The Days After, The Day After

Lost. A raft in the sea… drifting aimlessly while ships surround me; each one busy along it’s course… trying to reach their destinations.

It’s impossible to describe what these days feel like.

Last Saturday, I experienced a severe mental health breakdown. I did not die and I did not end up in the hospital. But I did fall backwards to a point I’ve never been before, experiencing insanity to a new degree – confusion, chaos, and fear enveloping me.

Over the course of three days, I lived in a different world… I was by all accounts, a different person. By the end of the third day, I was not only afraid of both what I had done, but also of what was to come. I was unsure of who I was, where I was, or even at times when I was.

During the crisis I had people watching out for me. Friends reaching out to me – and to their own support system for advice on what to do. Co-workers of my husbands, passing him updates when they saw me. And my husband himself… taking necessary steps, and with encouragement and support for himself, when things got bad, calling the police to find me.

Thankfully, things turned out okay.

By Monday night I was hitching a ride with a Police Officer back to my house… back to a semi-conscious state of mind and able to think just a little bit clearer. Thankfully this Officer was amazing; and I can honestly say that without his assistance, accompanied by his respectful and empathetic approach to my tricky situation, there is an incredibly strong chance that things would have ended much differently.

On Tuesday I started to come back to reality… to see the damage and the aftermath of the storm I had caused. I spent the day picking up the pieces and trying to understand what had happened, exactly how I had fallen again.

Over the course of three days I unraveled completely.

By Thursday I was back at work… back in public. Smiling. Happy. Even a little bit more energized than before my break. I looked overall good; although perhaps a little tired. To look at me, you never would have guessed that the previous evening my mind was still foggy enough that I refused to drive my car, afraid that I wasn't able to adequately assess my surroundings.

Today. Friday. I am not good.

Today, I realised that it’s okay to not be okay still.

What I experienced during my three days of madness, was both an incredible breakdown and a massive breakthrough. It was scary and it was frustrating, and it was also traumatic.

On Saturday the puzzle I had been working to build was thrown to the ground in an earth-shattering quake… the pieces scattered, some chunks together, but all of them so far apart that nothing made sense.

By Tuesday, when my senses returned and I saw the mess that had been created, I wanted to fix it. I started to gather the puzzle pieces and quickly put them back together. Some of them were broken, bent, taped, and glued… the damage caused by my breakdown significant. In frustration I began to jam the pieces in that wouldn’t fit. I needed to put the puzzle back to exactly where it had been before this had all happened… I wanted to be able to add more unfinished pieces to the picture; to look forward and pretend that this had never happened.

After all, I was okay.

I woke up in the mornings. I looked perfectly normal. I showered, I was functional, and my autopilot functions were still intact. But despite the fact that things were ‘over’ and it was time to move on to the next leg of my journey… I began to feel worse.

Today I realized that I am not the same.

Mental health breakdowns can change you. For me, I began to understand this again, from an experienced point of view as I felt the beginnings of a panic attack rise at just the idea of going to the grocery store. I noticed the change through my general fatigue, nauseated stomach, and lack of general patience. I feel it in the fear, the haze that refuses to fully lift, and the confusion if things get too loud, too noisy, or just generally too much around me.

I admit, I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like feeling ‘sick’ after the breakdown is over; and I don’t like that I am the only one who has any idea that I am still struggling so much. In some ways, I wish I had a sign on my head announcing it… letting the world know that I’m sick… that I’m not just hiding away in my house for no reason. And in some ways, I love that it’s invisible because autopilot still works to an extent, and maybe if I just push myself a little harder... everyone will believe that I'm really just normal.

These are the days after, the day after.

Learning to heal. To re-enter the world. To know that it’s okay that I don’t look sick, but I am sick at this point. Learning to respond correctly again… to talk… to feel connected to the world, and not lost and isolated, and alone; despite the people surrounding me.

These are the days where it is important to talk. To let people know that I am unwell, not for pity or for manipulation, or to seek affection... but because it can't always be seen. These are the days to seek advice and counsel, and to answer messages from concerned friends and family. To make the effort in self-care. To not push too hard.

These are the days where I want the world to know, that I’m actually worse than when I was ‘in’ the breakdown. The days after, the weeks after… sometimes even the months that follow, when work is being done, new coping mechanisms learned, when life looks normal – but your head is still a mess.

These are the days when a simple text from a friend, or even acquaintance can change the course of the day.

This week I had a person that I would consider a friend message me after I said I had been feeling rough. I hadn’t gone into detail on Tuesday morning when we were talking… and although we are not close, and we haven’t known each other long; this friend checked in later on. A message to see how I was… to encourage me for the next day. It meant more to me than I could ever explain that she knew. That she somehow got it that the day after was just as hard… that it wasn’t simply back to normal.

I want to end this on a positive note. I want to say that I know life will get better and easier from here on out… and I know, logically that it will. But I also know it will be hard. Being in this position is not easy – for me, or for those around me.

I have work to do. But I also have rest I need to take. I need to let the dust settle. I need to find the missing puzzle pieces… the ones that might have slipped under the rug, or been swept across the room. I need to heal my mind, the same way that someone sick with a physical illness needs to heal their body.

