By the Wannabe Mom
Help.
The warm water rises until it’s above my chest. Bubbles cover everything but my knees.
I use bath oil. The smell of eucalyptus fills my lungs. My breath catches in my chest.
It’s quiet in my house. In my head.
My eyes–not focused—are fixed on the bare wall. Everything is blurry—fuzzy. I’m in a trance of sorts. No thoughts. No words. Unresponsive. I’m not happy or sad. I’m just empty. Void of feelings. Void of life, really.
My toes pop out of the bubbles onto the edge of my tub—they’re still painted red from our beach vacation. The bright nail-color stings my eyes. I slide my feet slowly back down into the water.
I fill and refill my bathtub over and over and over again.
My mind and my heart are broken into a million little pieces.
That day, that moment—that tub is the only place in the universe that stops my whole body from aching.
The buoyancy of that water is the only thing keeping my shattered soul intact.
I sink lower and lower into that soapy water.
. . .
I sit in my doctor’s office. Dressed. Hair pulled back. Embarrassed. Ashamed, really. Throat closed tight. Eyes blinking back tears.
I tell her I’m not myself. I can’t pump myself up. Nothing I’m trying is working. Not my healthy lifestyle. Not talking to a therapist. Not taking a vacation.
She passes me a tissue—and tells me I shouldn’t be ashamed. She says I’ve been through hell.
The tears—they flow.
Somewhere deep inside–I find one last sliver of strength to form the words.
I think I may need some help.
. . .
Two years ago—I was a very different person.
I was strong. I was a fighter. I didn’t accept defeat.
Never—in a million years—did I think infertility would break me.
But it has.
This disease has kicked my ass.
I can talk a good game–or write a good game. But the truth is these past few weeks I’ve slid quickly and quietly into a dark, dark place. A place no one likes to talk about—or write about.
I’m sharing my dark place with all of you because it’s a very real part of my infertility journey.
I think it’s probably a very real part of a lot of our infertility journeys. Or our motherhood journeys. Or our life journeys.
I’m depressed. I’m unbalanced.
I need help. I’m not ashamed to write that.
I need help to get out of bed each morning. To get out of the tub.
I need help–to make my comeback.
For me, help is coming in the form of an anti-depressant. I’m not ashamed to write that either.
I hope my words are met with support–not judgment. I hope they’re met with understanding—and empathy.
I’m taking a little pill now. I’m meeting with a psychologist on a regular basis. I’m working to put all the broken pieces of myself back together.
I think I’m going to get stronger and healthier—and better–each day. Slowly but surely.
I’m getting help. Hang in here with me while I make my comeback.