Back on the Therapy Couch: When Caregiving Pushes You to the Edge (of Sanity) - Part 1

For the past four years, chronic illness has been an unwelcome guest in our home. It has stolen away the life my husband and I once knew. Besides having two children and working full time, the weight of being a caregiver has taken its toll. This is a glimpse into the moment I realized I needed help…again.

Disclaimer: If you’re having thoughts of suicide, please know that you’re not alone. Help is available 24/7. Please reach out to a suicide prevention hotline or crisis center in your area. In the US, you can call or text 988 to connect with the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. Remember, your life matters and there is hope, even when it doesn’t feel like it.

The Breaking Point

You know you’ve hit a new low when you start envying people in the hospital. It’s a full-blown rest, after all. I found myself fantasizing about having a total breakdown and people whisking me away to a very sad vacation. That’s when I realized things aren’t quite right.

This past week has been what I’d generously call a “barely functioning” period marked by moments of sheer anxiety… And by “barely functioning,” I mean I’ve been one sincere “How are you?” away from a full-scale meltdown. Scratch that. I had three meltdowns before Tuesday. At this rate, I’d hit double digits before the weekend.

Tears, Tremors, and Trapped Feelings

My eyes are red and puffy. Not from allergies or a bad reaction to some new miracle cream, but from non-stop crying. And when I say crying, I don’t mean a delicate, movie-star single tear rolling down my cheek. I’m talking full-body tremors. Ugly sobbing. The kind that made my dog look at me with a mixture of concern and second-hand embarrassment.

I’ve felt trapped in my own personal version of hell. I’m constantly questioning if I can do this for even one more day. The rational part of my brain knows this is a temporary feeling, but the rest of my brain? It’s too busy fantasizing about taking the first train out of town or to the nearest hotel room. But I have kids and a job…so not today.

The Horse Whisperer Incident

But the moment I knew I’d truly lost it? It wasn’t the crying, or the feeling of being trapped. It was the horses. Yes, horses. There I was, driving to work, trying to remember if I’d brushed my teeth or remembered to put clothes on. That’s when I saw them. Horses, grazing peacefully by the highway, without a care in the world. Suddenly, with the force of a thousand suns, all I wanted to do was pull over and pet those horses.

In that moment, I was convinced that if I just touch those horses, everything would be okay. All my problems would melt away in the face of velvety muzzles and coarse manes. I’d emerge from the field reborn. At peace. Ready to face another day of caregiver bingo with a smile on my face.

That’s when I knew. If petting random horses by the highway seems like the only way to find relief, it is time to call in the professionals.

Calling in the Professionals

So, here I am, finally making the call to return to therapy. Sometimes, “take a bath” doesn’t work as self-care advice. “Do some deep breathing” can also be insufficient when you’re three meltdowns deep on a Monday.

The intake is scheduled for next Monday. Just making the appointment nearly reduced me to tears again. It’s funny how when help is finally on its way, that’s when the dam really breaks. It’s like my brain is saying, “Oh, good, reinforcements are coming. Now we can really fall apart!”

I’m so close to getting help, I can almost taste it. I can’t do this alone anymore, and frankly, it feels a little relieving to admit this.

There are so many thoughts swirling in my head. I need to say things that have been bottled up for too long. These thoughts need the safety and confidentiality of a therapist’s office. Let’s face it, the Spanish teacher at work doesn’t want to hear about my existential crisis. Again.

Finding Moments of Peace

In the midst of this emotional storm, I managed to find a small island of calm. There I was, sitting on my paddle board in the middle of a very calm lake. My husband sat with my son by the shore. Depression was clearly visible on his face. Meanwhile, our son remained blissfully oblivious. I watched leaves float by on the lake’s surface, clouds reflected in the water like nature’s own Rorschach test.

Later, my son asked me to snuggle him as he fell asleep. This was a rarity. He usually likes his space. As I lay there, I felt his little chest rise and fall. I listened to his soft exhales. I was struck by his innocence. In that moment, I didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to face the world outside of his peaceful bubble.

I didn’t want to get off that lake. I didn’t want to release my son from that hug. But I know I’m going to be okay. Because help is on the way, and these moments – these precious, peaceful moments – they’re what I live for.

The Road Ahead

Here’s to taking the first step back towards mental health. Or at least towards a slightly more functional version of whatever this is. Stay tuned for the next episode, “Adventures in Intake Paperwork.” We will explore how to express “I’m Not Okay” in 100 words or less.

Remember, fellow caregivers: it’s okay to not be okay. It’s also okay to be so not okay that you contemplate a new career as a horse whisperer. We’ve all been there. Or at least, I have.