I felt like I was outside myself, watching what was happening. It was like a dream–a nightmare, really.
I wanted to just stop myself.
But also like in a nightmare, I couldn’t. The rational, sane part of me was frozen, only able to watch in horror as the crazy came out.
I yelled. A lot.
I was so filled with rage.
Cortney walked very softly around me for months, fearing that one false move would send me off into a blind, white rage from hell.
I bluntly told him he sucked. I told my mom she was unhelpful and ridiculous.
I was a bitch.
My insides would start churning and winding and the only way to release all the pressure was to rage at someone. I wanted to keep my mouth shut, but the more I tried, the worse the rage was.
Cortney didn’t read my mind, so he was constantly berated.
I didn’t know what I wanted, but I expected him to not just know, but do all of these things on an imaginary list that I hadn’t written yet. I would realized I wished the bathroom was a different shade of yellow and somehow I was so SO pissed that he had not anticipated that and painted the bathroom to appease the rage monster inside of me.
I wanted so badly to just be good and normal and happy, but the more I tried, the worse everything fell apart.
I didn’t want anyone to know about my wound-up insides. I wanted to be better, so I thought I could pull the whole “fake it ’til you make it” routine.
But my insides got worse.
I was crying a lot. I couldn’t control myself at all and I was afraid I was going to hurt my husband.
Every time the baby cried, which was often since Eddie had colic, something in me began to boil. I wanted to shake the baby, but I did NOT want to shake the baby. So instead I lashed out at Cortney.
Until one day I broke down and realized something was broken in me.
That was the start of my healing.
I got help.
If you think you or someone you love may be battling depression or anxiety, let them know they are not alone. They can get better.