So, you know how sometimes when you are living alone and then you welcome three children into your home very quickly and then start a blog and things get really intense and difficult really quickly, and then all of a sudden it's not because you finally have adopted all three children and you feel so relieved and then you are reminded of that blog you once started?
Anyway.
There's no way I could catch up on everything from the past few years. There has been too much. All that truly matters is that all three of my children are officially mine. In February, the boys were adopted, after a long drawn-out process. I was tense up until the moment it was official. I don't think I realized how tense I actually was, even though all the signs were there.
Every time I went to the dentist and they asked me if I grind my teeth and I emphatically told them I absolutely did not, but it turns out I did... like a lot.
Every time I was up late into the night or early morning because my thoughts just would not stop racing and I kept thinking of every scenario that could happen.
Every time I worried myself sick about whether or not the boys would be here forever, or if they would be pulled out from under me.
Every time I stood on the edge, swaying in the wind, waiting to lose my mental balance.
I was living in a constant state of shock and worry.
Then, almost in an instant, with a great breath of air, it was all gone. Or mostly gone. So many tears. So many pictures. So many thoughts.
Adoption changed us. All of us. I know the boys always felt like family, but I think a part of them also felt like I did, not knowing just how permanent this was. The uncertainty was difficult for all of us. And then it wasn't.
Not everything was fixed though. It turns out that becoming a parent quickly and giving up little pieces of yourself, one by one, eventually leads to bigger and bigger cracks that then lead to feeling somewhat broken. Not even adoption fixed that.
I had known for a while that things were off. I wasn't me. I didn't feel like doing anything. I didn't want to go anywhere. I didn't want to see anyone. While there is a part of me that is always a bit that way, this was different.
After putting off going to the doctor due to COVID (is what I told myself), I finally went this year with every intention to talk about mental health. I made my appointment. I went. We talked about my weight, which had gone up more than I would have liked. She asked if everything was ok. It was, I lied. Why did I lie about that? I didn't utter a word about why I had made the appointment, and then I left.
The whole way home I was mad at myself, but not mad enough to change it. A week later, after talking with friends who were in a similar situation, I called again, told them why I wanted to come in after just being there, and said I wanted to talk about mental health at the last appointment but just didn't. I didn't know why. I didn't know why I felt so ashamed of it.
"It happens all the time," she told me.
I never thought I would be the person who would end up on medication, but here we are, months later. It changed my life. I want to do things. I want to be around my kids. I lost weight. I've found joy in fitness again. I felt like me again. I wish I hadn't waited so long.
So why did I? Why did I feel ashamed to go and talk about mental health? Why does anyone? Why does no one talk about it? Now, I want to shout it from the rooftop.
Medication. Changed. Me.
No, not changed me. It let me return to who I was. Who I wanted to be, again.
For several years I lived in anxiety and worry. That changes you. That changes your body.
This brought me back.
So why share all of this now? Why make this my big return back to blogging (until I forget to do it again and return in another two years)? Because maybe someone out there felt or feels like I did. Maybe they just need someone to tell them it's ok to not be ok. It's ok to ask for help. It's ok to need something to bring you back to where you know you should be. It's ok to shock your system back into action.
It's ok.