Chapter 2: Recovery

On the drive home from Idaho, while laying across the seat in physical pain from muscle soreness and a cramping stomach, I made an appointment with a therapist. 

Side Note: If you plan on doing an endurance race, gels is what “they” tell you to take during the race. They may also kill you from the concrete they create when mixed together with gatorade and flat soda in your stomach. It’s also possible that your body is revolting from doing such a race. Yes, your ancestors may have been able to do this, but they were also doing it for survival, not for fun. Or for self destruction in my case. 

Once the adrenaline and soreness wore off, I got back into my head. The trap that had continued to create havoc throughout my brain was my constant negative thoughts, frequent chest pain from anxiety, and occasional panic attacks. The exhaustion from all the training and from doing the race didn’t subside. It was always there and it was getting worse. Everything was getting worse. 

Within a week of the race, I went into the therapist’s office sobbing and begging for depression medication. Any medication. I couldn’t take it anymore. Turn it off, turn it all off. We spoke for an hour - mostly with me sobbing uncontrollably - and my husband sitting there helplessly holding me. She couldn’t prescribe it so I made an appointment with my doctor. I couldn’t get in until Monday, so I called urgent care and asked if someone could prescribe me something. They couldn’t. I had to sit in my pain. I could hide it no longer. It was front and center.

Had I known I could check myself into in-patient psychiatric care, I would have done that. I wish anyone would have recommended it, but only my husband knew and even he didn't really know. Of course, then everyone would know how crazy I really am. So then again, I probably wouldn't have gone. 

The fun thing about anti-depressants is that there isn’t one that works for everyone. There are several. On top of that, it takes 4-6 weeks for them to kick in. On top of THAT, anxiety and depression can increase in the time it takes the medication to actually start working.

The first prescription I got was Zoloft. I went directly from the doctor’s office to the pharmacy, picked up my meds and took one immediately. Just knowing I was taking them helped me relax a bit. I went home and rested. Within an hour I got a phone call from the pharmacy, “Um, Ma’am, please don’t take your prescription, we messed up the dosage.” Well shit. It’s a little late for that. Instead of giving me the prescribed 5mg to try, they gave me 50mg. My chest started tightening and I got light headed and nauseated. They said I should be fine. My chest was as tight as ever and my heart was pounding. I couldn’t sleep all night and as the sun came up so did a migraine. Why was this happening to me? I couldn’t even numb my body. I couldn’t force my body to not feel.

I begged for a sleeping pill prescription, and I got one. Ambien. My new best friend. Every night my mind would start wondering and telling me all the things I wasn’t worthy of. You aren’t worthy of children. You aren’t worthy of a career you love. You aren’t worthy of success. I took my Ambien and I was out for the night. I didn’t have to speak to myself until the next morning. As an added bonus, I had some pretty phenomenal dreams that I will likely never forget. Of course, those dreams may have been reality considering stories I’ve heard from Ambien. Maybe for that time period I was like cat woman, thieving around town with no memory of my excursions the next morning. That’s probably an accurate assumption. 

After a few trial and error experiments, my doctor got me on an antidepressant that didn’t cause chest pain or migraines. Prozac. Old faithful. Finally. Just six more weeks and then I’ll be able to calm down.

A week or two after I started my latest set of depression meds, my childhood best friend called. She knew about my journey, though neither of us really knew what was going on with me emotionally. She was hesitant. She started with small talk but there was something more she needed to tell me. I knew what it was. She was pregnant. At first I was excited for her, but then she told me how far along she was. Ten weeks. Ten weeks! 

My throat closed up. My eyes welled up. She had waited almost two months to tell me the most incredible news of her life because she was afraid of how I would react. I was heartbroken. She could no longer confide in me comfortably. Infertility had taken my childhood best friend from me. Don’t be a jerk, I told myself. Pull it together! 

“I am so happy for you!” I was able to mutter. But she knew and I knew that I was devastated. Devastated that she waited to tell me and devastated that she was pregnant before me. I guess our children won’t grow up to be best friends like we had always imagined. I would have to be able to conceive a child for that to happen. 

