My first step in my journey toward building my best self in this transitional time of life, the post time (post-menopause, post-children, post-pandemic, and post-retirement) was to address my mental health. This was a very difficult step for me. There is such a stigma around mental health, and I was guilty of falling into this trap of minimizing its importance as well. I was always one to tell others, “You don’t need therapy or medication! Change your diet, exercise, get a good night’s sleep and you’ll feel better!” I am sorry to all of the people, including my children, who heard that speech. This “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” mentality only works to a certain point, and not at all for some people. I found out I was one of the people who needed more than good vibes and terrible advice.
Before I resigned from work, I started by exercising and putting time into myself by journaling and doing some self-care activities. I joined a gym, I scheduled a facial, scheduled a manicure, and bought a brand new notebook. These things helped. The gym that I joined, the day spa I went to for my facial, and the nail salon were all female-owned businesses. They were also all places where I could go and learn what this new me was going to look like. I could look like a fool trying a new exercise at the gym, and Avery, the owner, who was the same age as my youngest daughter, would tell me to give myself grace. This was something I needed to hear and apply to many aspects of my life. The first time I went into the day spa for a facial, I thought, “I am not worthy of this luxury. People like me don’t do this.” Brynn, the owner, sensed my nervousness and said, “This is a safe space. I am here to make you feel comfortable.” I relaxed immediately and got rid of some unwanted chin hair in the process. Clara at the nail salon listened to me tell the same stories over and over and just listened, judgment free. They all made me feel empowered, and they all became my friends as people in other aspects of my life were falling away.
All of those things helped, but I still had my own voice on a loop inside my head that said the most unsupportive things to me. Things like, you are broken, and no one cares about you, and damaged goods. Sometimes, in my mind, I was fighting the notion that I was depressed and anxious. I was doing everything I needed to do. I wasn’t missing a step. So what if I wasn’t enjoying any of them? Everyone has down times, after all. Life isn’t all unicorns and roses. My cup was absolutely empty, but that is what is expected of women, right? Give until it hurts. Do for others, wait for the crumbs from the table, and make sure you make those crumbs last. Even with the support of these new people in my life, I was struggling, but powering through.
Then, one day, I was yelled at in a parking lot. A middle-aged man walked in front of my car. I was annoyed by this and I didn’t stop or make much of an effort to slow down. He made it across safely and I parked my car. When I got out, an older woman was standing next to this man and was yelling at me, “You almost hit him!” This was not true, but I definitely was thinking about what an idiot he was for crossing in front of me without looking. Instead of stopping while he crossed, which I absolutely should have done, ignoring this outburst, or even apologizing, I chose to yell back, “He should have learned in Kindergarten that pedestrians have an obligation to look before they cross the road!” I proceeded to walk away, very thankful that there were no cell phone cameras in the vicinity. This was it for me. I was shaking with anger, rage, and shame, and I asked myself, “is this the person I want to be?” The answer was a resounding no. What was I doing? Whatever it was obviously wasn’t enough. Being yelled at in a parking lot and yelling back was the sign I needed to make changes. I made a therapy appointment that afternoon.
For the next year, I went to therapy. I learned about myself, and I learned what boundaries were. I tried things that I had been too afraid to try. I learned to respond, not react—in other words, how to not yell at strangers in parking lots. I was doing work like journaling that would help me heal, but still berating myself daily and not getting much joy out of anything, even things I used to enjoy, like cooking. I found myself doom-scrolling, although in my defense, there was plenty to doom-scroll about. I was self-medicating without even realizing it. I seemed to need a glass or two of wine at night to help myself unwind and relax.
I white-knuckled it until my next physical, where I admitted to my PCP, “I think I’m depressed.” She proceeded to screen me. I answered honestly. On the Patient Health Questionnaire (PHQ-9), I scored an 11, indicating moderate depression. No surprise there. On the General Anxiety Disorder (GAD-7), I scored a 17, indicating severe anxiety. This did surprise me.
It really shouldn’t have. From the time I was in elementary school, if I heard police sirens, I believed that someone in my family was hurt or dead, and that was what the sirens were about. I would go home and be so relieved that my mom was alive and well. I saw a Godzilla movie when I was a kid and spent the next two weeks looking out the back door to make sure Godzilla wasn’t terrorizing my neighborhood. I spent the summer between third and fourth grade agonizing over the possibility of not being able to remember my multiplication tables and how I would probably end up being held back a grade. When I tried to tell my mom about how worried I was about this, she laughed and said, “Wait until you are an adult and have to face real problems.” I learned to keep these worries to myself. I knew that Godzilla was probably not going to step on my house, but the chance of me failing out of fourth grade was not zero. There were signs that anxiety was a problem.
There were also physical indicators that showed up in my adult life. I had constant stomach aches, heart palpitations, and cracked teeth from clenching at night. I was irritable, which I thought was a normal response to life. Also, I couldn’t hold still. When I was sitting, I was constantly biting my lips and moving my feet. I didn’t realize I was doing this until my grandsons saw me moving my feet and starting playing with my toes and laughing. They thought I was playing a game with them. I had no idea these were indicators because they had always been a part of me. Hyper-vigilance made me a very good CRNA, so why would I want to change something on which my livelihood was dependent? It’s generally a good thing that the person taking over your vital functions in the operating room is vigilant.
I am pretty sure there was also a hereditary element. My mother struggled with anxiety. She bit her cuticles until they bled, she was a foot fidgeter, and she also ruminated. She would come home after meeting a neighbor in the grocery story and spend the next few hours dissecting the conversation. She pulled apart what she said, what the person she was talking to said, their intonations, and their body language. I remember trying to reassure her that I’m sure they weren’t being critical or judgmental, but she was sure there was more to the story. I would try to convince her not to read too much into it. As an adult, I found myself doing the very same thing. Once again, I thought it was normal.
My PCP started me on a low dose of an anti-depressant after screening me, and I am not exaggerating that it changed my life. The recording in my head that told me I wasn’t good enough was silenced. I started to enjoy things like cooking again. I still have all of the normal human emotions, but they are in check now. I am comfortable responding instead of being reactive. No more yelling at strangers in parking lots. I feel happiness, joy, and gratitude every day now. I thought those emotions were lost to me and it was a normal part of aging, but they are back.
I asked my PCP about weaning off of the medication at my recent physical. She did the screening again. My score came back as a 4 on both the PHQ-9 and the GAD-7. Both scores were in the normal range. “Why do you want to stop taking them?” she asked.
I answered, “I feel really good, I’m not sure that I need them anymore.”
“You are on a low dose, and you feel good. If you want to try to wean off, I have no objections, but be aware that your symptoms may come back.”
That’s all I had to hear. I decided, after consulting with my physician, that I am much happier now and to stay the course. If I was treating high blood pressure, I wouldn’t think twice about taking medication. I decided this was no different. I will be on this medication as long as it works. It was the next step in getting my life back. The medication and therapy together have helped bring enjoyment back to my life. Every time I hear someone like the HHS secretary say that anti-depressants aren’t necessary and they shouldn’t be so easy to get, I think, “You’ll get mine when you pry them out of my cold, dead hands.” I’m not going back. I will take the advice of my trained physician and therapist. The HHS secretary holds neither of those credentials.
I met with my therapist the other day. She told me of how far I’ve come and how proud she is of me. For the first time in a long time, I was able to look back over the last several years and actually see the progress I have made, and I was able to say, “I am proud of myself, too.” I am now ready to embrace what comes next with a healthier and happier outlook on life.
The Best Third 