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The War

I do not write this story for pity, or even concern for me at all! I am writing from a place of peace and contentment. My purpose in sharing this is two-fold:

1- Those who have never experienced such feelings can have a glimpse at what it is like, so they might be greater support to those who are struggling, and

2- Those who are in the middle of this mess, being beat down every day, feeling as though they are losing their war, know IT CAN BE WON. There IS happiness in the future. You do NOT have to give in.

I Almost Lost

I had been doing counseling for a couple of months. We were working through some things productively; however, my depression was getting stronger and stronger.

The summers are hot in Arkansas … hot, muggy, and mosquito-infested. Sheldon was working long days, sometimes 12-14 hours at a time. I was pregnant, exhausted, in a home with septic system problems and sinking floors – doing my best to keep the house clean, two energetic toddlers fed and attended to – all without a dishwasher. Several of my closest friends had moved away in the previous months. While I had others, I wasn’t feeling very sociable anyway.

Every day was a struggle. Just getting the motivation to make dinner was a fight. Needless to say, any depression that accompanied my pregnancy due to hormones or PTSD (from the accident) had an ideal environment to thrive, despite my efforts to keep it at bay.

I like to think of my depression as something similar to “The Host” in the Stephanie Meyer book. It gets inside your brain and just takes over. You’re still there, pushing back as hard as you can, but it’s always there bearing down with negativity, hopelessness, and self-loathing.

It was extra strong one day. Or perhaps I was weak one day, it doesn’t quite matter. The result was the same. I almost lost my life that Friday.

My family had gotten together for a mini reunion in Utah. Everyone would be there at one point – even my brother who had been gone on a two-year mission – except for me. Buying flights didn’t seem like wisest thing to do, financially. But that also meant that the people I would usually call to break up the monotony and keep me out of my head were ALL TOGETHER. Any phone call I made would be accompanied by jealousy and loneliness.

Each Friday I drove 18 minutes to teach piano lessons, and this week it became the drive of my life. I had been dealing with little bits of suicidal and self harm thoughts in the weeks leading up to this point, but knowing I was missing out on a family party (that they all appeared to be enjoying without me) put me in a dangerous position. The first obstacle was an intersection where the cross traffic drove 60 miles an hour. “Just do it there” my “Host” told me. “It could be quick, you certainly wouldn’t survive it, it’s perfect.” NO. I fought back. I couldn’t do that. My light was green anyway.

The next obstacle was a semi truck driving my direction at 45 miles an hour. “That will be good too! Just casually cross that line just in time. No way to survive that.”

Then it was the freeway and the miles of concrete barriers and the street lights just calling for me to run into them.

Each second was a battle between me and my Host. I was getting tired and so, SO sick of fighting. I had spent months coping with all the usual strategies: exercise, service, healthy foods, getting out of the house, counseling, praying, etc. And here I was in the fight of my life, not seeing any end in sight. I was exhausted. When I got to the last portion of my drive in a 25 mph neighborhood, I knew I had won the battle for the time being. But now more than ever, I knew the Host would win the war one day. I immediately began to think of other ways to give in and am grateful my life wasn’t full of options.

The irony of this whole thing is that I spent YEARS praying I would never get in an accident again, or that if I did I would just die. I never wanted to live through that again. And here I was wanting to get in an accident. Here I was, thinking about putting myself in one. It was as if my PTSD, anxiety, and depression all came together against me.

I didn’t let myself drive alone again for a long time. Week after week, Sheldon would load the kids up and take me to my piano lessons, and anywhere else I needed to go. I went through my house looking for anything that could harm me and had it removed.

I did not win the war that day, but I got one day closer to winning. I chose to stay when it seemed so much easier not to. The days afterward weren’t magically better, but choosing to stay on that drive gave me the strength to find help, which weakened that voice.

If any of my readers are feeling this way now:

Choose to stay when it is the hardest.

