Kat:

At first I didn't even realize what I was doing. I truly believed that I was just having a couple of delicious drinks while watching TV. That is, until the alcohol hit. Then, as if Fate Herself had deemed it so, a Crisis Intervention Hotline commercial appeared on TV. Suddenly realizing the state I was in, I picked up the phone and dialed the "800" number on the bottom of the screen. I fairly coherently explained what was going on with my life and what I was doing, and was supplied with a psychologist's phone number in the town I was living in. The next day, I called and made an appointment; she would see me that very afternoon.

Oh, I was terrified to see a shrink! I'd seen many during my younger teen years, when my mom had tried to force help upon me, but now it was different... this time, I was willingly seeking help, which meant that I had to be 100% open in order to receive any help that I wished to receive. I felt like I was about to be emotionally raped, even if it was to be of my own free will!

Somehow I found myself making it to that appointment, and I am so thankful that I did. She put me at ease immediately. First thing she made clear to me was that there was to be no addressing to each other by titles -- her name was Nicole, and she would appreciate it if that would be what I called her. Next, she informed me that she was an adult child of alcoholics (which I am, as well, so we had that in common), and a recovering alcoholic herself, clean and sober for years but still with a lifelong battle… rather than make me think she was some "whacko" it put me at ease, knowing that she thought of herself as an equal to myself rather than my superior who knew all and would be above me in all psychological categories. Needless to say, before the necessary long list of my background and history questions came along, I felt very comfortable with Nicole, and was very open and honest with her. There was no emotional rape; literally nor metaphorically. Rather, there was mental and emotional stroking, caressing, and nurturing for many months to come. I was suffering from major, debilitating depression. I was fully aware of this, but could not "snap out of it" no matter how much I wanted to. I had a three year old and an infant, and was not taking good care of them. I supervised them constantly, changed diapers, and fed them, but I didn't bathe them, I didn't nurture or play with them anywhere near enough… I couldn't even take care of myself, much less my babies! My children were suffering not only because their daddy was gone, but now because, mentally and emotionally, so was their mommy.

My mom worked a shift that they referred to as "four on, two off" -- which meant work four evenings (she worked the swing shift as head nurse), then two days off. Each last night of her rotation on duty, she'd already be packed, and after work she'd drive straight from work to my apartment in Twenty-nine Palms to spend her days off with my boys and me. My apartment would be in a shambles… dishes everywhere, clothing strewn about the house, papers and books spread about. My apartment should have had a huge "Danger, Hazardous Zone" sign on the front door! The boys and I all would have the same pajamas on our bodies that we'd worn when my mom had seen us six days ago, so it was quite clear to her that we hadn't been properly bathed. So, she would set about cleaning house, washing dishes and clothes, bathing my boys, and bullying me into the shower… only to find the apartment, her daughter, and her grandsons in the same condition when she'd be back at the end of her next work rotation.

The only two things that kept me alive during Desert Shield and Storm were the thoughts of my boys and the thought of my husband coming home to me. However, I truly didn't believe that my husband would make it home alive. His company was to lead the ground war, and although the U.S. Marine Corps is very well trained, war is war, and "casualties" as they call them are imminent. This thought certainly didn't lift my spirits any! Yes, in my depression I definitely dwelt on death - but it wasn't suicide or my own death that I obsessed over, it was the death of my husband that I couldn't stop thinking about. I sat up at night, sleepless, pen and paper in hand, figuring out how I'd make it financially when (not if, mind you) he died, for I was terrified of what would happen to me and my boys when I became widowed at the age of nineteen. I found out how much money the military would pay me; I decided that I would buy a house cash, budgeted the monthly income from the military and from Social Security that I'd receive due to my husband's untimely death due to war… only then could I sleep, knowing that my boys and I would have a roof over our heads and food to eat. This was no way to live!