The Pool

I never knew there was a depression deeper than a suicide attempt. I never knew that level of low existed.

I was wrong.

If you’ve been around long enough, you know of my low point in 2022. I had just had surgery number 3 and was now in surgical menopause. And, though my doctors warned me about possible mood swings or suicidal thoughts, I pushed those warnings aside with a “not me” attitude; as if I would somehow be above those risks. I truly felt like that would NEVER happen to me - I had a strong support circle, a supportive husband, and an unfailing faith.

But I was wrong.

Fast forward to 2024. Now was the time for me to feel confident and healthy and strong. No more surgeries on the horizon. Just me and my wide open future. Now was my chance to think through what I wanted to do with that wide open future and take my time getting there.

However, the weight of all that I had gone through previously - all that I had never processed fully - landed on my shoulders in a heap and sent me into a tailspin.

“I slowly slipped into a new low that I had never known: a place where all feelings of hope are gone... the scariest place I’ve ever been before.”

Since I am no stranger to this darkness, I knew to reach out to my circle, including my doctors. I found a new psychiatrist who specializes in hormonal changes and the toll it can take on women’s mental health. Yet after 6 weeks of being on 3 antidepressants per day and weekly sessions, I was not improving. I had progressed from occasional suicidal thoughts to daily ideations of “getting it over with so that everyone else around me could just move on with their lives.”

When I stopped sharing during my sessions, my therapist drew a mental image for me: a pool of water in the middle of a forest that encompassed all of my sadness and pain. During many times in my life, I have tiptoed closer and closer to that pool to peek over the edge. I had even daringly dipped my toe into it. And, in 2022, I had jumped into that pool on the night that I attempted to swallow a bottle of pills - I was thrashing around and fighting the currents. But each and every time, I was able to step out of that pool. And, with the help and support of friends and family, I had never been forced to truly reach the bottom.

My doctor sensed the gravity of my depression and routinely checked in with Dan, requesting he be the one to administer my medications, and pleading with him to check me into an inpatient psychiatric facility who would help to stabilize my mental health through the use of prescriptions, group therapy treatments, and daily checkins with a provider.

But I refused to go. I used my boys as my excuse not to go, saying there was no way Dan could parent singlehandedly, especially given our youngest’s new type 1 diabetes diagnosis.

She then urged me to check into an outpatient program, wherein I could still stay at home, helping with the kids, but be monitored for about 5 hours per day.

Again, I refused to go.

So my desperate husband began reaching out to friends and family members, arranging for someone to be home with me whenever he had to leave the house. In short, Dan felt like he was unable to leave my side for fear of me ending my own life.

On one such occasion, a very dear friend picked me up from my home (even after ignoring her calls and texts), bought us each a cookie, and drove me around for over an hour. When I had still not begun to speak, she said, “I’m not bringing you back home until you start talking.” And mainly in an effort to get home, I began to talk. I spoke briefly about my feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness and complete lack of direction in my life. And she listened patiently. But then she asked me, “What is holding you back from going after your dreams?” After a long silence, I replied with the words that had been bubbling up inside of me for weeks - words I had been too afraid to even speak out loud:

““Because I am broken. So so broken. And I don’t think I can ever be put back together again.””

I was finally able to verbalize the emptiness in my soul. I had stopped fighting against the waters and allowed myself to sink to the bottom. Once there, I was able to pluck the plug off of the drain in the floor of the pool - to allow the water to flow and empty - and was now holding that cap in my hand. Once I had stopped fighting and thrashing around, I was able to see just how beautiful the floor of this pool was. It wasn’t the dark and scary place I had envisioned it to be. It was light and open.

“And then I realized it: I was not alone in that pool. Jesus had been in that pool with me from the very beginning.”

All I needed to do was to stop fighting, take His hand, and allow Him to pull me to the surface - a difficult process that took months of actively listening, praying, journaling, and sharing.

I have been out of my pool for about 6 months now. I still see my psychiatrist monthly, have weekly therapy sessions, continue taking antidepressants, and am part of a bi-monthly group therapy session. I have resumed my pilates classes and continue taking long walks, and have even begun playing the piano again!

There are days when I still feel the tips of my toes dangling into the liquid and, on a few occasions, I have slipped back into that pool. But it feels different now because I’m not afraid anymore. I know that no matter how low I get, I am never alone. And whenever I’m ready, all I need to do is reach out my hand and allow Him to bring me back to the surface.

Each day is a decision: I can slip into the darkness or I can chase after the light.