My Recovery Series: My Post

++ Disclaimer: this is a post written before I got help for my depression. In an effort to be as transparent as possible with my story, I am posting these, previously private, blog entries so that if you read them in chronological order you can see the progression of recovery. This is the fifth story I wrote, my “confession” story, so to speak. Please remember this is the past, and I have gotten help since this, I am recovering 🙂

I had my post picked out.

The one that I was sure would make the crash look real enough that no one would suspect.  The spot in the road where accidents happen often enough that no one would question that it wasn’t a purposeful pull of the wheel.

It was MY post.  The one I drive by daily.

On my darkest days, I would hate my post.  It reminded me that I was still here.  The thought that I had to go through another day, was suffocating.  The fact I had no control over the calamity that I felt sure was going to overcome me, was paralyzing.  I would despise my post that reminded me that I had to “suck it up and keep going”.

The realization that I was having suicidal thoughts did not come on me in a SHOCKING, smack me in the face, moment.  It snuck up on me.  It was a little rub at the back of my brain, that eventually became callused. So the rub had to get a little louder.  Then  it would pop into the front of my brain during uncomfortable times. Those times grew longer and longer…  Eventually my depression became this “pet” that I kept with me.  Like those ladies that have little adorable doggies hiding in designer purses, mine was the little black monster that hid in my heart and rotted my soul.  And after the depression took control of my heart, it wasn’t long before it had complete control of my thoughts.

There wasn’t many times I could drive by my post without feeling a rush of emotions. Anger at myself, for being weak.  Frustration because I did not feel better.  Fear of the unknown.  The OVERWHELMING guilt for even having these thoughts.  The itch to “just end it” was growing.

Then the day came.  Driving by it one day, impulsively, I told my husband about my post.  I’m not sure why I did, it just felt right, right then.  Like I had been suffocating for so. very. long.   I just needed air.  And the only way to get that air was to tell someone, so I pointed. And I blurted: “That’s MY post!”

I’m getting help now.  It’s just the beginning, and I know that I have a very long road ahead of me.  My future is still foggy, as I struggle with the new labels and stigmas that are applied to ‘mental illness’.   I’m unsteady and so unsure of everything at this point.  My husband is my rock.

My post is still there.

A silent testament of the fight we are now battling.  It stands; a straight and stark contrast against the sky, a reminder that I’m still here.  Each time we drive by, my husband reaches across the van, and squeezes my hand.  We know I fought another day.  And won.