Seeking God Knows What

#5 and I were talking yesterday about me sticking with therapy this time. We determined that one of the key things was an acknowledgment on my part of what was truly going on in my life. During my previous attempts at therapy, as soon as I knew my “surface self” was able to stay intact, I quit. The last thing I wanted was to be defined as depressed because that was my mother. Despite being an intelligent individual, I had completely wrapped myself around that idea that being depressed meant things like panic attacks, suicide attempts, and a lot of other “nuttiness” based on my experience with her and that if I acknowledged it, I was destined for that path. Better to avoid than to acknowledge.

All well and good until two summers ago, when the cumulation of decisions made in a depressed state of mind left me feeling as if all I was destined for was this sense of nothingness, hoplessness, failure. I couldn’t even turn to God because at that point, I wasn’t even sure He was there. If He was, it sure as hell felt like He didn’t give a damn about me. There were moments when I thought why didn’t I die when I was 5 and had cancer? It seemed to me that I had lived and f***d up the lives of those around me.

But one thing happened in the midst of all this, (okay, it was through my e-mail discussions with PH), I acknowledged that the roots of where my life stood then were seeded in depression, some of it stemming from a chemical imbalance that the antidepressant I was taking didn’t alleviate enough, some of it stemming from my childhood cancer and my resulting infertility.

Now it took a full year of finding God but still feeling lost, of messing up some more, trying to change medications and feeling myself falling before I began to think I need help. More help than PH could or should give. After having #5’s name suggested to me twice, once by PH (who also knew at that point more help was needed) and our pastor, I took the plunge. I called #5. He was on vacation. That was hell. Because I knew that if I didn’t go as soon as I could, I would be able to bring myself to a point where I might not go. When he called back and had the next evening open, I just flat out said I would be there and I literally talked myself through driving there, getting out of the car, waiting and feeling that if he didn’t open his door soon, I might bolt. Of course as soon as I thought that, the door opened. And then he asked me why I was there, at which point I completely fell apart and this chaos of emotions, thoughts that had been tumbling around my mind for years began coming out.

It has been 8 months and enough sessions that I have truly lost track of the number, along with my *fabulous retreat* (you know I checked in just for the food, and the fact that I could paint on the walls or color and make muffins), but I am healing. I can feel it and it is so incredibly different than I have felt in years and years, maybe ever. I know it isn’t over and it may never be fully over.  But I acknowledge my depression exists.

And by acknowledging it, I am learning to take control over it instead of it controlling me.