One day you will smile again, and you will feel that smile in your soul. One day you will laugh again! You will feel loved again! You will love yourself again. It will be okay.

But for now, just choose to stay.

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Fuel Level

I absolutely love this perspective from a friend of mine! And have felt it benefit my attitude and motivation, I hope it can help y’all.

“I had a good conversation with David this evening about how I tend to want to push myself to the breaking point because I feel like that’s how I show that I’m doing all that I can. And I had the image of a fuel gauge come into my head. And with it was this analogy:

In life, I for some reason have this notion in my head that I need to use up every last drop of fuel in my tank before I can stop to refill it. Yet in reality that’s not the smart or even a responsible thing to do. I have this part of me that says I have to push myself as far as I can go to prove that I tried my hardest.

But what I need to to when the low fuel light comes on is to pull over at the next gas station so I don’t end up running on fumes and risk getting stranded on the side of a road. I need to learn what my warning signs are and heed them instead of pushing through them. Or better yet fill up earlier, before the red light turns on, and save the time it would take later in getting a tow truck, or the stress of wondering if I can make it to a gas station in time.

Also if you think about it in terms of distance, or growth, who will move the farthest the quickest; the person who always stops ahead of time to get fuel or the person who drives on fumes and had to get a tow truck all the time because they end up stranded in the middle of nowhere?

In my future home I want to put a sign on the wall that says something like “how is your fuel level today?” And have a fuel gauge below it. That way I can be reminded everyday to take some time to recharge. As David said, he likes to fill up his gas tank when it’s 1/2 full on our long trips because we never know how long it will be until we find another gas station. In life we never know when an unknown challenge will hit like a child getting sick or a friend needing help. We need to be ready and have enough fuel to make it through a trial. Like the parable of the ten virgins we need to have oil in our lamps and gas in our tanks.”

What sort of things do you do to “fuel up?” Do you STOP when those warning signs appear? Do you know those warning signs?

A HUGE part of coping is KNOWING where you are emotionally so that you can plan your life accordingly.

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EMDR

“Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing” is a form of therapy that I just recently learned about and I am just blown away. A friend of mine recently posted about how it completely changed her life– she had suffered from intense anxiety for a long, long time. And that was with the usual coping mechanisms! Then she found EMDR and it changed her life.

I didn’t really get what it was at first, so I reached out to someone from my hometown that is now an EMDR therapis, to learn about what it REALLY is and how it works. I am so glad I did! This process is INCREDIBLE and so many people’s lives have changed because of it. Here is what she had to say:

Hi, I am an MSW who specializes in Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy.  Maybe you have heard of EMDR as an effective therapy for PTSD.  Besides PTSD, EMDR has been found effective in treating anxiety and panic attacks, depression, stress, phobias, sleep problems, complicated grief, addictions, pain relief, phantom limb pain, self-esteem and performance anxiety.  EMDR is effective in resolving any negative thoughts a person might have about themselves.  Common negative thoughts such as “I’m not good enough,” “I’m unlovable,” “I’m not worthy,” “It was my fault,” etc. are beliefs I target and resolve with EMDR.   

The body has the natural ability to heal itself, but sometimes disturbing events can overwhelm the body’s ability to cope.  This is often referred to as a traumatic event.  Some people like to categorize traumatic events as big T traumas such as a motor vehicle accident, exposure to war, physical abuse, sexual assault or losing a loved one versus little t traumas such as neglect, divorce, interpersonal conflict, illness, infidelity, or financial troubles.  I do not like to make the distinction, because what may be a little t trauma for one person might be a big T trauma for another and vice versa.  

When the body’s ability to cope is overwhelmed by disturbing experiences, the memories are not able to be processed by the brain.  Memories and feelings are stored in an emotional form in the limbic system of the brain, which is linked to emotions and physical sensations and is disconnected from the logical part of the brain which uses language to store memories.  This is why EMDR is so effective compared to talk therapy–it accesses the limbic system, reprocessing disturbing memories which are stored in the nervous system and after they are reprocessed, they are no longer disturbing.  My clients report changes in thoughts, feelings and images, which often result in new insights that resolve the disturbance.  The body is also able to release tension that was stored in the nervous system.  

