From the Series "A Mile in My Shoes"
By Tessa Chenoa Ownbey
The first thing I noticed was the fog. It was a white, weighted cocoon surrounding me, muffling the outside world, the speech of others. I could see through it, but peoples’ words were far away, their meanings obscure. It wasn’t always there, at first. In the beginning, the fog, and its weight – a physical weariness making any activity as heavy and difficult as slogging through molasses- came and went. There were still times when I was clear-minded, when my husband and I had long, impassioned talks as we always had on anything and everything. There were times when I held my firstborn son in joy and awe and savored each and every first.
Gradually, though, the fog took over, and I could not reach through it. A natural introvert, I was living what should have been the happiest time of my life. I was able to stay home with my son, we had rented a small home on the edge of a small town, and I had all the time I wanted to write. I was living my dream. But along with that place on the edge of small town life and living the dream, I was also more isolated than even my introverted self could handle. I had relocated 2000 miles from my family to marry and raise my own children. I knew no one in this small town, and I had no child rearing experiences of my own or others to lean on. I had no support system. It seemed to me I should be strong enough to handle these conditions. After all, isn’t that what loners (what I had always considered myself) are good at?
But the fog came anyway, and more often, until one day it never went away. It numbed not only my communication with others, but my feelings, as well. Joy, excitement, pleasure…all were numb or unreachable across that fog of sorrow and depression.
I tried to take breaks from the baby when my husband was home from work…but the fog dulled even my interests. So I just got in the car and drove whenever I could. There was a highway loop – or half of one – around the area where we lived, and I would get on that highway and drive and drive, and try to think my way out of the fog. What was wrong with me? How could I fix it? It was tremendously important to me to fix myself somehow. And yet, with all the willpower and faith in the world, I could not do it. And so, lost in the fog, my reason slowly eroding and my faith unshaken but somehow not enough to pull me back up, I sank lower and lower in depression.
Like a drowning person, the more I sank, the more I panicked and struggled to fix myself. Some call depression a “selfish disease.” I do, too, but it wasn’t the selfishness of wanting all attention on me. This “selfishness” was an increasingly desperate focus to fix myself so that I could function and raise my family. The more I struggled, the deeper the fog became, and the more often I needed to go for a drive.
The further into despair I sank, the more worthless I began to feel. I could not fix myself, and how worthless was that? What kind of a life was it for me? For my husband? For my son? Did it even matter? Did I even matter? And if I didn’t matter, why should I even be taking up space on the planet at all? I began think through different ways of committing suicide, and found one that seemed like it would work.
As I drove around that loop, I began to focus on the upcoming overpasses. Each night as I would come upon one, I would aim my car at it. I would accelerate, talking myself into just hitting that concrete wall and crushing the car and myself within it. Each time I would swing the wheel away at the last minute. What a loser I was, I thought. Can’t even follow through on killing myself. Each night I basically played “chicken” with the inanimate overpasses. I don’t know how long this went on, with my resolve and my beratement of myself increasing after every failed attempt.
One night I finally confessed to my husband what I had been doing. We were fortunate enough to live close to a hospital that was highly rated in terms of their mental health facilities. The head of the department met us at the front desk. I struggled to understand his words through the all-encompassing fog. It took a while, but he convinced me to check myself into the inpatient facility. A few seconds later I panicked and backed out. He came back to the desk and said, “It is up to you whether or not you stay, I can’t force you… but I really would like you to. I am truly afraid that if you don’t, I will not see you again.” The depth of care in his eyes reached through my fog just long enough for me to make it through the doors. If I had not fully believed in this doctor’s genuine care for me, I would not have stayed.
Diagnosed with Major Depression and at risk for causing myself harm, I spent ten days in inpatient therapy, six months in group therapy, and a year in outpatient therapy and on anti-depressants. I learned so much from each of those things. As an inpatient, art therapy was the beginning of my first coping mechanism. Living for ten days with other people with similar (and different) situations and backgrounds to mine was life-changing. Group therapy taught me that I was never alone in my feelings – that they were in fact, universal. Medication bought me time to learn coping skills. It kept me from the absolute depths of despair while I learned how to truly live. And my outpatient therapist – oh, he was the best, and I will always be grateful for all he taught me.
The fog took time to lift. The first thing I noticed was the brightness of colors. The fog had descended so slowly and completely that I hadn’t noticed how grayed-out the world had become. 
Communication became easier, clearer. Oddly, it was a full year before my reading comprehension returned. But that was okay. I was busy learning to enjoy my life. And 33 years- and many bumps in the road later- I’m still enjoying it.
About Our Guest Author:
Most of what Tessa Chenoa Ownbey knows about psychology comes from the wrong side of the couch…er…desk. A couple years ago she retired early from a career as an interpretive naturalist in order to pursue her ever-constant dream of writing. She and her husband own a small farm in the Texas Hill Country. Together they have 6 children and 13 grandchildren. Tessa holds a bachelor’s degree in English Literature, and her coping skills include art, upcycling, gardening, hiking, communing with nature, lunch dates with her girlfriends, a refined sense of the ridiculous, and steadfastly choosing joy each day while she drinks her morning coffee.
About this Blog Series:
At Resolve Mental Health we are committed to addressing the stigma of getting help for mental health concerns. One of the ways we are approaching this issue is by highlighting the stories of real people who are journeying toward mental wellness. If you or someone you know is on this familiar and difficult road, please know that you are not alone. Our aim is for these stories to help you feel understood and connected to others who are traveling with you.
If you have a story about mental health that you would like to share, please email it to admin@resolvementalhealth.com with the subject line “Mile in My Shoes.”
