The Last Month

[Becca87]

I've dealt with depression and anxiety since I was about 6 years old. I've seen numerous psychologists, had to tell and re-tell my story, and yet somehow, somewhere, it creeps back into my life - slowly; secretively.
About a month ago my husband suffered an accidental overdose. He's struggled with substance abuse off and on throughout our 10 year relationship; all times where stress induced. I came home to find him asleep on our couch (figured he had gone hiking and was exhausted from the strenuous day), and thought little about it.
After about an hour, I thought it was time to wake him - I had brought home dinner earlier, and lightly nudged him. He usually would wake up to this, so I found it odd when I had to nudge harder. "Bub, your foods here..", I spoke softly. He was still sleeping.
"John, wake up..." my voice was slowly growing louder. "John!" I yelled, shaking him. "JOHN! Wake up!!" Nothing.
I felt a bit dramatic rushing over to our sink, getting a paper towel, and running it under the water until it felt full. I squeezed it over his forehead, watching the lines of water run down his eye lids. Nothing. I called 9-1-1.
As I frantically spit out my address to the operator, I felt silly. Here I was, worried over nothing. John would wake up, and there I would be, left wasting time with the operator; squimishly admitting that everything was okay. Johns lips were now blue.
Turns out, if I would've waited just a couple of more minutes, John would be dead. That phone call saved his life.
I stayed home with him the day after, and took the day off from work. All I could think about was how humbled we were. How blessed we felt. How nothing really mattered in the big scheme of things. I had my husband back, and taking care of him was my first priority. Then I got the call.
I worked under a narcissistic, verbally abusive, and high strung individual who I had to please 24-7. She called me - not to send her condolences, not to ask me how I was doing, but to snap at me about not turning in my time sheet that day. By 2:00 that afternoon. To snap at me. About a time sheet.
I felt the rage build up inside of me on the other side of the phone. How. Dare. She. But what did I say? "Okay."
If there's one thing about me you should know, is that you don't screw with my family. But, with every opportunity she found, she did just that. My wedding. My honeymoon. Now this.
There's something so candied about that text I sent her. Liberating, actually. For over a year I came home crying from work due to her daily doses of panic. I was her whipping child, the dust mat that collected her dirt that she tried to sweep under the rug. That text message told her exactly how I felt. The next day I was fired.
For about a month I laid in bed. Slept, cried, ate. Struggled to take care of myself. Yet somehow, everyone had moved on.
John would come home at lunch to see me under the covers, hunched in a fetal position, sucking my thumb. (Yes, I'm a 29 year old thumb sucker. So sue me).
"Bub? Are you gonna do anything today?", John would ask. Sometimes, hearing the back gate opening, his footsteps coming closer, would ultimately propel me out of bed, race into the bathroom, making it look like I had been up all day. The productivity of using the restroom. Classic.
Over time, somehow I found the motivation to apply for jobs. But resume building lead to flashbacks, no calls lead to voicemails, voicemails lead to crying. And sobbing. And sleepless nights. And nightmares.
And ultimately ptsd symptoms. And more depression. Ah, depression. My darkest friend.
The truth is, my trust in humanity has a pulse, its breathing, but it's not waking up. It's lips are turning blue.
Everyday is a struggle. Pop of a Zoloft, look out the window, check my phone. Get dressed, check my phone. It's 11:11! Hope I get a call back. Nothing.
I've began to hope, wish, and pray that I'll die. A tragic accident. "What a poor girl", they'll say. NOT, "Can you believe she took her own life?"
No, I'm not going to kill myself. I just wish fate would. I wish I didn't know John, have a family, and know so many people. Why can't I just disappear?! Poof! Not here anymore.
Some of you may be thinking, "so what? Your husband survived, and you don't work under a bitch anymore. Good for you."
There's other things going on too, the fact that I'm on the wrong side of my twenties, and I feel like puberty is rearing its ugly head once again. The fact that I feel unwanted, used, and thrown away with the trash. The fact that I can't trust my husband anymore, and I wake up screaming some nights.
I'm trapped inside this shell they call a body. Inside mush of a brain, synapses firing, the making of more nightmares.
My only wish is to get off the treadmill. My only wish is to find myself again. My only wish is to find permanent happiness. Does such a thing exist?

