I am sorry I have been absent from my blog.
There is so much I have wanted to write about, but I haven't been able to.
I haven't been able not because of lack of time or desire or topics.
I didn't have a good state of mind.
I've been struggling more than I ever have in my entire life.
I hadn't been able to pinpoint what exactly was going on.
I struggled to acknowledge how bad my mental state was and how bad I needed help.
I told my mom and my husband my depression was getting out of hand.
How did I know it was getting out of hand?
For one, I started imagining my husband's and my daughters' lives without me and thinking they'd be better off. Then, I started imagining how they would take it if they found me dead on the shower and if they'd be able to recover from that.
Those thoughts are not normal. I needed help.
I went to my endocrinologist checkup and told him of my depression. I told him I thought my depression was connected to my physical ailments: the lymphedema in my arm and the neuropathy in my legs, which has now been declared a permanent damage from chemo for the rest of my life, have been keeping me from sleeping well and being able to rest from being in so much pain at night. The lack of sleep makes it harder to be sweet and understanding while homeschooling two very young and willful girls. My hypothyroidism and my 20-years-early menopause were also causing a hormonal and mood imbalance. The anxiety from getting our immigration papers in order and the lack of job when savings were almost out were also piling up.
He prescribed Cymbalta. It is an antidepressant but it also has some other component that helps with chronic pain, so it would also target my neuropathy and help with the pain from the lymphedema. Perfect! Two birds with one shot. Well, the Cymbalta was not well received by my body. It gave me nausea, vomiting, extreme fatigue, faintness, foggy brain, migraine, difficulty concentrating, constipation, bloody stools. In other words, it was like if what back on chemo. That is how bad it was.
I went to my oncologist check up and told him how I was feeling and how badly the Cymbalta had been. He said he would not treat my depression. He said I needed to see a psychiatrist. I told him I was adverse to psychiatry and had only taken the antidepressants at the urging from my mom and my husband.
This is not my first tango with depression. That shouldn't be a shocker to anyone considering what I had to endure this past year. My cavorts with depression began during my parents' divorce. It was around that time that I began to know the Lord and He became my refuge and consoler. I had not been able to find any solace in the Lord this time around.
I told my mom and the oncologist I'd give the psychiatrist a chance, even if I didn't believe in them. I had given my mom a chance to meet with her spiritual mentor and sat down with her for some counseling. I didn't find much help from that meeting. It was not the first time I had sought some spiritual counseling and found no help.
Before I go on with my story, I want to pause to get some things off my chest.
Depression is a disease. It is not for lack of maturity. It is not for lack of motivation or perspective. It is not because one is lazy or decides to shut down. It is not for lack of love to others. The stigma on speaking out of these subjects makes one more alienated. The afternoon I was having strong suicidal thoughts and was all home alone I thought of reaching out to someone. What will they think of me? What will they say of me if they know I am thinking this way? Will they understand this is not the normal me? I have to say, and most likely this was not true but I felt that way, I couldn't think of anyone I could reach out to that would have understood. I finally told my husband to come home because I was very depressed. He got angry at me and said I was the one who "chose" to be alone and locked up in the house. (He has since learned to have a better reaction to when I am feeling this way.)
I went to the psychiatrist very skeptical. I told her my story. I told her where I thought my depression got out of hand. It was on January 6, 2017. The day Kinsley took her last breath. I shut down that day. That is the way I describe it. Like I had an "on" switch and I turned it off. Not happy or sad. Not angry. Just nothing. I use to read stories in Mommy Daily, a Facebook mom group, of kids losing parents or parents losing kids and I would cry for them. When little Obed died, a sick boy in the group everyone tried to help, I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything. I had shut my heart from investing any feelings in him or anyone else for that matter. I don't watch movies and get excited or cry. Nothing makes me cry. I was left in limbo.
