The Terrible Fog

I remember lying on the living room floor on my side, the worn, smooth wooden planks pressing into my cheek. I felt heavy, leaden, and each breath was a struggle – like my chest was sandwiched between two brick walls. My arms limp in front of me, my legs curled up to my stomach, I was simply staring at myself in the mirror we had nailed horizontally on the wall to make the room seem bigger.

My sister came through the door behind me, and I saw her backpack drop to the ground with a loud thud I could feel on my cheek. She took the few steps to the other side of the living room where I was laying.

Things get fuzzy after that point. I know a week or so later, my things were packed up for me and I was, once again, sleeping at my parents’ home.

I was nineteen.

This is the first memory I have of having a depressive episode.

I don’t remember being suicidal, but I remember my sister banging on the bathroom door when I got out of the shower to make sure I was okay.

I don’t remember being unhappy, but I don’t have a lot of memories around that time. My mind has a habit of hiding or erasing difficult times. The lack of memories tells me something.

I don’t remember driving out to my parents’ that day they moved my things, but I remember having to drive back and forth 15 miles to and from work and school, annoyed. I used to be able to walk everywhere.

My mental health journey has been just that, a journey. There’s not been an end, just a whole bunch of mountains and a few easier, even paths. You’d think after all those mountains, I would have gotten stronger at climbing them after nearly a decade of coping with MDD. But no, I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. My face – my mask – is perfect, pristine, flawlessly made.

Until now.

I have successfully been attending weekly therapy sessions for almost two years. My therapist is phenomenal: a friend, mother, advisor, coach, cheerleader, and beautiful soul, all in one. She started – no, I started, truly started, my quest for betterment the day we met.

One of the first things she told me that has stuck with me was, “I wish you could see you the way I do.” It wasn’t that long into our relationship, and, until recently, I’ve chalked it up to the perfect mask I’ve been wearing.

I can’t really say I’ve had a major breakthrough. Each therapy session is a chore, and I leave feeling unfinished, uncertain, and sometimes more lost than when I went in. But I’ve become braver, more determined to fight this. I’ve learned it’s not my fault.

But the thing is, I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist and I went, and I told my story.

I have pretty consistently been using my general practice doctor for my medication refills – the same doctor who does a pap smear every couple years and who I see when my throat is sore gives me the same antidepressant I’ve been on for … God, six years? I’ve even stayed on the same dose, for the most part. Some who know the drill of finding the right medication would find me lucky, since it’s been working for that long. The thing is it hasn’t.

I’ll have you know I was suicidal not two months ago.

I just have been afraid of the price of a psychiatrist (I’m broke AF and don’t have an excellent health insurance).

With a stroke of good, old-fashioned luck, I had to switch my general doctor because my previous one was retiring. I ended up with a doctor who actually talked to me and listened to my needs and wants. I genuinely had no idea that’s what they were supposed to do. She was the one who let me know I could get a psych consult for the same amount as a doctor visit. It wouldn’t be a once-a-week or -month situation, just a one-time thing to give me options.

This woman gave me something I didn’t realize I was still able to feel – hope.

I fully expected someone who was dismissive since I wasn’t going to be a continuing patient. Someone who had simply looked over the notes the doctor had sent and already made an assumption of what I needed. I was so shocked when I was completely and utterly wrong.

I’m going to drift on a tangent, here. Imagine something for me. A depressed person has some pretty typical symptoms – hopelessness, despair, dark thoughts, constant doubt in themselves, I could go on. Think of a constant fog around your head that keeps you from seeing the world around you, enjoy hobbies or spending time with beloved people, or even tasting or smelling food. It blinds you, ties your hands, weighs you down. Sometimes it even keeps you from doing normal life shit like going to work or walking the dog or showering. Imagine this heavy, awful thing, and then being faced with kindness. True, honest, beautiful kindness. By not just one stranger, but three, within a span of two weeks from your darkest thoughts.

What magic is that?

The psychiatrist – a woman – had a young male student with her, who I agreed to sit in on the conversation.

Side note (and I don’t want to get too much into it), I have a very hard time opening up to men because of past relationships.

Anyway, I didn’t know that this man, who I’d never seen before, would dig out my mental health life story in the course of an hour, complete with my mask breaking down enough for me to actually cry (the ugly kind) in front of strangers.

The two were so kind, so gentle, so nonjudgmental.

I tear up thinking about it.

They were literally there for me.

I have fluoxetine sitting in the pharmacy, waiting patiently for me to be brave enough to go get it, then start taking it.

And meet my true self, the person who’s not covered and hidden in a black fog, who’s not lead every time she wakes up in the morning, who maybe loves herself and is curious and a writer and in awe of the world, instead of afraid of it.

Right now. This is me growing, at 28 years old, into myself. Squinting into the sunlight. Pulling the mask from my face.