So when I was diagnosed with depression by a counselor in late 2005, I tried to power my way through it just like I had any other obstacle in my life. I went to counseling once a month and started on Zoloft, which had helped me during my previous depression. I had no idea I was dealing with something much, much bigger than I had ever faced before. The obsessions were worse, the depression was worse, and I was working out of my home with three children under the age of nine.
We don’t know if my coping skills had finally shorted out or if it was simply time for me to break down. My psychotic break came in May of 2006 when I ran away from home to kill myself. I had tried resisting the impulse for so long until I finally talked myself into believing it would be the best thing for my family for me to die so they could have a fresh start with a new wife and mom who wasn’t so damaged. Once my husband and the police tracked me down, I was committed to a mental hospital for a good while until my condition stabilized on lithium. But the damage was done to my self-image.
I could no longer try my hardest at anything. The stress kept kicking off what my doctor called “micropsychotic episodes” through the following months. I had to quit my news writing and tried to make the transition to creative writing where for the first time in my life, I failed at trying something new. The failure brought on added stress to the point that my husband finally demanded that I quit writing for a year. That was the worst failure of all.
To be continued. . . .