This limbo was especially marked in my spiritual walk. I wasn't rejecting God, but I also didn't feel His presence anymore. I still knew I had to seek Him. I tried praying even though I didn't know what to pray for or how to pray. I had prayed so fervently for Kinsley that I no longer knew if it had been right to pray for her healing. If it had, the prayer would have been answered. I prayed for something that was not God's will. That truth shattered my view of what was the right thing to pray for.
"Do you think of Kinsley?" the doctor asked.
"Every day. Every moment. She is always on my mind." I said.
I see my girls and think how her mom is one girl short. how her sister is missing her playmate.
I then started telling the doctor my cancer journey. I thought it was funny how that part of the story was more upbeat and uplifting than how I've felt after my last surgery which ended my treatment. I told her how my husband and I had never prayed for my healing. We prayed that we could accept God's will in our lives and trust that He would look out for the girls and my husband if I were gone.
"So your source of hope was shattered," the doctor said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, you felt positive and strong with your disease because you trusted your God would look after your girls. But he didn't look after a little four year old who is just like your girls, so you no longer have any hope in Him."
I had never put those two together. NEVER. Was she right? Had I lost all hope in Him?
And, after all the platitudes I'd heard of Kinsley and how she was in a better place, and bla, bla, bla this doctor finally said something that made me feel the slightest better: "She did what she came to do."
I sat there letting it sink in. I thought of Giana, who I had also prayed so fervently to recover from her injuries and lost her battle to a simple surgery after enduring so much. "She did exactly what she was meant to do here."
"And that is why our journey here ends. We have something to do. And when we do, it is time to move on. Some do that in a longer journey, and some in a shorter. And as much as we wish they were still here, we need to let them move on," finished the doctor.
She said that she was surprised Cymbalta had not worked as it would have been what she would have prescribed too. She gave me another antidepressant and another medicine to help my manage my pain and help me sleep.
I've been feeling considerably better.
I've been thinking of God more and taking steps to search Him more too.
I was very surprised of how much I cried during that session and how good I felt afterward.
I was able to cry with the Lord, like I had always done because He was the one I could reach out to anytime anywhere with anything. I felt so good crying with Him.
I ask Him to be my hope, even when I don't understand why some things happen. Why did they have to die? Why did Kara have to die? Why do I have to walk such a hard road. Why am I filled with envy for expecting mothers and strong mothers? I should be happy for them. I want to. I am starting to.
I read this article about how we were asking the wrong thing in prayer for our kids. We always ask that they have health, and happiness, that they grow up to have a good spouse, a good career, education, job, house, etc. Well, these are not the scenarios where we see the Lord. We see Him in hardship, heartbrokeness, weakness, struggle, pain, suffering. It is there when we can see Him and grab hold of Him. We must ask that our children will seek Him in these time that WILL come.
This is true. I remember sharing the gospel with a stranger while we were on a waiting room. He said you can't know He is real. And I said: "Yes you can! Because He was with me." He was with me those nights when I cried myself to sleep when my dad left my house. He was there in the nights that I prayed on my knees with my nose to the ground and I felt His embrace. I grabbed ahold of the promises in His Word like: if your mother or father leave you, I will never leave you. I lived confidently in the words that I could call Him ABBA (father) because I had been adopted as a child of God. These were the things that sustained me and held me through anything that could come my way.
So, I am studying the Word seeking how to pray and what to pray for. I'll be writing a post on that soon. I am taking antidepressants to help balance my brain and give me a little help after so much loss and pain, specially when I also think of Sammy.
I liked the way my doctor put it: "You don't think ill of someone who has a kidney problem and takes kidney medicine. If someone has high blood pressure, he takes medicine for that. Your brain was not unaffected by everything you went through: chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery, miscarriage, loss. It is brain medicine."
How can a pill make you feel better? I don't know. It does. I feel better. I've been having better interactions with everyone around me. I've been having quiet time and alone time to meditate instead of fantasize and specially fantasize of unnatural thoughts.
We all need help. We all need a break. We are not alone. And He understands.
Today I give thanks antidepressants exist and thank God for making them accessible to me.
There is so much I have wanted to write about, but I haven't been able to.