I’m not sure that had she told me right away that anything would have been different. Maybe had I heard the excitement in her voice rather than the trepidation it would have been better. She was right to be worried about how I would react. I freaked out. Not at her, but internally. From now on, I would practice my reaction so no one else had to fear me. So no one else had to hear or see the devastation all over my body. Just the sight of me probably made my friends feel guilty about their pregnancies. In some ways, I was pushing them to feel guilty. They knew we were trying and had been for some time. Why couldn't I just shut my mouth and stop sharing my life with people? Why can’t I fake it better? I wish I didn’t want children. That would solve everything. 

God was granting the wishes of all of the women surrounding me. I was in this alone. I probably deserved this. 

You might be saying, but Sheila, you had your husband, you were never alone!

When you’re in the middle of depression you are alone. Period. There is no friend, no husband, no mother, no father, no one that can fill that void for you. There is nothing that can pull you out of your funk but yourself. You have to say yes to be with friends and family unless they forcibly dragged you kicking and screaming into something “fun.” You have to schedule that therapy appointment. You have to ask for the drugs if no one is offering them up. No one is going to do it for you. And most adults with depression have really mastered their fake lives so no one can see it. 

Friend after friend were announcing pregnancies that summer. We had gotten married first though. We had started trying first though. 

GET. IN. LINE! 

My drugs had not kicked in yet. Or had they? Maybe they weren’t working. I probably needed a higher dose, so I went in and got a higher dose. I felt all of it. I felt every moment of my heart being crushed further and further every moment of every day. I couldn’t force my body or my mind to check out.

And then came my shining light: My mom took me on a trip to Greece in the fall that year. We did a 10 day guided tour of Athens, Tinos, Naxos, and Santorini. I had no responsibilities for 10 days other than getting dressed. I was fed, I was told what to do, and where to go. There were only single women on this trip. My mom and I the only married ones. No one talked about pregnancies or kids. We sat around a table and took in our vacation with an endless supply of red wine and baklava. We hiked through ruins that were over 2,500 years old. I imagined the days of antiquity. Were they simpler times? In those days, if you couldn't bare children, you were nothing. You were fed to the pigs. Maybe I was living in a time when being infertile wasn't the worst thing in the world. It didn't mean life or death. It just meant financial hardship. 

We hiked through vineyards, taste testing grapes and fresh figs. We crossed groves of olive trees to the tops of mountains where we could see the ocean in every direction. We passed miles of stone walls, built by sheep herders over thousands of years. They got up every morning to move another stone into place. Could I go back to a simpler time when my expectations were to just stack rocks in fields to keep in my livestock? Back breaking hard labor is what I was wishing for now? 

I push my thoughts aside and tried looking at every new thing. I refused to think about my circumstances. I only focused on what was in front of me. 

We visited granite mines where they had left carvings meant for royals in Athens and Rome. They were just lying on the ground where the artists discarded them. These perfect statues had been abandoned because of their imperfections, but to me these statues looked perfect. Only the artist could see the flaws. After hundreds of hours of work they quit and had to start again. What if I could start again? Could I bring myself into a place where I can no longer be the angry infertile woman? Could the drugs and the therapy? 

What I saw and experienced for 10 days was loving company, fascinating ancient history, and some magnificent scenery. Every day we hiked and walked and moved. This kind of movement was actually enjoyable. My body approved. My mind approved. My spirit approved. I considered staying in Greece, but unfortunately my problems were inside of me.

Is this what normal feels like? Do regular nondepressed people feel this way all the time?

As I look at the memory book I made of that trip, I see a totally different Sheila than I remember. I’m so glad I made book so I can see what my world looked like outside of my brain. I looked like I had not a care in the world. Maybe in those moments I didn’t. Maybe I was feeling as good as I looked. 

I came home feeling refreshed, but the chest pains and negative thoughts returned. 

Just before the holidays of 2010, my drugs kicked in. They made me tired. Tired is way better than despair. 

I finally checked out.