“Putting one foot in front of the other”

A personal experience with depression
By: 
Autumn Luedke

Autumn Luedke is a local journalist living with major depressive disorder.  

The bottom dropped out on May 11, 2013. I was supposed to be manning a booth for my employer, NAMI Dane County, at some mental health function.  Instead, I found myself staring out of the window of my kitchen apartment washing dishes, lost in a vicious cycle of negative thoughts that transcended every bit of logic I knew: I wasn’t a good enough mom. I wasn’t responsible. I wasn’t a good person. I couldn’t make good decisions. In short, I felt like a complete an utter failure.

On the surface it seemed I was doing well enough; like how a duck appears to be gliding almost seamlessly through the water it is swimming in. Under the water’s surface, though, a duck’s little webbed feet are paddling frantically to keep it moving forward.

The three years preceding were fraught with challenge after challenge: I had left the career I loved on a low note when my former employer let me down in a huge way. Things hadn’t been going well with my first husband, and we ended up getting a divorce. We lived together for a year-and-a-half in the house to get it ready to sell, and with the hope small changes we were making (like sleeping separately) wouldn’t feel so unsettling to my then two-and-a-half-year-old son. It was incredibly hard and stressful for the both of us. I had started and stopped several jobs because the weight of everything happening was too much to bear. I had moved twice and begun a romantic relationship with a male friend I later learned was a high-functioning alcoholic. The constant fighting and let-downs rocked my emotional well-being. But I truly couldn’t find the strength to break away, that is until I saw the effect it was having on my son. After my divorce, I wasn’t being realistic about my finances, overspending on things I thought I needed, from new clothes to vacations, furniture, dining out – anything to make the overwhelming sense of apathy and pain I felt dull if even just a little. I learned my ex-husband had moved on with someone new, and although I didn’t regret my decision to ask for a divorce, I was envious of his happiness and ability to move on. 

I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder (also referred to as clinical depression) just over 20 years ago when I first moved away from home. My doctor at the time believed the near 1,000 mile move away from all of my friends and family was likely the trigger, although looking back I know I lived with depression undiagnosed throughout my teens. I remember clearly sitting in the exam room and her words to me: “I like working with people with depression because it is treatable in most cases. You have nowhere to go but up from here.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me; less because it was treatable but more so because there was a name and a diagnosis for the larger-than-life darkness that seemed to infiltrate every corner of my mind. I reasoned, if there is a name for it, other people must have experienced it. That meant I wasn’t crazy.

It meant there was a reason as to why I never felt like I had enough sleep, or that a haze seemed to occupy my mind, preventing me from thinking clearly, focusing and getting things done. It meant there was an answer as to why there was a disconnect between my body and my brain when the voice inside me shouted, “Get up! You will be late for work!” but I couldn’t do anything but lay helplessly in bed and cry. It gave an explanation as to why Every. Single. Thing. I. Did. Felt  like walking up the highest, steepest mountain with a 100 lb. backpack on – from brushing my teeth and showering to making a phone call and even going to appointments.

Despite the fact I felt relief at the doctor’s words, I also surmised I had a heck of a battle with myself in front of me.  In the months leading up to my diagnosis I had let so many things go: relationships, bills, phone calls, work duties and most importantly, myself.  Fortunately, I was told, medicine would help with that. “How?” I questioned. It wasn’t exactly going to make my problems go away. “No,” the doctor said. “But it will make facing all of it not feel quite so hard.” 

Back in front of the kitchen window, some 15 years later, the thoughts of self-doubt and loathing ran through my mind like a ticker tape displaying the same bits of information over and over on a loop, and I saw no end in sight. I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay my next utility bill, let alone rent. I was selling furniture for half its worth just to meet my basic needs. I couldn’t work more than part time, because my motivation was stunted by the constant lethargy and trouble I had concentrating. I wasn’t on good terms with my parents, who was very close to – because they couldn’t understand why I was getting a divorce. They disagreed with my decision and didn’t support my choice. Essentially, they had left me to twist in the wind  in a time of my greatest need. At the same time, my health insurance  changed and my longtime therapist was not covered under the plan. I was sliding into an abyss I wasn’t sure I could ever get out of – or even wanted to. Everything just seemed too hard.  I didn’t want to hurt anymore. 

Staring out the kitchen window, I suddenly realized what had been happening over the past few weeks. I had been lying to myself. Even as I stood there over the sink with the now lukewarm water and soapsuds on my hands, I had nearly convinced myself that if I was gone, it wouldn’t matter. Life would and could continue – but I didn’t need to be in it.  The realization felt like how a person feels when they stand up too fast  – not quite enough to pass out, but enough to feel light-headed and hyper aware of my rapidly beating heart and the cold sweat that had enveloped me. But the realization in that moment   made me recognize the lies I had been telling myself were a sort of dysfunctional coping strategy to justify my convoluted plan to make the pain go away. I couldn’t figure out how to make it better, so I convinced myself removing me from the situation was the only way to make the hurt stop. You see, for some people, admitting you can’t do it all; admitting you need help, is sometimes so difficult you convince yourself it is just easier to make yourself disappear.  In those moments, we can’t see that asking for help is actually so much better than the alternative. It might seem so obvious to those around you, but the haze of mental illness is very powerful and manipulative. 

