Depression and Honesty

It's no secret I really struggled through the winter.  Depression and anxiety reared their ugly heads every chance I gave them, and then some.  I know that, for the most part, it's par for the course for me.  It starts settling in around the end of September, and I finally start seeing daylight again by March.  It's a pattern, and I know it's going to happen.

This year, as I looked forward to March, looked forward to coming out of my self imposed hibernation, we were slammed with the infertility news.  I still can't say that without breaking down.  It's been hard for me.  I have isolated myself, closed myself off emotionally, and hidden.  I have kept conversations at a surface level, and stopped the tears each time.  I'm afraid if I open the dam, it will break.

The thing is, when I suffer, so does my family.  And that's not fair to them.

The other thing is, I have really great friends who have also fought this battle, and they aren't afraid to call me on it.

After three little mini-breakdowns (that have become the norm) while I was driving with Avery in the car today, I admitted to a friend (in a text, of course, because saying it out loud is too much)--it might be time to go back on meds.  I hate them, but I know I need them.  My dear friend agreed, saying she has been waiting for an opportune time to talk to me about it, after watching me since this winter.

This is not a weakness.  It is an illness, and not one that I can necessarily help.  It's not something I like, something I asked for, or something I encourage in myself.  It simply is.  There is no sin I have not repented for, this is not a punishment (even when it feels like it), and I have not done anything wrong to deserve this.  I simply need a little extra help, a boost to get back on my feet.