 

[GrayOwl]

I'll get back to you......
A lot of same here.
On lunch, gotta get back to work....

 

[ladee]

You started to get off the treadmill when you wrote this and hit send!.
You reached out.
We know how you feel and we understand how it happened.
Been there myself.
Personally, I'm glad you told the crone how you felt. A lot of the stress of working for her and your husband almost dieing? Ii think the combination of those two would have sent any of us off the rails for awhile.
But you are trying to get back. So far, all on your own.
If you aren't in therapy, hopefully you will make that a priority. And coming here to find you are not alone will help.
Does happiness return? Yes. And it will be more treasured this time around because you will know what you did to get back to that place.
I appreciate your words. I understand your feelings.
This is a great place to find what you need and to help you back on your feet!
I understand. You are not alone.

 

[Casey_03]

Is your husband doing anything to get help with his substance abuse problem?

 

[Becca87]

Is your husband doing anything to get help with his substance abuse problem?

Yes, that's somewhat part of the problem. He was prescribed 2 medications; one for anxiety, one for sleep. He ultimately used to self medicate his anxiety, so I know these are much safer options.
The problem is, his sleep medication makes him slur his words, and I can't help but think that he's on something more; that he's mixed drugs again with something else and he might die again. My trust for him (when it comes to this is 0%)

 

[Becca87]

You started to get off the treadmill when you wrote this and hit send!.
You reached out.
We know how you...

Thank you. Part of the problem is that since I lost my job, I don't have health insurance. (Ya know, that important piece of plastic that tells people you're pretty much more important than other people who may walk in).
I'm also a psychologist, so I know sometimes therapy is a bullshit game.
There's the depression talking - isn't it lovely??

 

[ladee]

But you know bullshit when you hear it..so it makes it easier to weed out who you can trust.
There are many avenues to get help without insurance.
Find a way...and keep on keepin' on!

 

[The Albatross]

No it's not lovely. But it's a disservice to say "my only wish" when you list three: "My only wish is to get off the treadmill. My only wish is to find myself again. My only wish is to find permanent happiness."

Permanent happiness? Nope unlikely, but of course you know that. Find yourself again and get off the treadmill? Good place to start as these are both possible and perhaps likely.

Of course that day you had an unmet need and got the ding about a timesheet. But you would do well to take a look at the misdirected (perhaps) aggression at your employer and the fact that you've been involved in a relationship with a substance abuser who damn near died had you not been there to call 911.

Both issues difficult... but not insurmountable... with work. What assistance are you getting? Any?

Larding those two things up with being on the wrong side of however old and pining for a unicorn (permanent happiness) is your depressive brain giving you more of what it thinks you want.

I can relate too to being depressive since a young child. I was suicidal at 10 through 14.

 

[Becca87]

Ok if I were to list literally only one wish, it would be to find happiness again, which would feel like I'm progressing, and not stuck.
In regards to assistance, I feel like I'm on my own. I just want someone to grab the reins and take care of me. It may sound babyish, and that's okay. It's the most deluted version of what I'm feeling right now. I just want to be takin care of.

 

[Casey_03]

I know this is a cliché, but it's absolutely true -- you really need to take care of yourself first. To be honest, from what you've written it sounds like you've been putting all your energy into taking care of your husband instead of yourself. You sound very devoted, and that is to be commended, but it does sound like you've neglected yourself in the meantime, and you should be careful not to start enabling him. If he's been using on and off for the last ten years, it's pretty likely that his problem is one of the main things causing you anxiety and depression. Your boss may have been a bitch, but it really does sound like all that aggression towards her was misplaced. Sure, she was insensitive and rude, but aren't most bosses assholes? It kinda sounds like you wanted her to show you the kindness and understanding that you're not really showing yourself. But a boss is really the last person to expect that from in such a personal situation (unless you've just got a really amazing boss -- and most people don't).

Have you considered attending an al-anon meeting in your area? It's not just for the families of alcoholics, it would apply to your situation as well. I think (and I stress that this is just my opinion) that you may be avoiding the real issue here -- your husband's addiction. Your whole post was about his overdose, but you barely gave any details on his addiction, and instead focused all your ire on your boss just being a typical boss. I don't say that to be judgmental, just as someone with experience in dealing with a loved one's addiction, who spent years avoiding it herself.