Let me summarize my personal experience—-starting from the beginning.
My first “known” experience with mental illness was when a dear friend, and cousin of Levi, developed schizophrenia in our early twenties. I say “known” because now that I look back I realize mental illness has been a part of my family since the beginning. I remember the confusion of trying to help our friend. I made the same wrong judgments that I see people making today. Though I truly wanted to help, I was anti-meds, arrogant and totally unlearned and inexperienced. I was young and ignorant and was no help at all.
God humbled me and changed all that when I experienced an episode of postpartum depression after my sixth baby. I clearly recall the heavy, dark despair. I sat in our living room, gazing out the window and feeling trapped, from morning to night. My perplexed husband left with the kids to give me a break. I remember thinking that the only way out was to die and the feeling of relief I had from that thought was terrifying. I immediately called Levi and asked him to come back home. At this point I still had no idea what I was dealing with. Late that night it suddenly dawned on me and I sat up in bed and exclaimed, “I think I have postpartum depression!”. Through the dark cloud I managed to realize that there was no reason for me to feel like this, that I was actually a very blessed woman. I got on the computer and started to research. Throughout my pregnancy I had postpartum thyroiditis which I found increases your chance of depression and once that was resolved the depression was too. I am thankful that my episode was fast and furious. That was 13 years ago. After that experience I realized my error in judgment regarding our friend with schizophrenia. I started to see people through different eyes. Through eyes of love and compassion.
I remember telling my sister about my experience. I told how I was in awe of how the mind could be so horribly affected by hormones, I told her how my eyes had been opened to the truth of this and how if I had it again I would definitely seek medical help. Little did I know that God would use this experience to help my sister.
My Sister’s Story
Two years later my sister and I were both pregnant with little boys. It was a joyous time of shared cravings and anticipation. It was my seventh and her third. Her son was born two months before mine and I started noticing a change in her weeks after she gave birth but hoped they would resolve. I began to worry more as she started losing weight and became more quiet and withdrawn. She still came around family but just wasn’t herself. I gently urged her to talk to her doctor, but she resisted, sure that she just needed to change her lifestyle. She is a fighter. She joined a gym and started to exercise. She signed up for more schooling. No matter how hard she tried the depression grew progressively worse. I stood by as she tried natural medicine, prayer, counseling from friends, but because of the stigma of antidepressants and advice from friends and family she avoided the doctor and traditional medicine. Though I was skeptical about natural medicine to treat her depression I so badly wanted it to work. It broke my heart to see her waste away and I felt like it was me against the world because in my circle, and at that time, my opinion that she needed a medical doctor and medical treatment was not popular. My poor sister was caught in the middle. She was so sick that she was unable to take care of herself and she was going with the majority. The majority in our circle love her just as fiercely as I do so it was a confusing time for her. We are not a family that fights and this was no exception. It was just each side passionately making their case because they thought it was the best for my sister. They were blindsided by this depression and desperately wanted to help. My sister desperately wanted to get better.
At about 3 months postpartum the situation became extremely urgent and she and her husband moved in with us while her kids stayed with an aunt and uncle. She lost her milk. She pulled at her skin and clothes and her eyes were wild with pain and despair. The mental torture was absolutely unbearable. Every single second hurt. It was many hours of talking her through. If she sat inside her own head for more than a few minutes she would be worked up into a frenzy of despair and the constant telling of truth was crucial. It was twenty-four hour a day battle because she was unable to sleep.
She didn’t know if she could survive it it.
We didn’t know if she would survive it.
She would tell us to drop her off at the hospital because she felt she was too much of a burden. We assured her that she wasn’t too much of a burden, but I started to doubt my ability to keep her safe. I panicked and called a friend who worked at the hospital. Thankfully he told me to just stay calm and stay with her.
(Later, my sister told me that she was glad we didn’t bring her to the hospital because in her troubled mind it would have validated all the horrid thoughts that she was thinking)
Twice we brought her to the ER because she had been up for days without a wink of sleep and was losing touch with reality. Twice they brushed her symptoms off as “normal” due to motherhood and a newborn baby. We were all exhausted. I started screening calls. I discouraged friends from talking to her unless I thought that their message was simple and would help because I knew the wrong words could be deadly. Finally, my sister agreed to let me bring her to a medical doctor. On the way there I prayed that this doctor would know how to treat her. My prayers were answered and she immediately started treatment. Antidepressants and sleep medication. Each day I saw a subtle improvement. Within a week she was able to move back home with her children and was no longer disabled by the depression. Within two months she was back to normal and at one year she was off the medication and thriving like before. Little did I know that many years later God would use this experience to help my firstborn son.
My Son’s Story
When my son was around fourteen years old I started to notice a change. My once creative and driven son had no energy, no motivation and joy was hard to come by. I fervently hoped they were just normal growing pains. His despair led him to drugs. Though he was not functioning properly I wouldn’t consider him disabled. At 18 he lost his best friend to suicide and that is when my son’s depression became disabling. He dove headfirst into the dark world of “self-medicating” (oh, how I hate that term). When I had the chance to see him I would gently ask if he thought he needed help for depression. Finally, after running out of options he came to me and said he needed help. I grieved and rejoiced on that day the I first brought him to the doctor. I grieved that one of my worst fears, that my children would suffer this illness, was being realized. I rejoiced that my son was still alive and we were finally getting help. Because of my battle and his aunt’s battle he was well prepared to fight this illness. He started treatment with antidepressants and sleep medication and after a few tedious adjustments his depression was under control. He is now being weaned off both medications.
See my basic survival guide, here.