I’ve now been on Zoloft for two weeks. I won’t feel the full effects of it for another two to four weeks, but I’m already feeling a glimmer of better. My doctor also gave me klonopin, a drug I’ve heard of but never used. When I first looked it up, I discovered its main use is to treat seizures. When I read that, I was confused, but considering that my panic attack pretty much caused my heart to have its own little seizure-fest, I got it. Then I saw also treats panic disorders, which is what I’m going to someday have tattooed onto my forehead. So, I took one, immediately after my doctor’s appointment. And you know what? Best. Drug. Ever. I didn’t care. I had that cheap-ass-glass-of-moscato buzz going on and the pope himself could have walked through my front door and insulted my cat and I would have been all Yo, dog! Come and get summa dis kpin! It’s the shiz!

I only took the one because I was pretty sure that all the other carpool moms knew I was higher than the ISS and that DFACS would be at my front doorstep before the kids finished their homework. (PS Dear teachers, I’m sure the kids’ homework that afternoon was a cluster. It was my fault. Common core and klonopin don’t mix.) I haven’t touched the bottle since. But I feel better just knowing it’s there if I need it.

We all have monsters living inside us, monsters that are chemical imbalances or brain deformities or bad memories of traumatic events. All of these things shape us into who we are, for better or for worse. I don’t think I would be the creative person I am without my depression and anxiety. I mean, I like me, I just hate the monster living inside of me. After spending the last ten years reading books to my children, I’ve read about many different monsters. All of them are deformed, horrific, external projections of the bad in the world. Two of the hardest things on the Teach Alla Dis Shit To Your Kids list isn’t potty training and it isn’t sex. It’s (1) Death and (2) The monsters are not only inside us, but the ones outside look just like us.

The last time I checked, Ted Bundy was a handsome charmer and John Wayne Gacy was a Jaycee and a community volunteer. Aileen Wuornos wasn’t exactly beautiful or a civic leader, but she was a human, not a red-eyed, fur-covered, evil demon under the basement stairs. Now, I’m no serial killer, but my depression turns me into a monster of sorts. It makes me angry at the world and the people in it for no reason other than it’s me versus all of you. And it makes me so terribly sad and takes away any semblance of hope.

I put up my Halloween decorations today. I got a jump on October 1st, but I have absolutely no shame in doing so. It was a combination of surprise the kids when they return from their grandparents’ house and I need to do this for me because I love Halloween. And, yeah, I need to do things for me. But I also need to do things for a few others. Like apologize for that monster inside of me that convinced me to lash out in anger rather than in understanding. That monster that gets upset and angry for no reason whatsoever except that maybe it’s a Tuesday.

I’ve got a long way to go in accepting myself as not just “Heather” but as “Heather with a side of mental illness.” It’s not that I’ll allow it to define me, but that I can no longer be ashamed of it or assume it will get better on its own. I need help and I’m on my way. The monster will always be here, let’s just hope I get her under control because goodness knows every day can’t be Tuesday.

The last several weeks have been… difficult. As summer drew to a close, I found myself anticipating the beginning of school and some quiet time to myself once the kids were gone each day. For those first two weeks, I pounded through this house like a woman obsessed. I cleaned, dusted, scrubbed, organized, and entered the third week feeling in my element, convinced I had all my shit together.

I so don’t have any of my shit together. When you’re in the middle of a downhill slide, all you can do is feel the rush of the wind while trying to convince yourself that it’s fun and exhilarating. All the while, you’re avoiding staring at the pit at the bottom. You imagine that you can just sail over it to the next side and be OK.

I dropped straight down into that pit over Labor Day weekend and can’t quite figure out how to climb out.

Suicide has visited my circle of bloggers this week. I never knew Anastacia, but I knew that she inspired many of my online friends and that many of them are saddened and beyond grief-stricken. I was excited about meeting her this November when she was to join my paranormal group on an investigation and just the evening before, I had discussed her coming with another blogger friend. Then, the news. And my newsfeed was filled with grief and utter confusion. I have sadness for my dear friends who are grieving today and for the days to come because of the hole Stacy has left behind.

I’ve never contemplated suicide, the ultimate in disappearing acts, but I have thought about leaving. I confessed to Tyler just last month that I always have it in the back of my mind to take some money, pack up, and leave in the middle of the night. I’ll just disappear and that will be that. I think about this not because I can’t stand my family and want to leave them behind. I think about leaving because I constantly battle feelings of unworthiness, despair, and self-loathing. I think The people I love would be better off without me and because I have this all-encompassing fear of pain and botching the job and being horribly disfigured, I imagine leaving for parts unknown and desolate, giving my family and friends a chance to find someone more worthy to fill my absence.

That’s what it all comes down to. Worthiness. I’m not worthy of this life. I’m not worthy of this love. I’m not worthy of this job. I’m not worthy of this hug. I’m not worthy.

This long, slow decline into the pit of depression has been happening to me for quite a while. The bad days are outnumbering the good. I sit and wonder What do I want to be when I’m grown up? but the rub is that I’m already grown up. So, how do I decide what I want to be and then juggle the dream master’s degree, then the dream job, all while balancing the dream motherhood without further losing my mind? My worthiness? Should I just stay here and be a “supermom” who runs the daily carpool and homework drill and escapes to her closet each evening to cry? And would I be truly happy in a 9 to 5 environment again?

I don’t know.

I do know that I need a break. After a week-long anxiety-panic attack that left me wondering if my heart may just end it all for me, I went to my doctor and cried on her shoulder. I have, yet again, embraced the bottle of Zoloft and have a pending appointment with my counselor. Going along with my constant, negative inner-monologue is the outer-monologue I see everyday on social media and that monologue is more vitriolic than not. I have to admit that I probably have more than a passing obsession with everything having to do with Twitter/Facebook/Instagram and that’s not healthy. To constantly read and know the inner thoughts of other people all day, every day, is bad for my mental health.

I always say to myself I’m going to blog more. I’m going to write more. I’m going to call my friends more. I’m going to ______________ more. and I know I need to stop doing that because I’m just setting myself up for failure. I’m not going to put up a timeline or a promise here. Except for the promise that I won’t run away. I won’t disappear. I’ll still be here, with my family and my Zoloft, working through this morass of self-judgement and unworthiness. If any of you need me, you know how to find me. Just know that I’m looking up out of the pit and I see the light above. And I’m trying really hard to make it up there where the rest of you are.

(If someone you know and love is struggling with depression and you’re worried for them, or you’re struggling, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number is 1-800-273-8255. And remember. You’re not alone. We’re all in this together.)