These are the invisible days of the illness. These are the days that honesty matters.

End the stigma surrounding mental illness. Talk about it. Reach out. Don't forget friends, family, or acquaintances in the days following a breakdown.

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A Glimpse of the Aftermath

"Goodnight girl," I laugh as I tuck her into bed, kissing the top of her head and trying to avoid the inevitable grab that she gives me, holding my arm, my leg, or any part of my body close to her. Joking around and laughing about how I can't leave her and how I have to stay, to sleep in her bed with her. Prying her arms from around my neck, I drop them to her bed and back away, laughing some more and talking about the outfit that she has laid out on the floor for the next day, hoping that it distracts her before bed. I feel the guilt eating me inside, but I refuse to give in to her playful, passive resistance, knowing that she will be fine and knowing that she will have to learn to trust me again. But still I give her one more kiss, one more hug goodnight.

Just a week ago, I pushed her trust to the limit when my husband and I went out late at night to try and catch the Northern lights on camera, leaving the kids at home with the oldest to put to bed. When I came in after midnight I went to her room and made sure she was tucked in, however I didn't wake her up as I knew that she preferred for me to do. Instead I slipped into bed and fell quickly asleep...  until an hour or so later when I heard my bedroom door open and felt her presence slip just inside the door for a minute while she monitored the room to ensure that I was there, breathing quietly and leaving as quickly as she came, moving back to her bed and turning on her little television and VHS player - popping a favourite Disney movie in to help her sleep.

"Trust me." I tell her regularly.

"Are you alright?" She asks the second that I seem out of sorts - the tears, the quiet, the headaches, the naps... anything out of routine, and she is aware, checking my status, ensuring that I'm not leaving her. 

"I love you." I tell her (and all of my children) daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes more. 

"It's just a cold" I say as I sniffle and wipe my nose, her face etched in worry as she watches me closely and cuddles a little more throughout the day. 

"I promise, I'm okay." I have to say, more than I should... because she doesn't trust me. She doesn't know... she can't be sure. 

"You aren't going to have to go back to the hospital... are you?" She asks quietly, the fear evident in her voice - memories of me being in a locked ward and denying my kids visits, ashamed and unwilling to introduce them to the world that I'm stuck in for the moment.

Out of all four of my children, I see the impact of my decisions the most on my daughter. Although she is 11.5, there are days where she reminds me of a toddler, the way she snuggles and clings to me, insists on sitting just in the same room as me. She doesn't like it when I'm sick, she doesn't like it when I leave, and she is often terrified when I say goodnight. 

I have gone through many episodes in the last 5-8 years to do with my mental health. Throughout my episodes, the one thing that remains consistent is that I never wanted to hurt my kids, and during my decision making process, somewhere along the lines I have often decided that they were better off without me. It is one of the biggest lies of mental illness... the one that warps the truth and forces you to see the burden that you have become, the way that you will hinder or hurt your kids if you remain in their lives, or simply if you remain alive at all. 

Several times I left home over the past five years. Several times I tried to end my life. Several times I simply thought about it. Several times, I didn't know what to do so I just ran, disappeared without a trace. My mind was paranoid, delusional, warped, and at times psychotic, but the safety and the health of my children always seemed to be constant. But that is where the problem lies... when you think you are doing what is best for them, by hurting yourself or disappearing completely from their lives. To the outside it seems hurtful, unimaginable, and selfish - while in your heart and your head, you feel like you are protecting, loving, and helping.

And after it was said and done, after regaining level status and release from a hospital. After realizing the mistakes that I had made and apologizing for leaving. After explaining mental illness - a sickness of the brain to my kids in terms that were age-appropriate and gave them information without too much detail... after all of that, I started to learn about the aftermath. 

I began to learn about the fear that they experienced - the unknown, the whispers that they put together. Eyes and ears are everywhere when you have kids, and while my husband and I have tried to keep them informed to the appropriate level they are at, there are some things that they still find out... that they piece together... that they share between them. When your front lawn is covered in police cars while they search for their mother, it is impossible to hide. When they eventually come to visit you in a place filled with people from all walks of life, experiencing all kinds of mental illness, it is impossible to hide. When memories and fights assault the adults, when tears begin and don't stop, when words are muttered and heard by little ears... they figure it out. They know. They understand. But they can't understand it all. 

And so I tuck my kids into bed each night, and each night I give an extra snuggle when needed. I leave the light on, or do a quick groggy wake up when I come in to assure them I'm home. I let them check me over when I've just got a cold, and I tell them I love them as often as they need me to. 

I show them that I am earning their trust. I talk to them. I build up our relationships. I show them recovery. 

I show them dedication and hard work. I model research, counseling, reading, and talking. I model following a health plan and the doctor's advice. I practice self care, (mostly) healthy eating, the importance of regular exercise, and expressing emotion.

I've seen a glimpse of the aftermath. I know the chaos it causes when a parent decides their children are better off without them.I know the turmoil, the heartache, the mistrust, and the loss of respect. I know the pain, the fear, and the anxiety that comes as a direct result.