I haven't been able not because of lack of time or desire or topics.
I didn't have a good state of mind.
I've been struggling more than I ever have in my entire life.
I hadn't been able to pinpoint what exactly was going on.
I struggled to acknowledge how bad my mental state was and how bad I needed help.
I told my mom and my husband my depression was getting out of hand.
How did I know it was getting out of hand?
For one, I started imagining my husband's and my daughters' lives without me and thinking they'd be better off. Then, I started imagining how they would take it if they found me dead on the shower and if they'd be able to recover from that.
Those thoughts are not normal. I needed help.
I went to my endocrinologist checkup and told him of my depression. I told him I thought my depression was connected to my physical ailments: the lymphedema in my arm and the neuropathy in my legs, which has now been declared a permanent damage from chemo for the rest of my life, have been keeping me from sleeping well and being able to rest from being in so much pain at night. The lack of sleep makes it harder to be sweet and understanding while homeschooling two very young and willful girls. My hypothyroidism and my 20-years-early menopause were also causing a hormonal and mood imbalance. The anxiety from getting our immigration papers in order and the lack of job when savings were almost out were also piling up.
He prescribed Cymbalta. It is an antidepressant but it also has some other component that helps with chronic pain, so it would also target my neuropathy and help with the pain from the lymphedema. Perfect! Two birds with one shot. Well, the Cymbalta was not well received by my body. It gave me nausea, vomiting, extreme fatigue, faintness, foggy brain, migraine, difficulty concentrating, constipation, bloody stools. In other words, it was like if what back on chemo. That is how bad it was.
I went to my oncologist check up and told him how I was feeling and how badly the Cymbalta had been. He said he would not treat my depression. He said I needed to see a psychiatrist. I told him I was adverse to psychiatry and had only taken the antidepressants at the urging from my mom and my husband.
This is not my first tango with depression. That shouldn't be a shocker to anyone considering what I had to endure this past year. My cavorts with depression began during my parents' divorce. It was around that time that I began to know the Lord and He became my refuge and consoler. I had not been able to find any solace in the Lord this time around.
I told my mom and the oncologist I'd give the psychiatrist a chance, even if I didn't believe in them. I had given my mom a chance to meet with her spiritual mentor and sat down with her for some counseling. I didn't find much help from that meeting. It was not the first time I had sought some spiritual counseling and found no help.
Before I go on with my story, I want to pause to get some things off my chest.
Depression is a disease. It is not for lack of maturity. It is not for lack of motivation or perspective. It is not because one is lazy or decides to shut down. It is not for lack of love to others. The stigma on speaking out of these subjects makes one more alienated. The afternoon I was having strong suicidal thoughts and was all home alone I thought of reaching out to someone. What will they think of me? What will they say of me if they know I am thinking this way? Will they understand this is not the normal me? I have to say, and most likely this was not true but I felt that way, I couldn't think of anyone I could reach out to that would have understood. I finally told my husband to come home because I was very depressed. He got angry at me and said I was the one who "chose" to be alone and locked up in the house. (He has since learned to have a better reaction to when I am feeling this way.)
I went to the psychiatrist very skeptical. I told her my story. I told her where I thought my depression got out of hand. It was on January 6, 2017. The day Kinsley took her last breath. I shut down that day. That is the way I describe it. Like I had an "on" switch and I turned it off. Not happy or sad. Not angry. Just nothing. I use to read stories in Mommy Daily, a Facebook mom group, of kids losing parents or parents losing kids and I would cry for them. When little Obed died, a sick boy in the group everyone tried to help, I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything. I had shut my heart from investing any feelings in him or anyone else for that matter. I don't watch movies and get excited or cry. Nothing makes me cry. I was left in limbo.
This limbo was especially marked in my spiritual walk. I wasn't rejecting God, but I also didn't feel His presence anymore. I still knew I had to seek Him. I tried praying even though I didn't know what to pray for or how to pray. I had prayed so fervently for Kinsley that I no longer knew if it had been right to pray for her healing. If it had, the prayer would have been answered. I prayed for something that was not God's will. That truth shattered my view of what was the right thing to pray for.
