The First Step

Today I had the most difficult moment of my life so far.

I told my doctor that I need help.

As I sat in the chair of exam room one and looked at the man that brought Lucy and Ethyl into the world and has learned with me the extent of my genetic issues and what it means for my joints, a man I trust with my and my family's lives, and I broke down.

After we discussed how my joint issues are doing, he asked me how everything else is going and I *almost* told him what I tell everyone else....what I try to tell myself: I'm doing pretty good.

This line is normally delivered with a big smile and some innane comment about how things could be worse.  It's the lie I tell myself in order to get through each day. It's the lie that saves me from having to admit to others I have a problem.

I have a hard time admitting to myself that something is wrong, and telling another person that something is wrong is nearly impossible. Only a handful of people know that I've been on the brink of taking my life. I can count them on one hand. Telling the man who I want respect from, who I want to think I'm a capable parent, a man I go to church with that I have problems I can't deal with alone was gut wrenching to say the least.

I stopped myself mid-sentence. And began to spill. Once the words started to pour out, I couldn't stop them.

I need help.
I hate being angry.
I hate knowing I get angry over stupid, meaningless, shit.
I hate feeling like I can't control my reactions.
I hate looking at oncoming traffic and thinking: what if I just cross the center line......
I hate feeling like I'm going to break down sobbing at any point.
I hate feeling like I'm on-stage, pretending to be a happy, put-together mom when I feel like a terrible actress.
I hate having to stare down my razor in the shower, willing myself not to pick it up, scared of what I may do.
I hate feeling like I'm walking on thin ice, never knowing when I'm going to crack.

I. Hate. Feeling. This. Way.

I need help.

My doctor was kind. He ordered bloodwork to rule out medical issues causing my depression and wrote me a prescription for Zoloft. We discussed long term goals. I almost cried several times. I did cry when I got in my car.

I left feeling like a load of bricks had been removed from my shoulders. I am normal. My feelings are normal, feeling this way is normal and it's okay to feel this way. I need help, and it's okay to get help.

This Mom is going to be okay.