I Am (Not) Okay
By Melissa Kutsche
@MelissaKutscheWrites
November 21, 2014
Re: Looking for a Christian Counselor
Hi, Kathryn:
I hope this finds you well. I am looking for a Christian counselor with whom I can work through some anxiety-related issues. I mentioned this to my pastor, and he recommended contacting you. I was wondering if you are accepting new patients, and if so, if we could set up a time to meet. I am a new mom, so I am hoping to meet with someone in the evening, if possible, when my husband can watch our daughter. If this won't work for your schedule, would you be able to recommend a colleague?
Thank you in advance for any guidance you can provide! Have a great weekend.
Kind regards,
Melissa Kutsche
***
August 2, 2014
“Will died in a car accident,” I say to my husband, Kyle. I hear my voice say aloud that our friend has died, but the words sound distant. “He fell asleep while driving home last night.”
Four days later, Grace speaks at her husband’s funeral; she is a widow before she can celebrate her third wedding anniversary. I listen to her, the embodiment of her name that morning, and I don’t know how she is standing up.
Kyle is next to me, and we are seated with our small group in the back of the church: three married couples and one two-month-old baby girl. Our daughter is a spring peony in the crowd of gray, black, and navy. I wonder if head-to-toe pink was inappropriate at a funeral, but I didn’t have traditional funeral attire on hand for an infant. More than her outfit, her presence alone feels like bragging. As I snuggle my baby for comfort during difficult moments, I am hyper aware of the things I have that Grace does not.
The last funeral we attended, just nineteen months ago, was for Kyle’s younger brother, Matthew. The death of my brother-in-law was a potent reminder of my own mortality, but I could think of his death as a horrible, isolated tragedy. Now, I think of the saying that bad things happen in threes, then assure myself that there is no merit to the aphorism. Yet, confronted by Will’s death, I cannot pretend that my age, good health, or the fact that I am a new mother will protect me from the inevitable.
***
September 2014
Below us, I see the Colorado aspens, flames of orange licking the autumn sky. As I’m captivated by the beauty of the white-limbed forest, I picture the wreckage of our plane among the timber, debris scattered, smoke rising, the whirring of rescue helicopters arriving. I try to snap myself out of my macabre daydream. God wouldn’t take us now. I tell myself that He wouldn’t do that to my mother-in-law, who has already lost her youngest son. This attempt at reason calms me for a short time, until I remember that there are people who lose everyone and everything, even those who have already tasted tragedy. I think about Grace. We all experience loss. There is no escaping death. We are all going to die. I am going to die.
On several occasions, I wake up certain that the baby is trapped and suffocating in our bed sheets. I claw my way through our bed, frantically groping for her in the dark, as though I have dropped something in deep water and need to grab it before it sinks. My husband wakes up and asks me what I’m doing; I lie and tell him I don’t know. I remind myself that we have never co-slept with the baby, and that she has been sleeping in her own room for more than a month. Even as my mind settles on this reality, I am compelled to go to the nursery and see our daughter sleeping in her crib before I can go back to sleep. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion, just vivid dreams, but I can’t shake the thought that the people I love will slip out of my grasp, even when I am fully awake.
***
October 2014
I am not okay. My five-month-old is sleeping through the night now, but I am not. After I lay her in her crib, I hover over her, counting breaths. I watch her chest rise—one, two, three times—before I can leave the room. In my own bed, my face is aglow from my phone as I search for topics like “theology of resurrection,” “what is Heaven like,” and “evidence God exists.” I search for hours, waiting for something to make me less afraid to die. I wait for the answers that will help me stop imagining my imminent death in a plane crash, the answers that will help me stop counting breaths before I leave my daughter’s room. When someone asks me, “How are you doing?” I want to be able to say that I’m fine. I want to mean it.
I am obsessed with the idea that Kyle or the baby will die. When Kyle tells me he is leaving work and doesn’t arrive home within 30 minutes, my pulse quickens, images of car wreckage swirl in my mind. I await the inevitable knock at the door from law enforcement as I busy myself with dishes in the sink.
When we walk across the Golden Gate Bridge one Saturday morning, I try to enjoy the beauty of the Marin Headlands; instead, I obsess over whether I am going to drop the baby into the sparkling waters below. I imagine having to choose whether to jump in after her.
