*This post is about mental health and covers topics including domestic violence, suicide, self-harm, trauma, depression, and anxiety. It may be triggering for some.
When did you first learn about mental health?
I honestly didn’t learn about mental health until college. Maybe there were a few classes that I took here and there that mentioned it, but it was never something that we talked about. I think I took a class that talked about life skills and maybe touched on depression.
In high school, we had a Relationships and Child Development class, and I vaguely remember talking about depression.
In college, I took my first psychology class and was hooked because I wanted to learn about people and their behaviors. I dabbled in psychology, sociology, and criminology. I was especially excited by sociology.
At this time, I went through a traumatic cancer scare. I was doing an internship at a sexual assault awareness center. They recommended I see a counselor to process everything I was going through. I saw the counselor, and it helped a lot.
I ended up getting my bachelor’s degree in sociology. But, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I wanted to help people. I didn’t want people to feel sad like I had when I was a kid.
I got my first job as a child care worker in a group home for kids involved in prostitution. And then, a year later, my mom died.
I didn’t know what to do with my life, so instead of spending all those nights in the hospital, I decided to go to school to become a therapist. I jumped into school right after my mom died. Looking back, I now know that was grief and not knowing what to do with my life.
Fast forward a little bit, and I became a therapist.
Then I had baby number one. A week after we returned home from the hospital, my husband went back to work. I found myself in the bathroom crying because my chest felt so heavy that I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how I was going to take care of a newborn and take care of myself, alone, a week after having a baby.
Now, I wish I would’ve known that postpartum anxiety was a thing. We didn’t know what to look for. I’m sure you’ll say, well, “You are a therapist, you know what to look for,” but you can’t diagnose yourself. And when you’re in the middle of panic and survival, you can’t think straight.
I was furious at myself for not trying harder to breastfeed. I was always on edge. Things people said to me would send me into a silent rage, and I would argue and nitpick and be rude to others. I was heartbroken and jealous of my coworkers who were able to breastfeed. And honestly, I would subtly make them feel bad for breastfeeding. I would cringe, and my heart hurts when I think back on those times because that was never my intention.
I was so angry at myself, and I was depressed because I couldn’t breastfeed that I took it out on everybody else.
Eventually, I returned to work, and that helped a little. Thank God, my coworkers were supportive and understanding. They helped me get through it.
Fast forward another 2 1/2 years later, and baby number two arrived.
Here I thought having our second would be easier because I already knew the deal. We were living close to home again, and I had family support. I thought it would be easier. I thought it would be better.
When I came home from the hospital, my husband returned to work within a couple of days. Even when my husband was home, he wasn’t very helpful with the struggles I was having with breastfeeding. That was like a knife in my heart because it was so important to me, and he didn’t even seem to care. He was also doing house projects, kind of taking care of the 2 1/2-year-old and helping me with our newborn and two dogs.
Once he returned to work, I sent my 2 1/2-year-old to daycare and spent my days at home with my other little girl.
We would sleep all day. I wouldn’t do anything. No housework, no dinner, and I would barely eat. If I did eat, it was chicken nuggets or chocolate chips.
I was scared to go out with both of my girls by myself. I thought that we were going to be kidnapped or lured into human trafficking. And it’s not even like I lived in a high human trafficking area that I knew of.
I couldn’t leave the house. I didn’t call friends. And I didn’t connect with my family. I wanted to quit my job. I tried to figure out any way to avoid going back because I felt like my chest would explode from the pressure. Looking back now, I hate myself because I can barely remember those days with my second baby girl. The guilt from that is terrible.
At our second child’s first birthday, I realized I didn’t want to spend my time living like this.
I got my butt in gear and joined Weight Watchers, and started going to Boot Camp. I lost a good amount of weight. And I thought by feeling better in my external appearance, I would feel better internally, but I was wrong.
As far as work went, I was calling out. I wasn’t doing a good job. My job performance was terrible. I’m surprised I never got fired. I could barely keep my head above water, and I was pumping every three hours to keep up with my daughter’s milk demand (she also refused any formula we supplemented with). I think my supervisor was so overwhelmed and didn’t have the time to dedicate to me for her to realize what a poor job I was doing.
So, I asked my husband if I could take a vacation to see my best friend across the country because I was having such a hard time, and I felt like I was suffocating. But my husband worked a lot of weekends and I was alone with the kids a lot, and I could barely bring myself to take them out. I would fly off the handle into rages and I hate myself for what I did and how I acted in front of my daughters.
I had no respect for myself during that time; it was disgusting. I wanted to run away. I wanted to leave. And I didn’t want to be a mom. I was exhausted. And I would threaten and say I would take the girls and leave them with his mom because I didn’t want to be a mom anymore.
I can’t believe I said those words out loud. Now I’m saying them here.
Before I left on my trip, I went to see a therapist. They diagnosed me with major depression and generalized anxiety disorder. The therapist thought my depression had been manifesting since I was a child from the trauma I had of witnessing domestic violence between my parents, mental and emotional abuse from my dad, and having no consistent place to live long-term before I was 18. Then, losing my mom when I was 23 really affected me. I was also living with my dad in my 20s and having panic attacks.
The therapist suggested group therapy and medication management. As a mental health therapist myself, I realized I needed individual therapy. I asked for it multiple times, and I was denied. That led me to filing a grievance to get myself individual therapy. I got myself into individual therapy, and I met with the psychiatrist.
I was keeping my husband in the loop about therapy and seeing a psychiatrist. When I told him the psychiatrist wanted to prescribe me Lexapro, he lost his mind. He sent me messages saying he didn’t want me to be drugged up, and I just needed to learn how to deal with my anxiety and depression better because he had anxiety and depression and he dealt with it on a regular basis. He said he wouldn’t have someone on drugs around his kids because I would be checked out and not paying attention to them.
I know everyone is going to say, well, why didn’t you leave him? Why didn’t you do anything?
I don’t know. I really don’t. Because at that moment, that is when I realized he does not understand mental health. He does not understand my job as a mental health therapist. He does not understand mental health cannot just be fixed by thinking differently or doing different things. And, he doesn’t know because no one talks about mental health. (Also, I should share that his parents previously have done drugs, and his older brother is still addicted to heavy drugs. I don’t think he could separate psychotropic medications from illegal drugs in his head).
So I went on my vacation. I feel like I spent half of it asleep because I was so depressed and hiding from the world that I didn’t even get that quality time with my best friend. God blessed me, though, because she’s very understanding and has struggled with her own mental health issues. She helped me write messages to my husband discussing medication management for my depression and anxiety. When I came home, I went back to the psychiatrist and got a prescription.
I started Lexapro, and it made a world of difference for me. In about three weeks, I started feeling better. I was able to leave the house without being crushed by the anxiety I felt in my chest. I could go shopping with my daughters without somebody else there. Finally, I wouldn’t fly off the handle when my toddlers acted like toddlers. I felt like I was almost normal again.
Carrie’s story doesn’t end here! Come back next week for Part 2 of One Mom’s Mental Health Journey.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health issues, please use the resources below:
National Alliance on Mental Illness