The mechanism that facilitates this healing is not certain, but the theory is that the eye movements or other bilateral stimulation (BLS) such as tapping or auditory stimuli are similar to REM sleep, the portion of the sleep cycle where your brain processes the events of the day.  As I ask my clients to recall disturbing images, I administer BLS and then ask them what they notice.  They may notice a new image, thought, emotion or bodily sensation.  It is not necessary that they report the details of the disturbing memories.  The resolution comes from within the client themselves and I do not make suggestions unless they become stuck.  I sometimes incorporate inner child work if it is needed for healing past childhood issues, and I find this is very effective in helping my clients heal themselves.  

When a client comes to me for EMDR therapy, the first session is very similar to a session of talk therapy.  There is a lot of history taking, but in a very trauma-informed way.  Next, I teach the client coping skills for any anxieties that may come up in between sessions.  I teach grounding skills so that clients won’t experience a full flashback or other dissociation during the session.  Within a few sessions I can usually start desensitization and reprocessing with BLS.  EMDR is generally a brief therapy and some clients only need a few sessions to resolve trauma.  Clients with more complex trauma sometimes require more preparation before desensitization and reprocessing can begin.  If you are interested in learning more about EMDR and the research emdr.com is a good source.  If you want to locate an EMDR therapist near you go to emdria.org and search for a certified EMDR therapist.  If you have questions, feel free to reach out to me at cwallemdr808@gmail.com or you may find me at @emdr808 on Facebook.

Carrie Wallace, MSW

Utah EMDR Therapist

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Memorial

My son is buried in an unmarked grave.

At first I chose that course because I didn’t want to make a huge fuss. My mother delivered a still born son that was whisked away from her without even a second thought of a proper burial. So, why would mine deserve anything else? At least I was getting a graveside service.

That decision was made before I knew much about grieving. I didn’t know how I would long to have something, ANYTHING besides the hole in my heart to prove his existence. The cemetery is full oheadstones, each one representing a LIFE. No one would know I had a baby there.

During one visit I had the thought: I cannot be the only one who feels this way.

So I had the great idea of putting a memorial for all the infants buried there without a headstone. I got permission from the city and started doing some research. Before too long the process was stopped so that someone who needed an Eagle Scout project could do it.

but I had friends that had lost babies. They had headstones. They had places to take flowers and families. They had photos of their lifeless babies. Some had mini shrines, a testimony of their love.

I began to feel like I had made the wrong choice. Did my choice mean I loved him less than they loved their children? If I had loved him would I be doing more? I was jealous and sad and felt like my pain was not big enough, and that it was not small enough at the same time. What was the appropriate amount of attention to bring to this situation?
My heart said he deserved the world. He deserved a whole life full of love and laughter and chocolate, all the good things.
So why didn’t I even give him a headstone?!

Bless my therapist who asked me: WHY? Why does it matter? Do you think he cares if he has a headstone? Does he care if the world knows he existed? Would he be sad to know that someone walked through the cemetery and didn’t know he was there? Um no.

It took some time to change my thought processes, but because I was brought to that awareness, I realized that all that stuff wasn’t about him at all, it was about me. He isn’t hurting because he doesn’t have a headstone. I needed to realize that so that I could forgive myself. I no longer suffer with regret for not doing more. There are many ways in which he has altered the course of our lives and we do our best to show gratitude.

There is no right way to do this sort of thing. I do not love my son any less than those who have done more.

Last year when I was struggling so deeply, a friend of mine came to my parents house where I was staying and showed me the plans her son had made for a memorial to be placed in that part of the cemetery.

I sobbed. It was as though he was giving me a gift (through my friend), now that I understood it wasn’t about him, it is about me.

