Today’s post is courtesy of JoJo, a woman who is definitely a force to be reckoned with.
JoJo is a police wife, mother of two boys, a foster mom, and a dog mom. In order to balance the crazy schedules for her family, she delivers dry cleaning for the family business and works one night a week at the hospital in the newborn nursery. In her free time (which there isn’t much of) JoJo likes to make things. Whether it’s on the sewing machine, in the oven, or out of wood, she is always finding a new way to make a mess.
My mom has attempted suicide more times than I can count and, to be honest, sometimes I think my life would be easier if she’d succeeded. She is manipulative, obsessive, and impossible to please, not to mention, she has been adding marijuana and alcohol into her mix of medications. She is obsessed with my dad even though she’s the one who had a twelve-year affair, and they’ve been divorced since 2014. His name can’t even be mentioned without her going down that rabbit hole.
I was first taken to see a psychiatrist at age six. My mother lied to them about my symptoms, giving the doctor hers instead of mine. They put me on meds and I was a zombie for years–I actually have memories missing from that time of my life. When I was old enough to be in charge of taking my own meds, I stopped taking them completely, and actually started to feel things again!
Once I hit high school, I started to feel too many things. I had anxiety attacks in the classroom and was removed from the regular class setting my sophomore year when I was put into a class for the emotionally disabled called ED. The class was great and focused on learning at my own pace. There were quiet rooms to go into and calm down, and my teacher would focus on not only on teaching the curriculum, but also teaching me to understand my feelings. After high school, I was still unwilling to take medication, but I was willing to accept that I was bipolar.
When I started dating my husband at age nineteen, he told his mom he was concerned because I was once diagnosed bipolar but was currently unmedicated. As a nurse, her professional opinion was that I was not bipolar—she didn’t believe my diagnosis.
I went to another psychiatrist on my own at age twenty. We discussed everything and decide to try some anti-depressants. I took them and was still able to feel things, just not as hard as I was previously.
At age twenty-five, with a two-year-old and a newborn at home, I was finally feeling ready to attend college. I took several classes online at my own pace and felt extremely confident. When it was time to take anatomy at UVU, I knew I was ready.
The first day of class, they told us continuously how UVU anatomy is the hardest anatomy program outside of Ivy League. They kept telling us that most of us would fail and have to re-take the class. That first day I found out I was supposed to have read the first section of the textbook before class–I didn’t even have my book yet. And the icing on the cake was when we were forced to talk to every single person in the room about a bone. Anxiety hit me hard that day–I ended up in a ball on the floor in the hallway, glasses fogged, and unable to breathe. When my professor took a moment to come and talk to me he asked me what my major was. When I said nursing, he shook his head said, “I’d rethink that,” and walked away.
That was my rock-bottom. I wanted so badly to prove that professor wrong, so I went back to the psychiatrist and started depression and anxiety meds again. The good news is I stopped having panic attacks. The bad news is I ended up with a D in anatomy and decided to switch my major to just get my Associates and be done. Even three years later, I’m afraid to try taking anatomy again. However, I am currently working in my dream department as a tech in the nursery of a hospital, so returning to school isn’t such a priority right now.
Being a mom with depression is hard. Anxiety keeps me up at night, and I often wish I could just sleep an entire day away, but I can’t. I think it helps to have people counting on me–it gives me that driving force to get out of bed. Because once I’m up, I remember why I continue to push.
In addition to my mental health issues, my husband and I also struggle with infertility, which has been a huge source of anxiety and depression for me. We have been trying for baby number three for three years. I’ve been pregnant six times and currently have two boys, ages six and four. Every negative pregnancy test sends me to the comfort of my bed to cry. Every miscarriage makes me wonder why I’m even alive. I haven’t ever attempted suicide, but there have been some dark times where I’ve questioned my mortality.
Last fall, we decided to take a break from trying to get pregnant and try fostering, so we got our license and currently have a three-month-old foster baby. We aren’t sure if it will end in adoption, but I have experienced so much joy having him here over the last two months. We are currently preparing for another cycle of infertility treatments–we think it might be easier on me emotionally to do this while I hold onto our foster baby. It’ll keep my anxiety down as we venture down this unknown road once again.
Infertility in Utah within the religious culture is such a hush-hush thing. We are basically bred to be wives and mothers, and when those things didn’t work out how they were “supposed to,” it’s left me questioning my entire worth as a woman.
But through it all, I keep going. Every day, I get up and I push through because my kids need me. I’ve come this far, and I won’t be giving up.