My online searches tell me I am suffering from death anxiety, a normal thing for all humans to experience at times, although the terror and panic I am experiencing on a regular basis seem to be out of the range of normal. I knew about postpartum depression before becoming a mom, but I had never heard of postpartum anxiety. Symptoms include racing thoughts, extreme worry, dread, fatigue. Check, check, check, check. These words describe the past three months of my life.
As I read on, I feel seen. Although I haven’t shared my struggles with anyone, just knowing that there is a name for what is keeping me awake at night gives me some relief. Postpartum anxiety. It has a name. I am not alone.
***
November 2014
The baby is asleep upstairs. I carry the baby monitor down to the living room and settle into a worn spot on our sofa. It’s our “Craigslist Couch,” and I’m still mostly disgusted but somewhat impressed with myself for purchasing an upholstered item from strangers and bringing it into my home.
Kyle is watching TV, and I pretend to watch while I focus instead on the whooshing I hear on the monitor next to me, the cadence of the sound machine in the nursery. I stare in silence at the TV, and my heart begins to race a bit as I consider what I am about to say to Kyle. My mouth is dry, and I am questioning my opening line, but I have this sense that once I say it out loud, the anxiety won’t have as much power anymore; maybe I won’t feel so crazy if I tell someone else.
There’s a commercial, and I mute the TV. I turn to face Kyle before I start talking. “I have to tell you something,” I start, heart still pounding, tears beginning to well in my eyes. He waits. “I think I’m having some postpartum issues, some anxiety that’s not normal, not like my regular anxiety stuff.” I don’t want him to think this is just me checking locks before bed or thinking I left the oven on after leaving the house.
“Okay,” he responds, encouraging me with his tone to continue.
“I want you to know that I’m not going to hurt myself or the baby,” I manage to get out, as the tears begin to slide down my cheeks. “But I can’t stop thinking about death. About dying, about me dying, about you dying …” I trail off, and Kyle holds my hand. “I can’t sleep. I think I need to talk to someone.”
We make a plan. We discuss the importance of seeing a professional. I mention the need for childcare, and Kyle reassures me we will make it work. I like having a plan; I like being in control of what happens next. I make a little checklist to go with our plan.
1. Ask our pastor to recommend a Christian counselor.
2. Talk to my doctor about what’s going on. Get a referral to see a mental health professional.
The checklist is short, but I am relieved by how manageable these first steps seem. I cannot stop the persistent thoughts and terror that grip me throughout the day and late into the night, but I can send an email to my pastor and set up an appointment with my doctor. I am hopeful that by taking these initial steps, I will eventually have tools to help fight this invisible demon.
***
September 2019
My mother-in-law is in town, and she’s offered to watch the kids so we can have a date night, our first since moving to Las Vegas two months ago. As we near the freeway exit to our new home, my husband begins to tell me about a patient he saw in the clinic this week. He tells me how she came in with her infant, and as the appointment went on, it became clear that she was struggling with Postpartum Anxiety. My eyes burn, and tears fall for this woman I will never know. She is having trouble sleeping. She worries about finding childcare so she can talk to a therapist. I am sobbing now, trying to say through tears how sorry I am for her, how my chest is tightening thinking about the pain she is in, knowing how alone she must feel, and how courageous it was for her to confide in my husband.
We pull into our neighborhood, and I realize that I might have to come up with something to tell my mother-in-law so she doesn’t think our date was a disaster. My nose is congested from crying; I’m sure my face is covered with red blotches, and the mascara I rarely wear is now smeared and smudged. I think about this stranger, this other mother, and I hope that maybe in a small way, my anxiety and fear and terror were not for nothing. I am encouraged by my husband’s ability to see this patient with different eyes because he could see me in her story. I want to tell her that she will be okay—to give her proof and show her that I am okay. I want her to know that I was able to visit the Golden Gate a second time, and that thoughts of death and dying did not accompany me that day.
I say a quick prayer for this mother I will never meet, a prayer for some light in her darkness, for some rest tonight. As I walk in the door to my quiet home, I say another prayer, this one a prayer of thanksgiving from a heart grateful for hope and redemption.
Guest essay written by Melissa Kutsche. Melissa is a native Michigander currently living in Las Vegas. A former Spanish teacher and college academic advisor, she now stays home with her two young children. Some of her favorite things are afternoon lattes, bookstores, and sweater weather. You can follow Melissa on Instagram.
Photo by Ashlee Gadd.