My Life on Stress Leave

Part Two: Darkest Hour

That first week off work was strange. I didn’t feel pathetic as I had expected I would, but I certainly didn’t feel relieved either. I wasn’t sure how I felt. I woke up every morning in a panic, but that was nothing new. The agitation and fatigue continued as well. I was lost and somehow even more overwhelmed than I had been before I went off work. The long road ahead was daunting and I was dreading every moment of it. 

As the days and weeks accumulated, I felt less wired, perhaps a bit less panicky, but even more exhausted. Even the smallest tasks drained me. I couldn’t focus at all. I was being advised to rest, to push aside errands and chores and give my mind and body a chance to recover. At the same time, during the first four to five weeks, I had so many appointments; counselling, psychiatry, nurse practitioner, massage therapy, physiotherapy. It all felt very self-indulgent and silly, but I was told it was crucial that I focused on healing and that I accepted all the help I could get. Essentially, I was being directed to do nothing and simultaneously do it all. 

People kept telling me to listen to my body and to prioritize things that bring me joy. The problem was, I couldn’t decipher what my body was trying to tell me and nothing brought me joy. The things that used to make me happy had been subdued by a dense fog for months, years in some cases. The reality of which made me feel even more broken, more hopeless. I felt useless. It all seemed like a waste of time. For several weeks, I fluctuated between anger, numbness and confusion. I was supposed to be “taking care of myself” but I had no idea how to do that. I was told I had to be kind to myself but, in my mind, the kindest thing I could do would be to finally put an end to all of this pain. I have thought about suicide several times in my life. I have never acted on those thoughts because I couldn’t stand the idea of breaking anyone’s heart. This time, I decided I was done with putting everyone else’s needs ahead of my own. Some friends and family reached out with very heartwarming messages. Those I appreciated. Their words were touching and meant a lot to me. But when people reminded me that I was loved by so many and that I would destroy them all if I left, it didn’t comfort me. It pissed me off. In my mind, they had made my struggles about them. They were thinking only about themselves, not about what I wanted, what I needed. I saw it as a selfish guilt trip. This time, it wasn’t going to work, I was going to put myself first. I still had a detailed plan, and even though I had pushed it to the back of my mind for the time being, I still felt that it was my best option. I was angry that no one could see that, angry that they were all preventing me from being free. It felt cruel. But I had made a promise to two people that always made me feel safe and supported. I wouldn’t break that promise. I had to trust that they had my best interest at heart.

The weirdest part of it all was that I had so much support, a full team of people invested in my well-being, and I was actively communicating with all of them. Yet, I had never felt more alone. I was going through the motions because I had promised I would, but I didn’t believe in any of it. I knew they were all trying but none of them really understood. I also knew, at the end of the day, I was the only one that could turn things around; no one else could fix me. I often had to downplay the darkness to family and friends because I didn’t want to hurt them or make them worry. I knew I should be honest, but it was so much easier to shield them. I didn’t have the energy or brain capacity to console them or manage their worries. They all needed reassurance, they needed me to tell them I was getting better. I gave them what they needed so I didn’t have to carry their anguish or field more guilt trips. I was mostly open with my husband and good friend, but they were both already doing so much for me, it was hard not to feel like a burden. I couldn’t bring myself to keep adding more bulk to their already hefty cargo. I was honest with my counsellors and nurse practitioner, but while I knew they cared, they were mostly just doing their jobs. There was less personal investment. I couldn’t call them in those sinking moments, those moments when I felt particularly defeated and just wanted it all to be over. I had to wait for my scheduled appointments, and in the meantime I had to sit alone in the pain. I had a deadline in my head. With all the work I was doing, if things didn’t start to improve by then, I figured they never would. Many days, I was simply willing time to pick up speed so I could get to that deadline and be done with it, so I could say I kept my promise and gave it my best shot. It was all very isolating. It was all very dark. 

I’m sure reading this will make some people uncomfortable. It may be distressing for some, hurtful even. And that is exactly why I had to share it. I know I’m not the only one who has been through something like this. There are most certainly others who have felt defeated and hopeless, who have seen no solution, who have desperately wanted out. And there most certainly will be more. Now that I’ve been there, I know when someone is that low, they are incapable of thinking clearly. The most frightening part is that they truly believe they are thinking clearly and they don’t want help. I imagine everyone’s experience in this state is unique; similar perhaps but surely not identical. In my case, once I had made up my mind, I was certain I was doing the right thing and I kept it to myself. My plan was thorough. It was calculated. It was not impulsive, far from it. The general idea had been in the back of my mind for years and once I decided it was time, it still took weeks for me to get all the details sorted. I was open about being depressed, worn out and frustrated, but I tried to conceal my desperation because letting people in would mean interference. I knew they would try to dismantle my plan and I couldn’t have that. If my husband hadn’t point-blank asked me if I was suicidal, I likely never would have admitted it. I probably wouldn’t be here. The message that I hope to convey by sharing my experience is that we can’t be afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions, to initiate the heavy conversations. Because, if they are anything like me, those that are convinced that suicide is their best option are not going to be the ones to bring it up. Once they’ve decided to do it, they don’t want to be stopped. But by simply asking the question, there is a good chance that they may hesitate. For me, something in my mind shifted when he asked and the instant I admitted it out loud, the sense of urgency eased. By no means did it disappear, but that slight ease was enough to make me reconsider, if only in that moment. He didn’t try to shame or guilt trip me. He listened, he validated, he asked me what I needed. That conversation was messy, but it was also a relief. It took some of the weight off, it punctured my tunnel-vision. I know we all worry about saying the wrong thing. It’s impossible to know what the right thing to say is, and I think it varies depending on the person and the situation. Some may need to be reminded of how incredible they are, or how much they have to look forward to in life. Personally, I didn’t need any of that. Truth be told, I had no idea what I needed until I got it. As it turns out, what I needed was to be fully heard without selfish motives. Maybe there is actually no such thing as the right thing. But maybe that means there is no wrong thing either. Regardless, saying anything is so much better than saying nothing at all. Trust me.