I took my family to see it for the first time. Now I can sit there! And though others may not recognize it as representing someone’s life, I do. And I hope there are other mothers and fathers and friends who can feel that that bench is for them too.

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Lies

-Would having someone here have helped?

-Would any amount of support have gotten me through this one?

-I feel like they would all be fine without me-obviously-but these weeks just prove it to me.

-Why am I always the burden?

-What do I do now?

I found these questions and statement in a note that I had written on July 30, 2019. This was one of the hard weeks. I felt lonely, scared, lost, hopeless, unloved. It was a dark and a scary place.

I often took to writing to try and keep myself out of my head. I would write out my prayers so that I could stay focused, I wrote letters to people whom I felt had neglected or hurt me (I never actually sent any of them). This particular note I remember I had written out as a prayer. These were questions I was asking Heavenly Father.

Often times people of faith have a hard time understanding people with depression because they feel like if we would just turn to Jesus and give Him our burdens, all things will be made right–that faith could pull us out of these pits if we just had enough of it.

I was of that same belief. And so I prayed, and I pled, and I fasted, and I studied, and cried. And when I didn’t receive relief I felt even more like a failure. Obviously I hadn’t made enough good choices for His help. I was unworthy.

As I look back, almost a whole year from that time (🙌🙌🙌) I see SO MANY LIES. (I will only address a few here).

I was not alone. I was not unworthy. It wasn’t my doing. God’s been by me all along.

They funny thing about these particular questions is that none of the people I was referring to had any idea that something was wrong. Ok, maybe one or two. But my depression had convinced me that the people I loved not only knew about my darkness and loneliness but that they didn’t care.

The day I opened up about suicide was the day I realized they had no idea.

If you are feeling so sad, and if depression is telling you that everyone you love knows about it and they just don’t care:

DON’T BELIEVE THE LIES.

Open up. Ask for help. Let people love you.

My son burned his hand this last weekend and he didn’t tell me. MY TWO YEAR OLD #momfail. So he suffered it without any consolation or pain relief or anything because he was afraid of a bandaid.

How ridiculous is that? Very. So is staying quiet when you’re drowning in your own mind.

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Not a Bad Mom

This story is from a friend of mine who has sacrificed tremendously to bring children into this world. I think she is the only one whose gestational diabetes ended up being, in fact, the life long battle of type 1 diabetes. I think of her every time I take one of those tests. Here is her story, one that reminds us that struggling with mental health DOES NOT MAKE YOU A BAD MOM.

I know everyone says that the birth of a child is supposed to be beautiful and special, but [for me] it wasn’t. It was the worst day of my life… I almost died.

I have type 1 diabetes (thanks to my first baby – not gestational, straight up type 1), and that means I have big babies. The second time, I had a team of specialists and I’m sure glad I did because, sure enough, big baby.

Once they broke my water, Jackson came too fast for an epidural. But his shoulders got stuck and the emergency team was called in. I was on oxygen, doctors literally shoved him out, and for weeks after I could still hear myself screaming whenever I closed my eyes. I didn’t sleep for several days and I dreaded any visitors or going back to church because I knew people would ask about his birth and I could not bring myself to talk about it.

A lot had happened, like going hypotensive twice, needing 2 blood transfusions, and having multiple IVs in each arm that just made my experience just awful. Needless to say, I was diagnosed with PTSD and started seeing a therapist. I eventually reached a point where I could talk about it without becoming a hysterical mess.

Some days all of those feelings and fear, and resolution to never put myself through that again, make me feel like I’m a bad mom… but that doesn’t mean I’m a bad mom. It just means I’m human and I’ve had to accept that there is only so much I can handle and to be happy with the blessings I have.

I just try to be happy that I’m still here to experience life with these little people who rely so completely on me.

Some days are better than others. But the bad days don’t mean I’m a bad mom. They mean I’m human. No one is perfect, and I take comfort in remembering that.

