In late summer 2009, I started working with a therapist to get my anxiety issues under control. There were many factors contributing to the decisions to make this effort, but the biggest one was coming to accept that taking an anti-depressant wouldn't mean I was weak, wouldn't mean I was doing something wrong, wouldn't mean I was a failure. It would just mean I accepted that I needed help to be balanced, which I would desperately need if Dylan and I were to start seriously considering children. We agreed that our marriage was okay, but what we really wanted was family, and I knew I wasn't in a mental place where I could have kids. I was too unsteady, had outbursts that would be unacceptable around a child, and anxieties about raising children in this really screwed up world that held me back. I needed help. (I also thank Dooce a lot for helping me reach these decisions. Years of reading about and following her struggles helped me see the same problems in myself and accept things that needed to be done to find solutions.)
Over the next year, the changes I experienced in myself were beyond liberating. I didn't break down screaming at Dylan every week. I didn't face uncontrollable anxieties that had me hiding in closets wishing it would all go away. I met weekly with my therapist, a wonderful woman who enjoyed my stories and patiently and compassionately waited while I'd I sit silently for endless minutes, unable to speak because voicing the things I was thinking was too difficult. I gained control over myself, and the sessions were much more about giving me a chance to vent to a friend then about treating any issues. This woman became a friend. A guardian angel.
That first year, we found the best balance of medications and talk therapy. And at the end of it, Dylan and I felt confident about starting a family. I made it through grad school, serious career and financial stresses, the miscarriage, the death of my grandmother, and nine months of pregnancy with the help of this woman. Sometimes all she did was sit and laugh for an hour and a half while I entertained her with stories of my family or the kids I taught. Sometimes we had great give-and-take conversations about ways I could change my approaches to conflicts with Dylan or at work, ways to relax, ways to regain or keep control. But, mostly, what she did was help me find myself. I found confidence in myself and strength to believe that even when things were tough, it wasn't because I was failing or was weak. The drugs did a lot, and help me continue to be in a place where I can generally be rational about reality, but so did she.
When I was about 7 months pregnant, my therapist became ill enough that she disappeared completely for a few weeks, not returning calls, closing her office. When she returned one of my many calls a few weeks later, it was with the news that she was going to have to drastically cut back on her patients, seeing only a couple each week in her home. I was still welcome to be one of those patients, but I was already starting to worry about what I would do if she had to stop altogether. I saw her a few more times, up to the week before Kaylee was born. I had to call her the day that labor started to cancel our appointment that day, and let her know that Kaylee was on her way.
I haven't seen her since. The last time I talked to her, she was planning a trip to visit us when Kaylee was just two weeks old. I hope she's okay, but all I know is that calls and emails are once again going unanswered. I left several messages on both her cell and home phone, sent emails, and lett her know about our move to join the circus, but haven't heard from her in almost 6 months. Every day for those 6 months I've thought about how grateful I am that she helped me become strong enough to make these massive changes in my life, and do it without weekly breakdowns.
Why am I telling you this? Because I know that the drugs only do so much. They make it possible for me to not drown in my anxiety, to be able to use the rational part of my brain that can dissect events and make it possible to see solutions, rather than become overwhelmed. But I still need to voice those dissections from time to time. And I don't have her any more. Maybe if we still lived in Oregon, I'd be at her house, knocking on her door to see if she's there and if I could help her the way she helped me (and, in turn, have someone to talk to). But I live on the road now. I can't build a relationship with a new therapist, because we'd be moving two months later. So, I have this blog. I could just type, save it in a document for myself, and not share it. Keep my private life private. But I was helped so much by reading other blogs that I want to make it possible for others to be helped, if anything in my stories can help them. So, this is your warning. For the past few months, I've focused this blog on sharing the fun parts of our travels and pictures of Kaylee, as kind of a scrapbook for us to look back on. But, there's never any single focus to this blog ("No One Thing") and I think I might start using it as a way to vent once in awhile, and pretend that I'm talking to her when I need someone to talk to.
Hope you don't mind. Maybe you'll find the crazy stories as entertaining as she did.
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