Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Jan 7th -- or The Day I thought I Would Be Committed

Sometime last year in January, let's say it was the 7th, I woke up and thought to myself, today is the day I'm going to be committed. Because you see, I was convinced that I had in fact lost my mind, and that this must be what crazy felt like. I wasn't ME anymore, and I had no idea who was walking around in my skin.

For months (years, really, if I'm telling the truth), I had slowly been slipping away, replaced by a cranky, mean, tired, forgetful, fat, sick person. Only, I didn't know I was sick. I just thought that this is how crazy sneaks up on  you. Insidious, slow, creeping, until all at once it's there and you had no idea how it happened.

As I lay in bed that morning, I was caught up in the fuzzy almost-memories of the awful nightmare that had woken me up so abruptly. It was hideous, and so very terrible, that I cannot even bring myself to write about it. It was another nightmare in a long series of nights filled with insomnia, broken sleep, and fitful dreams. Flashes of the nightmare played over and over again behind my exhausted eyes, and I felt with a certainty clear down to my bones, that only someone who had lost their mind would ever dream something so barbaric and grotesque.

I was crazy.

I knew it.

I hauled myself out of bed, dragging my feet to the bathroom to take a shower--because who wants to be committed with greasy hair? The tears started under the stream of hot water, and didn't stop. I couldn't stop. A detached, clinical little voice in the corner of my mind pointed out that this was yet another example of how looney I had become.

My husband discovered me standing there in the bathroom, utterly forlorn, and crying quietly. To his everlasting credit, he handled my wet eyes and snotty nose with the same calm, loving way that he usually did. I'll be honest, I was scared. Like, terrified. How could I tell him what had happened, what my twisted brain had created, without him turning away from me in horror and immediately calling the state hospital?

Instead, he listened with patience, and compassion, reassuring me that he knew that something was going on with me, something with my health, and that we just needed to get to the bottom of it. I made an appointment with my doctor later that day, and that led to a journey over the next few months that uncovered long-standing thyroid disease, which was triggered by an auto-immune disease called Hashimoto's thyroiditis.

Since then, I have also been diagnosed with a genetic mutation that interferes with how my body utilizes vitamin D and folic acid, which directly affects the production of uptake of serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine (happy hormones). For a very long time, my body had been fighting a losing battle I knew nothing about. I had been internalizing all my symptoms, and believed that it was all in my head.

But it wasn't. It took one ghastly nightmare, and the loving concern of my husband, to push me into seeking the help that I needed. It was the first step onto a long road, one in which I'm still hitting bumps and valleys, but it was a step in the right direction. If you are feeling the same way, you need to seek out the help that you deserve.

On a final note, before some of you are tempted to get all riled up about my callous use of the word "crazy,' please understand that I am in no way disparaging people with legitimate mental illness. It is, however the language of my struggling thoughts, and therefore I believe it is the most relatable way to reach out to other sufferers of invisible illnesses.