I was a child of the seventies and the first Sesame Street
generation. One of my favorite books as a child was narrated by Grover, called
“the Monster at the end of this Book.”
As you read through the book Grover begged you to stop
turning pages, since he knew there was a monster at the end. He grew more and
more upset as he tried to keep you from getting to the end. And what was there?
Only "lovable, furry, old Grover." He sheepishly admitted the he was the monster at
the end of the book. I loved this book so much that I bought it for my children, and it was a favorite of theirs as well.
Recently I realized that my depression had returned. It had
been growing for a while, and I had been ignoring and denying it. Finally I had
to admit that three naps a day wasn’t normal behavior. (Of course, there were
other symptoms as well.) I’m one of those people that likes to hide from life
when I can’t cope with it. And I hate both admitting I need help and asking for it.
I've spent most of my adult years taking care of everyone else. The past few have been particularly challenging, and it's been easy to neglect my own mental and physical health while trying to make sure my children were safe and getting the help they needed. But suddenly I've found myself with more time alone since February, and less time caring for others, and the monster I had been shutting in the closet of my mind was ready to come out.
As I mentally prepared for the doctor appointment I
had reluctantly made, I started thinking back into my childhood and
adolescence. Although I had a loving family, my life was complicated and
anxiety-ridden. When I was about four years old, I repressed all
memories of a traumatic event resulting in post-traumatic stress disorder.
These PTSD responses had been occurring for years without anyone realizing what
was happening.
I was a master of hiding my emotions and created many ways
to cope with my anxiety. Some were innocuous; some were self-harming. They were
done to keep the monsters in the closet of my mind and had been successful
for many years.
As I waited for the doctor, who was 40 minutes late, the
monster started to forcefully break out of its prison. I had my first panic
attack. Awful. At least I recognized what it was and was able to breathe my way
through it.
Thankfully, my doctor listened with empathy and
professionalism to my hurried description of years of anxiety, depression, PTSD
symptoms, and self-harm. He thanked me for sharing and suggested that anxiety
was causing the depression. I am now on new medication and am in the process of
looking for a counselor. He requested I approach my healing both ways and I
agree completely.
Like Grover, I have been approaching the monster at the end
of the book with fear and trepidation. I have been holding it back, nailing the
pages of my life story down, building walls, and looking for ways to avoid
getting to the end.
Now it’s time to face the monster. Know what? It’s just me.
Not so scary after all.
If you have a story to share about your journey, please tell me in the comments.
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