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Epidural

I have kind of a strange relationship with epidurals. I suppose that the fact that I have one at all is strange.

My first pregnancy I was scared to death of an epidural. I had started the hypnobirthing course because nothing about an epidural sounded like a good idea. Huge needles in my back? That could paralyze me? (I have since learned that that is impossible these days), give me headaches, again-huge needle IN MY BACK. No thank you. I was only going to get one if the pain really was bad enough that that option sounded better and I honestly doubted that it would.

But then I was told that I would be delivering a dead baby NOW. I didn’t get 9 months to prepare. I was told that in a moment when I was in so much physical pain that I broke mentally and emotionally. I could not even pee without every muscle involved screaming in protest. Like, not the burning uti pain, but pain receptors I didn’t know existed in muscles and organs I didn’t think could hurt.

I had broken ribs, broken thumb (which causes more trouble than you’d think), bruised arms and apparently bruised every organ inside my body. The thought of GIVING BIRTH under those circumstances was not even fathomable. I was going to die.

So when I was forced to make that decision, it was an easy one.

Don’t be deceived, it was not perfect. The nurse anesthetist gave me some narcotics before beginning (hallelujah) maybe because of the bruising, maybe because he could tell I was terrified. Either way I’m thankful.

After that I don’t remember a lot of details. This is do remember- my blood pressure dropped to a number I didn’t think was possible. To get it up fast they put my IV drop all the way to the ceiling. Then I got a crazy headache but I couldn’t stop shaking. (You’d think these memories would bring back fear or dread or something. They don’t. This was probably the least traumatic part of that whole weekend 😂). Suddenly I had ice on my head and lots of heated blankets everywhere else. Sheldon was rubbing my head. That’s about all I remember. Maybe I was nauseous?

But then it worked! For the first time in 72 hours my whole body wasn’t in so much pain! Coughing still hurt everything above, but nothing below! Maybe I should note that I was recovering from the flu, so coughing was a part of that weekend too- that was a HUGE relief. I could laugh if the chance arose. I wasn’t required to sit myself up. I could relax for the first time in days- literally. I didn’t have to pee in pain. No one was forcing me to get up and walk in pain. They were doing everything they could to relieve as much of the pain as possible and they were the first to do so. I just got to lay there. I seriously could still cry of joy just thinking about the amount of peace that epidural brought me. There are no words. I have never loved a doctor more nor been more grateful for God-given medical procedure. It saved my life.

So yes, I have gotten an epidural all 4 times I’ve labored. Maybe I feel a moral obligation to the thing that saved my life, I don’t know. But I’ve loved them all! Rather than spending my labor trying to mentally escape the pain so I can endure, I am brought to a place of peace before the storm, a place where I can mentally and emotionally be present. I CAN focus on the pain (mine always leaves plenty), and the movements of my baby, the work they are doing, I can think about the process and the spirits who are undoubtedly surrounding me. I can have conversations with my baby that I’m about to hold, I can feel my Jax who started this whole relationship with epidurals, I can feel grateful.

Maybe one day I’ll try the natural route, I hear it’s pretty awesome, but I’m afraid that sacred moment of peace would be taken away, that focusing on my breathing or other endurance techniques would blind me from the minuscule moments I find so beautiful. Although, no doubt something just and special and beautiful would would take their place. No woman can bring a child into this world without a sacred moment.

*Disclaimer: labor is not all sunshine and rainbows with an epidural. My first experience was one of stark contrast. It doesn’t take away all the pain-I still cried through my back labor even that first time. It doesn’t take away the need for your body to push the baby out-literally the same amount of physical work is involved (W=FxD) whether you have an epidural or not. It doesn’t take away the nausea, or the glorious, unspeakable moment of holding that perfect baby in the end, or the recovery afterward.

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After the Fall

This past week I had a whole lot of emotions.

I had made the choice to stop taking my medicine for reasons not understood by medical professionals and other around me. I was doing so great! And feeling really good about that decision.

