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| Home > Ministries > Advocacy > Mental Health Advocacy > Ruth |
| Stories of Mental Illness . . . | |||
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Ruth Bloxham |
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by herself |
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Madison, Wisconsin. It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving 2000. The bookstore
had a coffee shop where I’d found a small table to enjoy my brew and write a
letter. A few sentences into the letter the tears started. My hubby found me
trying to hold them back. Tissues overflowed the coffee mug. The dam had
broken open. I was no longer emotionally in control. The ride back to Des Moines was excruciating. My hubby, Rick, wanted to understand and fix the dam, as did I. I knew I was low and had been fighting back tears for months, maybe even a year. Sub-consciously, I think, I had been distracting myself by delving into work and being around people. Which was relatively easy. As Parish Steward at St. John’s the ‘work’ is never done. And, although I’m often asked how I can get anything accomplished with all the interruptions, I needed them. I had always thought of myself as a positive person. Which I think is true. Why wasn’t I happier inside? Was it something Rick had done? Did I hate his book-collecting hobby? (The trip to Madison was a book scouting opportunity, true, but not necessarily the primary purpose.) Was I unhappy with him? The questions seemed endless. There were no answers that satisfied. My tears certainly were not about him or our relationship. He felt hurt and angry, I think. I felt hurt and alone. Rick made me promise to make a doctor’s appointment. The doctor prescribed an anti-depression medication, the kind to correct a chemical imbalance of serotonin. Within a few weeks I felt better emotionally, for which I was grateful. But I still had questions. How did I get so low? Why? To this day I have no answers, although as I look back I was on a downhill slide for several years before the flood of tears. Rick & I had restored a home in Sherman Hill. It took us over ten years with the help of family and friends. About a year before our trip to Madison we sold the house that we’d lived in for 16 years. We both grieved, I, not only for the loss of a huge personal investment, but also for the loss of identity. I identify myself as a south-sider today but it has taken a long time to transition. Since the dam broke I’ve learned that two of my sisters suffer from depression. My mother’s mother did as well. The story is told that she died in a mental hospital following the birth of her tenth child. My mother was five at the time. Turning 40 + may have also had something to do with the downhill slide. It wasn’t 40, 41, 42 + that bothered me. It was all the emotional, hormonal and physical changes beginning to take place. And any exercise routine I’d had was interrupted in trying to find a house to buy. I didn’t like how I looked and felt about myself. It was easier to slide than buck up. The same holds true today. But I’m fighting back harder. At 47, I continue to take medication. Within days of trying to stop the tears threaten. The medication keeps me on an even keel. The highs aren’t nearly as high, which is frustrating, but it keeps the lows from getting too low. Regular walking is more of a routine. I’ve also recently joined weight-watchers. Practicing recorder continues to be great therapy and keeping a daily log of stress, relaxation, and pleasant activities is helping me learn how to feel happier. Living is a daily journey. At a recent physical my doctor of twenty years thought he’d remembered prescribing anti-depression medication years ago. He remembers my response to “So how are you?” as just “ok”. He’d watched me slide for years without suggesting medication. Why, I don’t know. I share my story because my life is fairly ordinary, I guess. I have so much for which to be thankful: a loving and caring husband, meaningful work, a nice home, a wonderful church community, and a supportive and fun family in which I grew up. My life is not without stress but it is relatively uncomplicated. Even so, I’m not suicidal, although the thought has crossed my mind, fleeting as it may be. If I can suffer from depression with my rather ordinary life, I’m likely not alone. There is help. Thanks be to God. |
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