With that newfound realization, I made up my mind to get help. I packed a bag quickly, afraid I would talk myself out of it, and did the thing I was most afraid of: signing myself in to the hospital. It was a complete unknown to me and very unnerving.  Movies depict psych wards in all sorts of negative and scary ways. Thoughts of A Clockwork Orange, Girl, Interrupted, straightjackets, people with zombie-like behavior and being stripped of all dignity washed over me, and I nearly pulled over several times. 

 

But I did it.  And it was nothing at all what I had conjured up in my mind. 

Aside from making sure you didn’t have anything on you that could hurt either yourself or someone else, they only took away my cell phone. Not permanently; I could go to the nurse’s station and make a call there if I needed or wanted, but because most phones have cameras in them now, it was simply for the privacy and protection of others. And yes, you get checked on quite a bit, which at first made me feel annoyed because I simply wanted to be left alone.  That’s the catch, though, because when you are enduring a mental health crisis, interacting with other people is hard. It takes effort and energy and work, and it is so much easier to isolate. But in the silence is where the voices of self-doubt threaten to undermine you. And really, you made the effort to ask for help. The doctors and nurses are simply responding to that request, and take their job seriously. If you get so far as to ask, they know intrinsically they have to keep your momentum on an upward swing. 

While you are strongly encouraged to attend group meetings and individual sessions with a counselor, you aren’t forced to. But it is how you start to feel normal again. The staff help you with your basic needs and you can order your meals and snacks. There are books and games and television and you are encouraged to participate in other activities and you can then focus on the long, difficult work of untangling the chaos in your head.   Essentially, it is the chance to hit pause and figure things out in a safe way. That doesn’t mean things aren’t waiting for you when you leave the cocoon of the hospital, but the goal is to provide each individual with the tools and support they need to help themselves.  At least that is how I see it. And I acknowledge a hospital stay isn’t for everyone; people cope in different ways. But I know it was the right choice for me.

When I got home from the hospital, I called my employer and apologized for missing two days of work. Being that I worked for the National Alliance on Mental Illness, I thought I would be supported and welcomed back. I thought I was understood.  Instead, in a very nice way, I was told they had to let me go. I was shocked and dumbfounded. That day was so hard. One side of my mind felt like pulling me back down into the darkness. Thoughts of being homeless due to not being able to financially support myself swirled around, along with hurt and anger over being let down by an organization that was supposed to get it. They were supposed to understand. Where was that support our organization preached for me?

It was time to take my newfound skills and get to work. It was an uphill battle every single day, but I tackled and completed each task, eventually getting to a better place financially. I started working again, building up my mental stamina. I talked to my parents and told them how let down and hurt by them I was. Although it took them a while, (and I would later learn they sought counseling on their own to deal with their anger over my divorce), they finally admitted they could have handled things much better and apologized. Although that hurt is something that will probably always stay with me like a fading scar, I can now at least understand why they felt the way they did. They feared for their grandson and simply didn’t know what to do or how to feel.  

I worked very hard on myself, and I continue to this day. I take the time to recognize, deal with and limit my triggers, and when I start feeling that sensation of drowning, I ask for help.

This year was particularly difficult for me. In January, 2019, I lost my grandmother, who was just days away of turning 100. I was feeling so overwhelmed, trying to work full time and balancing my job with the needs of my family. I made the difficult decision to leave a job I loved, community reporting. We got hit with many financial strains, and I was fighting to get my son out of a horrible bullying situation in another school district. Then in October, I lost my stepfather; a man I had a strained relationship with since I was eight years old.  

I have been fortunate since those days spent in the hospital. I met and married a wonderful man who is simply the best partner I could have. I became a bonus mom to four awesome kids. We work very hard on communication and balancing the needs of our five children, co-parenting and trying to step in when one of us needs a time out for ourselves. 

That isn’t to say my situation is easy now. I willingly put myself into one of the most chaotic situations anyone could – a huge blended family - especially for someone living with depression. But through everything I have endured, I have learned how much stronger I am for it all.  Sometimes people will say to me, “I don’t know how you do it.”  The only answer I have, is by putting one foot in front of the other every minute of every day, never looking back.  And I know no matter how difficult life gets, there will be a way through. I just have to find it.

 

 

Login Help

Thank you for visiting the new website. For your initial login, please use the following:

Username: Your current Star News username
Password: Please also use your username as your password

Once you successfully login, you can change your username. Thank you.