Breaking Point

Apparently my blog post about depression wasn't enough motivation for me to call my doctor or a therapist. It was always in the back of my mind, but as I do with most everything these days, I avoided making the call. It's not that I don't think I could benefit from some help. It's just that when I'm at my worst I'm afraid I'll be locked up in the hospital, so I don't call. When I'm feeling better, I expect it to last. It doesn't.

Today, I called my husband with a desperate plea for him to come home. I was seriously considering throwing myself off the top of our landing and down the stairs. I now realize how irrational that sounds. It's highly doubtful I'd kill myself that way. At the time, I just wanted out. Out of my messy, dirty house. Out of the screaming, whining arguments. Out of the humidity and heat (yes, our air conditioner seems to be on vacation). Out of our financial mess. Out of my anger that my eldest child's teacher seemingly taught her nothing this year, leading us to hire a summer tutor. Out of my inability to focus on anything for more than five minutes. Out of the despair I feel for my Grandparents (he broke his hip while we visited last week and it's suspected she has Alzheimer's). Out of the ongoing in-law issues. Out of my insomnia. Out of my at-least-ten-pounds-too-heavy body. Out of my mind.

My husband begrudgingly came home, even threatening that I needed to get a job and the kids would go to daycare. He soon after apologized for that comment and told me to call somebody for help. Immediately. I called my doctor because I wanted to be sure I dealt with my medical issues in addition to requesting a referral for a therapist. I was able to see my doctor this afternoon.

My doctor was certainly ready for me. Even though I told the scheduler I was coming in for insomnia, my doctor had the depression screening test waiting. The optimal score is 4 or below. I was a 20. From the look on my doctor's face, I thought men in white coats were about to come through the door with a straight jacket for me.

I'm already taking Zoloft, as I have been for over seven years. My doctor added a sleep aid that was originally manufactured for depression. He's hoping that it will help me not only sleep, but it'll boost the effectiveness of the Zoloft. From a medication standpoint, we're hoping this works so that I don't have to try switching away from Zoloft altogether.

My doctor also signed me up with a new program at our Clinic. I met with a nurse who will follow up with me on a weekly basis to monitor my progress. A psychiatrist will also review my records and make recommendations. I didn't pay too much attention to all the details, but I told my doctor I might as well do anything that saves me from having to reach out for help again. For me, that's the hardest part - advocating for myself when I'm depressed. Part of my depression is deeply entrenched in avoidance behaviors, so picking up the phone becomes excruciatingly difficult.

Tomorrow, I'll try to force myself to call a friend who told me about a therapist who specializes in grief counseling. I am hopeful, yet everyday is a struggle. I never know exactly how much I can endure each day before I hit my breaking point where I lash out in anger. I cannot put my kids, my husband, or myself through this Jekyll and Hyde routine any longer. It hurts too much.