Then when I mentioned it all to my therapist, she kind of freaked out-and rightly so-my decision was not completely based on scientific/medical evidences. But I was also diagnosed with another mental illness and I emotionally took a blow. I was doubting my progress, my spirituality, any happy spells. I felt like I would never be free, that my life would always be an existence to view through depression glasses. And it broke my heart.

I was in the midst of these feelings when I received a book from my incredibly insiteful sister:

AFTER THE FALL.

I cannot tell you all that is in there, but know that if you are dealing with depression, PTSD, or mental illness in general, you should read this book. It is short and sweet, and very powerful. Even my dear Sheldy teared up, knowing how bogged down I was feeling.

*As an Amazon Associate, I receive commission from qualified purchases

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Diagnosis

My first diagnosis was PTSD. I started having funny symptoms about a year after my accident: unreasonable fear of the dark, night terrors, the obvious car terror had been going on the whole time. I started seeing a therapist then.

It wasn’t the best experience. The things he said made me feel like I was just an outlet for him to share his scary stories, but I do acknowledge that talking about the accident, which I did, was a really great thing and I left our visits more in tune with my own status.

I did make leaps and strides during that time even if the therapist didn’t help a ton, processing rational thoughts vs irrational ones. I think acknowledging that I had a problem was a big step. Sheldon was a huge help as we learned to face my fear in the car. One practice he came up with was to stare down semi-trucks as we passed them instead of hiding my face. I still try and do this when my anxiety is a bit heightened.

it got to the point where I thought I was on top of it! Life was grand. I was a mom again. I would still cry and mourn my baby, especially on important days: the accidentiversary, his birthday, his due date, etc. But I was no longer terrified of the dark or having night terrors, and I could survive nice-weather drives without an attack. I was back in school, living close to family, and had a great friend support system.

Then I got pregnant again. And all of a sudden I dipped lower than I ever had before. That was the first time I had suicidal thoughts and it scared me to death! I was not going to have that. So I talked to the OB and got on medication really quickly with the diagnosis of depression.

Fast forward to my next pregnancy and it happened again. This time it was sparked (I believe) by an incredibly stressful 22 hour drive across the country. I knew it because I was surrounded by loved ones and felt unloved.

when I got back home I wanted to try therapy before medication because I was sure it was tied to my PTSD and I wanted to BE DONE WITH THE STINKING ACCIDENT.

so I started therapy again and it was SO MUCH BETTER. We tore apart my experience and I found several things that I had not processed. Parts of my memories returned like brick walls that I had shut out for years. I came face to face with anger and forgiveness I had withheld. I still have a hard time realizing the things I had forgotten.

I’ve learned so many lessons that I hope to share sometime.

But the depression didn’t go away fast enough. I was suicidal again, and this time was worse. The thoughts didn’t seem as foreign this time around. It was BAD.

So I was medicated again! And I am so thankful!

I’ve recently decided to stop my medication. And I have been doing great! I feel empowered with the coping mechanisms I have been given and honestly, have just felt more in control of my emotions. I felt like it was time.

My therapist was not happy. She blamed my happiness on placebo and is sure I’ll be crashing. After we talked she concluded that I probably have cyclothymia- another diagnosis.

Since then I’ve thought about the power of diagnosis.

It is so relieving to know that it “isn’t me,” to have something to blame. It helps take guilt. And it especially helps to know how to effectively medicate.

But it is also hard to feel in control when a diagnosis is made. In a way, it feels like my agency is gone. That I can’t “choose happiness” if I have a disease that makes it so I can’t. And now, even my happy days are a part of that diagnosis. Could it be that my hard work at coping, and my productive successful days are of no credit to me but this new disease?

When I told my mom she said: well that sounds like “personality.” And it got me thinking differently and I have decided to just let it be. I may have cyclothymia, and I will see someone about it, but it will not be a part of who I see myself as. I can’t. I don’t expect to live life void of hard days, that would be ridiculous. And I fully intend to feel good about myself when I have good days.