"Do you think of Kinsley?" the doctor asked.
"Every day. Every moment. She is always on my mind." I said.
I see my girls and think how her mom is one girl short. how her sister is missing her playmate.
I then started telling the doctor my cancer journey. I thought it was funny how that part of the story was more upbeat and uplifting than how I've felt after my last surgery which ended my treatment. I told her how my husband and I had never prayed for my healing. We prayed that we could accept God's will in our lives and trust that He would look out for the girls and my husband if I were gone.
"So your source of hope was shattered," the doctor said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, you felt positive and strong with your disease because you trusted your God would look after your girls. But he didn't look after a little four year old who is just like your girls, so you no longer have any hope in Him."
I had never put those two together. NEVER. Was she right? Had I lost all hope in Him?
And, after all the platitudes I'd heard of Kinsley and how she was in a better place, and bla, bla, bla this doctor finally said something that made me feel the slightest better: "She did what she came to do."
I sat there letting it sink in. I thought of Giana, who I had also prayed so fervently to recover from her injuries and lost her battle to a simple surgery after enduring so much. "She did exactly what she was meant to do here."
"And that is why our journey here ends. We have something to do. And when we do, it is time to move on. Some do that in a longer journey, and some in a shorter. And as much as we wish they were still here, we need to let them move on," finished the doctor.
She said that she was surprised Cymbalta had not worked as it would have been what she would have prescribed too. She gave me another antidepressant and another medicine to help my manage my pain and help me sleep.
I've been feeling considerably better.
I've been thinking of God more and taking steps to search Him more too.
I was very surprised of how much I cried during that session and how good I felt afterward.
I was able to cry with the Lord, like I had always done because He was the one I could reach out to anytime anywhere with anything. I felt so good crying with Him.
I ask Him to be my hope, even when I don't understand why some things happen. Why did they have to die? Why did Kara have to die? Why do I have to walk such a hard road. Why am I filled with envy for expecting mothers and strong mothers? I should be happy for them. I want to. I am starting to.
I read this article about how we were asking the wrong thing in prayer for our kids. We always ask that they have health, and happiness, that they grow up to have a good spouse, a good career, education, job, house, etc. Well, these are not the scenarios where we see the Lord. We see Him in hardship, heartbrokeness, weakness, struggle, pain, suffering. It is there when we can see Him and grab hold of Him. We must ask that our children will seek Him in these time that WILL come.
This is true. I remember sharing the gospel with a stranger while we were on a waiting room. He said you can't know He is real. And I said: "Yes you can! Because He was with me." He was with me those nights when I cried myself to sleep when my dad left my house. He was there in the nights that I prayed on my knees with my nose to the ground and I felt His embrace. I grabbed ahold of the promises in His Word like: if your mother or father leave you, I will never leave you. I lived confidently in the words that I could call Him ABBA (father) because I had been adopted as a child of God. These were the things that sustained me and held me through anything that could come my way.
So, I am studying the Word seeking how to pray and what to pray for. I'll be writing a post on that soon. I am taking antidepressants to help balance my brain and give me a little help after so much loss and pain, specially when I also think of Sammy.
I liked the way my doctor put it: "You don't think ill of someone who has a kidney problem and takes kidney medicine. If someone has high blood pressure, he takes medicine for that. Your brain was not unaffected by everything you went through: chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery, miscarriage, loss. It is brain medicine."
How can a pill make you feel better? I don't know. It does. I feel better. I've been having better interactions with everyone around me. I've been having quiet time and alone time to meditate instead of fantasize and specially fantasize of unnatural thoughts.
We all need help. We all need a break. We are not alone. And He understands.
Today I give thanks antidepressants exist and thank God for making them accessible to me.
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| Matelin, Kinsley's mom, always says "Hold your kids tight." This picture makes me think it was taken from a different family, but it is My family. That was me. That is me. |
