Pouring from a Cup Filled with Overwhelm, Anxiety and Depression
You may know our whole story, you may know parts or maybe you’re new here. Welcome. We’re a family of four navigating sensory processing disorders with both of our boys – ages 7 and 4. They are the greatest joys of our life, but this journey hasn’t been easy.
To be very clear, I’m not writing this for sympathy. I’m clinging to my own vulnerability because I believe so strongly in normalizing the importance mental health, having difficult conversations to support each other in knowing that life is hard and sometimes we just can’t do everything all on our own. And that seeking help is more than okay, it’s paramount.
Our youngest son has really been through it the last eight weeks. In addition to weekly appointments for speech and OT, transitioning from one communication device to a new one and returning to school after a long hiatus because of the Omicron variant, he’s had two hospital stays, two outpatient tests, two sedated MRIs, the removal of a fingernail because of MRSA, and the diagnosis of a Chiari Malformation at the base of his brain. This is the abbreviated explanation, but basically his cerebellar tonsils are growing into his spinal cord and need to be operated on to prevent scoliosis, eliminate extreme headaches and blocking spinal fluid from being able to flow through. So we have a four hour brain surgery ahead of us. In thirteen days to be exact. We’re totally counting.
Our life without all the extra excitement is pretty intense. And I say that in the most loving way possible. But it’s just a lot. A lot of appointments, a lot of learning, a lot of trial and error, a lot of questions, a lot of curiosity, a lot of balancing, a lot of pivoting, a lot of anxiety, a lot of pressure, a lot of stress, but also a lot of happiness, love and strength.
Most days I feel like I have things pretty well handled. At least on the outside. I can mostly keep up with all of our obligations, communicate regularly with both boys’ teachers and therapists, try really hard to manage work (I’m lucky to have a job that is flexible), and even sneak in a few playdates, coaching Fletcher’s soccer team and the occasional date night or coffee with a friend.
I usually don’t experience the feeling of collapsing onto the couch after a long day and thinking “I’m done with everything and now I can rest.” It’s more like “I have a list of 1,000 things that still need attention, but I’m too tired so I’m going to sit here in my numbness knowing that I need to be doing something else, but it’s going to have to wait because I just can’t.” I know so many can relate to the heavy feeling of “the work is never done.”
That feeling has completely taken over since learning about Max’s surgery. The last few weeks I’ve toggled between kind of paralyzed and kind of productive (really only with very concrete organizational projects. If you need containers labeled or drawers cleaned out, I’m your girl. Everything else feels too hard). And totally overwhelmed. To be honest, I’ve towed this line for quite a while, always figuring out how to keep it together, navigate the daily grind and ensure things are relatively in order at home. Maybe a bit of imposter syndrome. Because I’m the girl that has always had it together and I absolutely don’t right now.
In addition to meeting with my amazing therapist, I’ve been on an anti-anxiety medication for a while. Amid all of our current challenges, it didn’t feel like it was doing the trick (and in hindsight it probably hadn’t been enough for longer than that) so my doctor increased my dose a few weeks ago. That helped for a while and then we added more layers to our already chaotic life. I heard the words brain surgery and immediately felt stuck. Like my feet couldn’t leave the ground no matter how hard I tried. I could tell you what needed to get done, but I couldn’t get my brain to tell my body to do it.
The conversation about Max’s pending surgery was like a violent gust of wind that peeled each one of my fingers from the ledge I was already clinging to…without warning, I was sent into the abyss of the unknown. And for someone who likes to have control, that’s one of the scariest places to be.
My husband and I process things in a different order – which is often one of our collective strengths. We both start with information gathering. And then he goes directly to emotion. So, while at our neurosurgery appointment when we learned Max would need surgery, Mike teared up as soon as the doctor left the room. It’s one of the things I love most about him honestly. He’s not afraid to access and show emotions.
I, on the other hand couldn’t cry for three weeks. And it wasn’t until a dear friend looked me in the eyes and said “Annie, how are you doing?” It took me that long to get to a place where I could feel and show emotion. After gathering information and trying to wrap my mind around all of it, I became paralyzed. And then I started furiously nesting. Organizing the pantry, drawers, closets, things that haven’t been touched since we moved into our house six years ago. And honestly, I still can’t let myself think about the magnitude of the surgery and our sweet baby boy. It’s too much, even though we know it’s necessary.
I went to see my doctor for a follow-up yesterday. I was anxious. I’ve put on weight, I’m feeling “stuck,” I struggle with even menial tasks, and I can’t seem to climb out of the puddle of overwhelm quicksand I’m living in. To be honest, there’s shame attached to all of that for me.
When I tell you I’ve never felt more validated by a doctor than Doctor C., it’s not an exaggeration. She has this magical way of meeting me where I am and making sure I leave feeling heard, valued, important and cared for (if that doesn’t sound like your doctor, switch to a new one. You deserve someone like Dr. C.). Beyond prescribing an additional antidepressant to add to my daily regimen, she gently reminded me that my life circumstances warrant feeling all the things that I do. My anxiety melted away with her sincere eye contact and genuine compassion in that moment. And so did some of the shame of feeling like I can’t keep up. I was able to find grace for myself and take a breath deeper than I’ve experienced in weeks. I felt lighter.
“You can’t pour from an empty cup” is a saying I use often. I’ve probably written it a thousand times as well. It’s one of those things I tell my close friends when they’re going through a hard time, but also something I forget to tell myself.
I can tell you with complete certainty that if you can’t pour from an empty cup, you absolutely can’t pour from a cup filled with overwhelm, anxiety and depression. You might as well fill that cup with cured cement. Nothing is coming out.
My family deserves to have a mama whose cup is full enough that I can be available for all of them. And I deserve that, too. Available in a way that isn’t just going through the motions, muscling my way through the day. But in a way that makes me present, in the moment, finding joy. I love joy. I just haven’t been able to feel it much lately.
So for now, I’m perfectly okay with getting support from my therapist and finding comfort in using medication to get me through an exceptionally difficult time. I know that I can’t (and I don’t have to!) do this by myself. I am prioritizing things that bring calm to my life. Doing yoga before bed, enjoying a warm cup of coffee, blogging at a quiet coffee shop, getting lost in a show, going for a long walk. I also know that slowly, I’ll begin to remember what life feels like when I’m not floundering under the weight of so many heavy things.
I want to conclude by saying that grief, feeling overwhelmed, anxiety, and depression are all relative. I’ve had people I love talk about something hard happening in their life and then follow it up with a quick “but this is nothing compared to what you’re dealing with.”
Yes, it is. It’s okay to feel like things are hard and overwhelming without comparing it to what others may be navigating. That in itself is giving yourself grace and validation. Do that every single time.
My wish for myself as it’s also my wish for all of you…
To more joy and more laughter. And light found in the form of support – no matter what that looks like.
A big thank you to all of our family and friends for the ways you’ve supported us during one of the most difficult times in our lives. We are stronger because of all of you.
Love and light, friends. <3