A Letter to my Worst Enemy

courtesy of Mad Magazine

Dear Depression and Anxiety,

You and I have known each other a long time. We became intimately acquainted when I was at the tender age of 11 when I managed to miss over 20 days of school in one academic year, because I couldn't handle you. Remember how it went?

1. Girls were mean to me at school.

2. I would cry at school and be unable to focus the rest of the day.

3. I would go home, crawl into bed, cry some more, and rerun the day's events over and over and over again.

4. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Back then, they called me a kid who "worried a lot." Oh if only it was that simple. Even then, I knew this went beyond just worrying and being sad.

That was only the beginning of our lifelong battle: you vs. me.

Remember when I was 16 and we really came to blows? You took the opportunity to attack when my high school sweetheart broke up with me, and you just wouldn't let go. You watched me stay in bed, day after day, crying and shaking with sadness. You laughed in my face and put your foot on my neck, holding me down until I nearly broke. Luckily, my family had lots of personal experience battling the likes of you, so they held me up and knew what to do to help. That's when I found a couple of lethal weapons against you: medication and therapy. I managed to beat you back, and I emerged victorious. Although you popped your head out of the sand again several years later, when I had a falling out with a college friend, this time I was prepared. I enlisted the help of a brand, spanking, new therapist (we'll call her Darlene) and you went back into hiding.

The next time we met, you brought a wing man: anxiety. This time, you pounced when my back was turned. I really thought when I decided to try going off medication at 27, all was going well. It was summer, I was stress-free and feeling good. But little did I know that the minute the school year started, you would pull a dirty trick: panic attacks. This time, it wasn't sadness that debilitated me. Instead, this was something much harder to handle. I had never felt anything like it. I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't stop the racing, repetitive thoughts. I couldn't sleep or eat. KG would watch me pace the apartment at all hours, trying to work off some of the excess energy, feeling so helpless. This was a nasty, heartless addition to our battle. I was completely powerless against you, so I added something new to my arsenal of weapons against you. Along with a med change and therapy, this time I added exercise to the mix. All of a sudden, things calmed down and I was able to control the overwhelming feeling that my heart was going to explode in my chest.

Recently, some life circumstances invited you back into my life. Between my miscarriage, PCOS diagnosis, failed IUIs, KG's mother's death, a failed IVF, financial worries, and plenty of work stress to boot, the door swung open, inviting you to come prancing through. It feels like we are at opposite sides of that door - you pushing in while I try to keep you out. You try and try, but I put all my strength into keeping myself safe. Occasionally, you cause me a pretty bad day (or week) of sleeplessness, tears, and worry but I have gotten better and better at keeping you at bay. My newest secret weapon? Blogging. Somehow, writing about all of this chaos has helped keep you on a leash.

I have to admit though, you still have power over me. Even when you aren't rearing your ugly head, you make me feel weak and ashamed. Whether I like it or not, there are assumptions about people who battle with depression and anxiety and I hate being saddled with that stigma. Just like with infertility: people who have never experienced it have no clue what it is like to deal with something like this.

I can't help but wonder if we will always battle, or if this chapter of my life will end at some point.

Until then, I'll be the one pushing on the other side of the door.

-HRF

A Letter to my Grandmother

Dear Grandma,

This is kind of a strange letter to write. Not only have you been gone for over 10 years, but when you were with us, you and I were not very close. You lived far away. Your husband was a tough cookie who never made his son (or grandchildren) feel especially loved or supported. You were a much kinder and softer person than he, but we never had much in common. I never really felt as though I knew who you were as a person. I was barely 20 years old when you passed, and you did not know me well either.

However, I am starting to realize that you might be the one person in my family that would truly understand my current situation, if you were still here. After I lost my baby, Mom and Dad reminded me that you had several miscarriages. They didn't know specifics about why the pregnancies failed, but they knew you desperately wanted more children. Not in over a decade had I so badly wanted to pick up the phone and call you.

Knowing this about you makes me think of you in a completely different way. Actually, it also gives me an entirely new perspective regarding your marriage to Grandpa. I admit, I judged you harshly. Growing up, I would watch him order you around and lose his temper, and I blamed you for it. Your marriage seemed cold and distant, compared to that of my own parents and maternal grandparents. "Why on earth would you stay?" I wondered. I felt like you were a victim. I felt like you allowed a man to dominate you. Now, I think I was wrong.

I now suspect that you probably felt guilt, shame, and sadness about not being able to give my dad a sibling. Although you loved Dad deeply, you had more love to share and were robbed of the opportunity to share it. Maybe you felt like you failed your husband, who also wanted more children. Did this cause the tension and isolation between you that was so noticeable to others? The pain of repeated pregnancy loss must have been overwhelming, and you lived through it during a time when such things were rarely spoken of. Doting on your family was probably the best way you knew to cope and move on with your life.

Although your life was quite different from mine, I feel in my heart that you would have understood the pain I feel about trying to conceive. You and I both know the pain that comes from having a supposed biological certainty become the source of so much fear. We know that no matter how much time goes by, you can't help but wonder if the baby would have had your eyes and his smile. We also know that the stress of all of this affects not only your marriage, but your relationships with friends and family. I am incredibly lucky to be married to a kind, generous, patient, and loving man who never, ever thinks of me as a failure, as I see myself sometimes. I wonder what your life would have been like if you had a partner that was emotionally present and supportive.

I wish things had been different for you, Grandma. I am sorry that I was too young and inexperienced to understand the depth and complexity you possessed in life. I miss you.

Love,
R