There were a few times I planned my death. I became obsessed with thoughts of driving my car into a telephone pole, or a wall, or off a cliff. At length, I became convinced that if I was such a horrible person, I didn't deserve to raise my children. I was not a good enough mother. My husband, who was perfect, would be up to the task because I didn't do a good enough job--of anything.
My friends saved me, as usual, by lifting me up and buoying up my psyche so that I was able to "consider" I might be "okay" enough to live. One of my friends, when she noticed how depressed I was, told me that if I ever had any thoughts of killing myself, to call her--no matter what time of the day or night. "Even if it's three o'clock in the morning--you call me!" she commanded. At that, I actually wondered, "If she loves me that much, maybe I am good enough."
I consulted a therapist for depression. Of course, when she asked what was my problem, I just said, "I don't know." And in my mentally-defective mind, I just denied everything--even to myself. She suggested Prozac. I couldn't have lived through the last fifteen years of my marriage without it.
|This photo was taken in August 1996.|