If you’re not new to my blog or my social media platforms, then you know that I’m no stranger to the struggles with mental health. I have shared very openly about my highs and lows over the the last 24 years. I even have a whole blog solely dedicated to one of my longest battles dealing with the loss of two pregnancies back to back.
For awhile, I’d been doing pretty decent. I wasn’t experiencing any major setbacks, and after dealing with a bout of postpartum depression a couple of years ago, I was feeling fairly resilient.
But then my health took a turn for the worst.
And symptoms I had been experiencing that I presumptuously assumed would dissipate with time; suddenly became a long life sentence with little chance of parole. Normally, I am the strong one. I’ve been navigating the deep waters of depression for a long time I could literally write several books on it.
But what I’m experiencing now has truly knocked the wind out of my sails.
I blogged openly about my sudden onset of weight gain, the discovery of my goiter and subsequently the Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, and even the arthritis. I’ve shared the clinical terminology and even glossed over how I’m struggling with the changes I’m going through. But perhaps I haven’t been as transparent as I’ve claimed.
This journey has been humiliating.
To feel the loss of my mobility as I had known it, the months I spent limping along because I was too prideful to buy the cane. The day I clicked ‘add to cart’ on a shower chair, needing my husband to lotion me after I come out the shower. Not being able to walk long distances or chase after my son. Needing a mart cart when I’m in the store. Hair loss, swelling, abnormal menstrual cycles last 25 days at a time. Smiling when I have felt like crying. Being cheerful at work so my colleagues don’t suspect I’m crumbling a little bit at a time. Feeling like a burden to my husband who has done nothing but love me through the entirety of this process.
And I feel like I’m falling apart.
I push myself to go the gym knowing it won’t result in my weight loss. I eat healthier to attempt to make myself feel better from the inside. I try to maintain my spiritual routine, and I pray as often as I can remember.
But I’m falling apart.
I see my children and I’m literally filled with anguish over all of the awesome memories from just a few years ago that I will never be able to duplicate because it’s simply not possible. And I am filled with sadness that I cannot be better than broken for them.
I am literally falling apart.
I am angry, and bitterness is swelling up in the spaces of me where hope and joy once resided. I am sad. I am ashamed and embarrassed.
And I know it’s not my fault.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for this life at the age of 33.
I am trying my hardest to be the resilient person I’ve always been and the fact that I just can’t is killing me.
I want to continue to be a force of positive energy and encouragement, but I’m afraid my cup is on empty.
I am counting down to my therapy session with an eagerness that denotes there’s still some fight left in me.
I appreciate all of the support from everywhere it comes from and I can’t wait to be on the other side of this and using it as a teachable moment as I have with every other struggle I’ve encountered.