I know that when my head starts to shift, that if I don't catch myself, that I might fall again, take a hundred steps back in my recovery - and as a result, theirs. I know it's possible, and I know it's impossible to understand... even those closest to me having a hard time piecing together how I can shift so rapidly, so completely in my thinking. But I know, that I can make a difference now. I can work on myself. I can do whatever is necessary.

And I can fight hard, so that hopefully, with a lot of hard work and support and knowledge, they never have to experience that kind of pain again. 

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Recovery in the Quiet Times

Today I’m taking a quiet afternoon to myself. During the process of self-discovery and recovery, where I have spent hours upon hours trying to understand my own thoughts, emotions, actions, and reactions – I have discovered that I need space. I need time. I need to breathe.

When my husband and I met, we were in high school. Soon after we began dating, our first son came along – followed by three more children, college, and careers. Life spiraled faster than we could see coming and we embraced it. From sun up until sun down we worked – we went to school – we played with our kids – we paid bills – we rushed around from one thing to the next. There was rarely any time for anything else. We were young and we had a family that depended on us.

During this time, my battle with mental illness was just beginning to pick up its pace. There would be many days where sleep was an illusion, fighting became my go-to reaction, and life didn’t make sense. Pushing through, neither my husband nor I really understood why we did the things that we did, how to change, or even what was wrong.

Of course, life simply can’t continue on forever in a tangled, confusing, chaotic mess and so when we crashed – we crashed hard. Both of us faced demons from our past, triggers from the present, and emotional/mental/physical problems that neither of us was prepared to handle. We nearly gave up; on ourselves, on each other, and on our marriage. We didn’t deal with things well – our problems spiraled, my mental health became a severe mental illness and I almost lost my life.

Since then, life has changed for us.

Thankfully, we have been able to establish an incredible support system and have opened up to friends and family along the way. Through our journey – both together and individually we have discovered things that we couldn’t have even begun to comprehend before this point. Things in our life – the way that we think, feel, and act are changing – and as our knowledge grows and we spend hours in self discovery – we continue to find better ways to move through life – both separately and together.

For me, one thing that I have learned – is that I need ‘down time’. Without down time my mind becomes muddled – call it chemical, genetic, or a product of life – it is something that I have learned is vital to my ability to function well.

Personally – I find this frustrating.

It isn’t that I don’t like life – in fact I do very much like living a full life. I like to go out. I like to spend time with friends and family. I like to explore new places, things, and people.

I also like to be alone.

Sometimes I need to be alone.

Sometimes I need to take a break in the middle of the week – I need to sit on the couch with my feet up and a book in my hand. Sometimes I need to close my eyes and have a short nap. Sometimes I need to literally sit and do nothing.

And yes. Sometimes I get frustrated with myself. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t have endless amounts of energy like my husband seems to have. Sometimes I wonder why I can’t function in the same way that everyone around me seems to be able to – pushing through and just faking it.

But I can’t. Believe me, I’ve tried.

I have spent countless days in misery as my mind became overwhelmed with pain and fear and anger and confusion. I have spent time in the presence of people where I have broken down, unable to continue on a conversation because I have put myself into a situation that I cannot handle at that time. I have been to the point of suicide because I simply can’t do life anymore. I have felt like my brain has been cracking down the middle, fighting with itself – two sides of the canyon – one side yelling at me to be normal, to keep going, to just ‘suck it up’, while the other side of me begins to see things, hallucinate, become unstable, paranoid, or simply dark.

I have fought through instability, mania, depression, and borderline rage. I have struggled to find level – and I have struggled to keep myself from falling down a rabbit hole more times than I can count. I have spent more time than I care to remember in hospitals, in counselling, in groups, and in study – trying to understand why I just can’t function ‘normally’.

And finally, I have spent time fighting. Fighting with myself. Fighting with others. Trying to explain to them – what I can’t even explain to myself. I have spent hours crying because I can’t do what I desperately want to do. I have spent time debating, explaining, and eventually silent, because others in my life simply don’t get it. I have felt guilt over relaxing, and fear over a fight that I was sure to come, if I spent those moments quietly – if I cancelled plans, or if I just said no.

But now, after years of work. After walking a recovery journey that fills me both with pride and frustration, I finally have the confidence to say enough is enough. It doesn’t matter. I don’t question a diabetic that needs insulin. I don’t question a cancer patient that needs rest. I don’t question a person struggling with an illness on why they need time to recover. I respect it. I respect them. And I respect myself.

There will always be people in my life who don’t understand this need I have for time, space, and silence. But I don’t need them to understand… now that I understand, I get it. Not everybody needs the same thing that I do – and not everyone is going to see what not having these things will do to me. And that’s okay.

I’m okay with that.  And that, is how I know how far I’ve come.

That is how I know – that regardless of whether or not other people may understand my actions towards my recovery and myself, I know that I am doing what I need to do – with confidence, with guidance, with support, and with determination. These are the things that I have learned. These are the things that will ultimately ensure my success.

So now, I’m going to go sit quietly in the corner of my couch, my kids sent outside to play in the sunshine, my husband puttering around the house, and a book in my hands. No justification. No fighting. Just doing something that I desperately needed to do today, to avoid a break. Just being me.

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