4-Year Anniversary

I don't know what it is about time or what the magic number is for any individual, but for me it seems to be four years. Today is the 4-year anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. These dates can be tough. Anniversaries -- reminders of what you went through and what you continue to deal with. For me this day was something else. It was a day I had an appointment with my psychiatrist who's been treating me for anxiety and depression. She's also a breast cancer survivor. So we talked. We talked about how we found our cancer, how it was revealed to us, our interactions with doctors, family, friends. We laughed at the common ridiculousness of some of it and we got choked up at the common pain of it.  For about half an hour we were just two survivors talking. And then there's that word "survivor." We both agreed that it's a hard label to carry. There are many survivors out there and many who have gone through much more difficult things than we have. Earlier I wrote a post entitled "We're All Surviving Something." We talked about that too.

This anniversary came and went without much notice because I'm currently battling something bigger than the ghosts of cancer. I'm battling a pretty serious bout of depression. I've dealt with anxiety and depression my entire life. Most people would be surprised to hear that. I've become pretty adept at hiding it. Lately though if you look close you can see I'm not okay. Cancelling plans, skipping things that used to be important to me, backing out of commitments or simply not taking on new ones -- I can't "do" life right now. Just one week ago was the lowest I'd ever been. I'd fought depression and anxiety during grad school and again after our first child, but this was a deeper, darker, more blunt version of what I'd ever gone through before. A week ago I confided to my psychiatrist that I had been having feelings of hurting myself. They were strong and pervasive. Hear me clearly -- I wouldn't do it. I would never put my family and friends through that. But, for the first time in my life I understood how people get to that point. They don't want to die. They just want the darkness to stop.

One week ago my doctor adjusted my medications and we made some plans for bringing light back into my life -- things like exercising everyday (blah), reaching out to friends, saying yes to opportunities, and practicing mindfulness. It's work. Hard work. Because all I really want to do is crawl into my bed and maybe read a book, but mainly just be in my bed. It's a very comfortable bed and bedroom and it's my favorite place on the planet. I'm feeling better this week. I've confided in some friends and family what I've been going through and they've been supportive -- some even confessing that they've been in the same place. The brain is a marvelous and miraculous thing. It's also a dangerous minefield when its chemicals go awry. I'm thankful to have access to an excellent medical and counseling community. I know so many others don't. So if you're one who's suffering and fighting the fight like I am, know you're not alone. Life is hard. And whether it's circumstances or a chemical imbalance causing anxiety and depression it's nothing to be ashamed of. We need to normalize our talk of such things. If we did we might just save some lives.