Recovery

I knew I should probably cry watching that sad movie, or feel angry when I thought about losing Mom, but at this point nothing mattered, other than digging myself out of this black hole of depression. I finally had clear thoughts, and for the first time in months I didn't want to die. But one thing I hadn't anticipated was a crippling exhaustion settling in, the type where I could barely lift my head off the pillow most days.

I'd been the type that felt guilty for taking a nap during the day, and here I was sleeping for hours on end. My invisible symptoms had left my husband skeptical, as I faced his ongoing scrutiny. "Tell me what you did today?" he asked, as soon as he got home from work, knowing full well I'd been in bed for most of the day. After providing my pathetic list, that included things like brushing my teeth and showering, I was left with the same two sentences. 'You just need to get back to work and then you'll feel better," followed by, "Man, if I had all this time off, I'd be making the most of it," as if I was on a paid vacation.

Outside of depression and anxiety, there hadn't been an official diagnosis until I met with a psychiatrist at a local hospital, who told me I had PTSD. I had thought that this only struck in severe cases, like soldiers going to war and seeing people blown to smithereens, not a daughter losing her mother. Maybe that was part of my problem, minimizing what I'd been through. All I knew was that I needed to get back to who I was before all of this, and I was willing to put in the work. "Get back to the things you once loved," and "exercise daily," was some of the advice I came across. What had I once loved? Art, books and music. So, I went to the bookstore. I also picked up paint, canvases, and sketchbooks, only to sit there with little concentration or inspiration. I decided to do one walk a day. First, just to the end of the street, then around the block, then eventually around the community. I found all of it exhausting, with me desperate to lay my head on the pillow, but I pushed through anyway, until one day I actually looked forward to the activities.

Its hard for me to pinpoint the exact moment my PTSD lifted, only that it eventually did. My energy returned, and life no longer looked as bleak. I had pulled through to the other side somehow, and now it was time for a new beginning. So, my husband and I packed up our things and moved to a new home. We started new jobs, we began a renovation, and we made some new friends. Perhaps in the end, this would be enough for me to be happy, or perhaps this would be the start of a much bigger change. Only time would tell.