No diagnosis changes our identity. No diagnosis voids out our hard work. We are children of God with unique challenges and many ways to deal with them. What a wonderful time we live in!

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There is Hope

I came across this story in a group I am a part of on Facebook and I knew it needed to be here. It has not been quite a year since my own close encounter with suicide and that is a story I have not quite been able to write out, but Shantelle did so beautifully. She has put into words feelings that I have not been able to. Here is her story:

April 27, 2019 was the scariest day of my life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first or last time something like this happened, but it was probably the worst. My husband, Kyle, was on a campout with the boys in our church, and I was all alone with my kids. This shouldn’t have been a big deal, except that I was in the darkest depths of depression imaginable for weeks before that, so taking care of the basic responsibilities by myself for a whole extra day was so overwhelming. Our bishop asked me if I would be okay before inviting my husband to go along. I wanted to give Kyle this opportunity and I wanted to believe that I could be okay, so I told the bishop it was fine.

I only got a couple of hours of broken sleep the night Kyle was gone between my lonely, scared, overwhelmed sobs. The next morning, I thought he would be home around noon, so I turned on show after show for my kids, trying to survive until he would get back. Noon came and went. My house was a disaster, but I couldn’t clean it. I couldn’t do anything. I was so overwhelmed and overcome with depression.

And then something happened. Something in my brain snapped, and I thought of a very specific plan of how to die. It seemed perfect. I knew it would work, and then I would be free from this unbearable weight that I was currently carrying on my own. I was not capable of remembering in that moment how devastated my husband and kids would be without me or the possibility of feeling better someday, so I moved forward.

I knew my kids needed to be taken care of, so I thought of someone I could leave them with. I started getting them ready to drop off at this person’s house when the thought came into my mind, “Give someone a chance to save you.”

“Give someone a chance to save you.”

I stopped getting my kids ready to leave, went to my room, and laid in my bed for the next hour trying to formulate the words to tell someone how much I was struggling. My whole body was shaking, and I was so scared to tell anyone what was happening inside my mind. I didn’t want to tell my husband, because I desperately wanted him to still be able to enjoy doing something I knew he loved without worrying about me. So I finally worked up the courage to send a group text to three trusted friends and then curled up in a tight ball, sobbing in such bitter pain. Almost immediately, one of these friends called me and said she was on her way to pick up me and my kids and would be there soon. I knelt down and asked God to give me just enough strength to survive until I wasn’t alone anymore. The tears flowed, and I couldn’t imagine enduring even one more moment. Pretty soon, my friend arrived and wrapped my shaking body and broken heart in love. I stayed with her for some time before returning home to my husband.

The weeks following this dark day were so hard. I felt broken, like my heart could never heal, and I would never be the same again. I felt like a hollow shell of who I once was, like I was going through the motions of life with no purpose or feeling anymore. This feeling lingered for a long time, and sometimes I wondered if my light had gone out forever.

Fast forward one year to today. Looking back on this day still brings tears to my eyes and pain to my heart, but I don’t feel broken anymore. I’m not magically healed or completely fixed, but I’m not in that dark place fighting for life every single day. If I could have known one year ago how good life would be today, I would have been amazed and full of hope, trusting in better days to come. But I couldn’t see that one year ago, and in the instability of my mind at that time, I almost acted on an indescribable pain with a permanent solution. I never would have made it to this wonderful time in my life when I feel happiness, how much my family loves and needs me, and the desire to live again.

If you are in the place I was in one year ago, please hold on. Please. There really are better days ahead. I couldn’t feel that for myself for several years. I relied completely on other people repeating that truth to me. But now I can feel it again for myself, and I want to share it with anyone who needs it. Choose to stay. Choose to reach out to someone for help. You are loved and worth saving. You’ll never know how good life can be a year from today unless you stay to find out. It’s worth it. I promise.