t even want to think about what people like me would have had to face one hundred years ago. If a person needs them, I strongly recommend them. But different drugs work differently in different people. And sadly, the one that has been used during pregnancy for over forty years and is considered to be the relatively safe one during pregnancy, doesn’t work so well with my body.
Part of the reason I wanted to share this with you all is because I know there are a few of you out there who have emailed me and have shared some of your stories about depression. I think it’s crucial that people who struggle with such things share them because too many people struggle in silence. It feels like a sacrifice sometimes because I’m sharing stuff I’m not necessarily proud of, but it’s a sacrifice I make because it’s one way to pay forward the help I have been given over the years in dealing with these demons.
But there is another much more personal reason. I know the opinions some have about antidepressants during pregnancy. I know there are people who will read this and who will think less of me as a mother. I know there are people who will read this and will think that I don’t deserve to be pregnant. I know because I’ve heard and read those opinions.
But I’m sick of living with that shame. I’m sick of living with what feels like a big secret. And I’m sick of feeling like a bad mom because of it. Because I’m not a bad mom.
My girls are happy and healthy. They enjoy reading books and playing outside. They have good friends, and to the extent that their ages allow, they are good friends. They are sweet and polite and so very affectionate and loving. They are the best thing I have ever done. And I have done well.
I used to always see things in black and white. But being a mom doesn’t always allow me that privilege. I have to let go of some of those old ideas and ways of being in order to do what is right for my girls.
And I know that they have an increased risk of succumbing to these demons solely because they are my children. And one day, they might be faced with similar decisions. I won’t tell them what to do because I will want them to make their own decisions and be responsible for their own decisions and consequences. But I hope that through my example, I will have taught them that they are worth it. They deserve to be taken care of. They don’t have to be heroes. They merely have to be human. That’s the best any of us can do.
And that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to get over the ideas that I can be and do all. That I can overcome all weakness through sheer power of the will. That I am above imperfection and flaws. I needed help, and I sought it. And I don’t think that makes me a bad mom.