#realness is my anthem!
This verse my song.
Boast *happily* in weakness!

Revealing as little as possible, I called my hubs to tell him that my appointment that day went fine and I was heading home. It was a Wednesday, so he was getting the kids ready and heading to Relentless {youth group} and Awanas. When I got home I had just missed them leaving for our normal routine of grabbing drive-thru dinner and eating it in the van parked in the parking lot of the church. I wandered inside trying to seem nonchalant. I went to the bathroom and sluggishly headed to my computer. As I sat on the couch, acting like I was checking my email {for the benefit of who, I don’t know}, I finally went to Google. I typed in the words scribbled on that prescription pad of doom. “Celexa”

Just as I dreaded! Tears welled up in my eyes just reading the listing that topped the page. Without even clicking into the article my fears were a reality.

I began to sob. My biggest fear right there on the screen. “I am crazy.”

Before you go all psycho on me in the comment section {pun intended}, like I said before. I was a psychology major. I went through the classes. I know all the right things to tell someone else and would whole-heatedly believe it. “Mental health issues are no different than physical ones.” “Depression is often a chemical imbalance not a result of not trusting Christ with situations.” “It’s okay to handle depression with medicine; it’s not just a ‘selfish disorder’ you need to ‘work through.’” Oh yeah, I wouldn’t blink an eye before comforting someone else through this “diagnosis.” But all those fears of being labeled shot back into my mind. The ironic part was, crying at the sight of the word “depression” was probably a good indication I was…Depressed.

I sat, sunk into my couch. Hunched over, computer still in my lap, I trying to gather my thoughts, my fears, myself. My attempt at being self-controlled and level headed through prayer all went out the window. I knew who I was said to be in Christ. I knew I was a child of Christ. Loved. Cherished. Made with a purpose. But Satan had taken a stronghold in this dark place.

I cleaned myself up and set off to help Matt at Relentless for the night. A friend working beside me said, “How are you Julie? You look…tired. You don’t seem to be yourself.” “I’m okay. I guess I am tired.” I hadn’t been myself. I’d been using all my energy to remember what it was like to be me. This night, I was tired. Too tired to try. I just wanted to cry.

~~~

To Be Continued...

 Three Part Series {on depression}

1. That Day... {monday}
2. That Night... {tuesday}
3. The Pickup... {wednesday}

This. This is the post that’s been haunting me; Sitting in the “drafts section" of my mind for a long time. I think this may be part of the reason I’ve had trouble exposing “REALness”; hesitant to reveal my biggest weaknesses and struggles. The one that makes me want to do dishes rather than write. I don’t like dusting off my skeletons. I’m not sure I’ve told this entire story to anyone, including my husband which is rare. He’s my best friend. I bore him often with my tales of non-sense. So here goes…

{photo credit}

Almost a year after having my 3^rd baby in two and ½ very short years I headed back to the doctor. Yep, that day when you and your OB get to make small talk while she does one of the most uncomfortable and awkward things in every girls life- the “Annual”.

This was the 1^st time I’d been to the OB all by myself since months before my wedding. I was one of those girls who didn’t go until she needed birth control and then when I was preggers. During all the years of monthly/weekly visits for prenatal care, my hubs had accompanied me. It was odd to sit in the waiting room all alone; people watching all by myself. Pretending to read magazines but really just looking at pictures as if it were Pinterest. My time came.  They called my name as if I’d won something. Not The Case.

I went to back chit chatting with the nurse. I sat down and answered all the normal questions, taking blood pressure, getting weighed {That’s just horrible, I mean, why do they need that? Are we at a cattle auction? Are they going to get paid more for me for being thicker? Anyways :O)’}, blah blah blah.

In “the room” I wait on that noisy paper after trying to hide my tooshy with that paper thin, open-ended gown, and wait, and wait. My sweet doctor enters the room, wearing that impenetrable coat of colorful makeup, and asks me all the same questions the nurse did. She breaks out those shiny, cold, instruments of torture and does her thing. She finishes with a, “I don’t think it ever gets easier” and asks if I had any other questions for her. I did. Well, less a question, more a, “this is what’s going on.” I guess there could be question to follow that. “How do I fix it?”

I nervously talked to her as I sweated all over that now crinkled paper.

“I’ve been having mood swings I guess” I began. “I feel like crying often. I have been over reacting about simple things and get easily frustrated by my kids. I thought it was my heart stuff but I get this tight feeling in my chest.”

Her response: “Okay” in a not so comforting calm, I’ve-seen-this-before voice. “Do you feel out of control some times? Like you just want to scream?”

Sadly that’s exactly how I felt. I want to scream to try and release some of that tenseness built up in my chest. Then I want to cry because all I want to do is scream. I was slightly disappointed she’d pinned me so quickly.

As soon as I confessed to her description, she broke out her script pad- that evil little pad that awakens all those fears deep in me. She explained that she could “give me something” that would help. It would level things out.

I quickly asked her with slight hope in my voice, “Is it like birth control?” I know what that is and what is does.

“No, this…this works more with the chemicals in your brain…to levels things out.”

I’m sure she could hear the hesitation in my voice as she continued writing her script. “Umm, does birth control do the same thing?”

“Yes, and we could try and go that route if this doesn’t help.”

“Alright” I say knowing full well what she was sentencing me to with that paper. I was a psych major for crying out loud. And I was Not Happy about it At All {pun intended}.

~~~

To Be Continued...

Three Part Series {on depression}

1. That Day... {monday}
2. That Night... {tuesday}
3. The Pickup... {wednesday}