When we touched down in San Diego I made my way to baggage claim. Pulled my suitcase off the revolving belt and stood by a few bloggers I had met on the way. I shook hands with a couple of PR reps from a big company. Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Maybe I could handle all this newness despite the fear that my current depressive episode would render me useless. I was halfway across the country. But it was going well so far. Maybe this could work.

There were hugs and laughs and dinner with friends whose blogs I had been reading for years. I sat there staring at these wonderful ladies. All beautiful in their own way. Moms who are inspiring and helpful. I knew them only through a computer screen. But there they were. In front of me. Was I saying the right thing? Did I look okay? I liked them all instantly but it was surreal. There we were. Talking instead of typing. I had forgotten that there were faces behind these websites.

The next day I went to the Pathfinder class. The day I would hopefully learn more about how to turn my stories into a book proposal. I talked. I listened. I smiled my usual smile. I wondered. Do they know? Can they see? Am I outwardly projecting how terrified I am of this entire process? The anxiety began to build. A wall-cloud gaining strength. The room was freezing and my hands felt numb. I skipped the closing remarks and quickly worked my way back to our room praying none of my roommates would be there. I’m sure I seemed fine. Pretending is a talent I have perfected after 18 long years of struggling with depression and anxiety. But inside I was losing control. My brain began firing rapid messages. Messages that didn’t make sense.

Why are you here? You’ll never be a writer. You’re worthless. You’re nothing.

I returned to an empty room and looked out the window. I said aloud, “Please don’t do this to me. Not now. Not here.” I’m not sure who I was talking to. God? The depression itself? I could hear the laughter from the pool below. Take me away from here.

These thoughts break my heart. I know they break my family and my husband’s heart too. What you must understand is that I never want to act on them when they pop up in my head. To begin with, I don’t understand them. They confuse me. They frighten me. Because I know I should be happy. Look at my life! It is a good life. Logically I should see this. A loving husband. Two beautiful and healthy sons. A stable job with growth potential. A brand new dream house. But I don’t have a logical brain.

Mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t look at someone with a good life and skip over them to find someone who is already suffering. It infects whomever it feels like.

It infects me.

It makes me believe that I could very easily lose everything. All of it. All that is true and perfect in my life. It could slip out of my hands. Even when I’m making the right decisions. Even when I attend regular therapy and take my pills like a good girl. I’m still in jeopardy. It is painful to live with that knowledge. But I know I am not at fault.

I wish I could accurately explain how severe depression and anxiety can change you into someone you don’t want to be. It can erase the self-confidence that hibernates safely in all of us. I wish I had the words to describe how panic attacks can paralyze a person.

I stood behind the door of my hotel bathroom. I approached the sink, turned the faucet to cold, placed cupped hands underneath and let the water gather until there was enough. I splashed it on my warm cheeks. It mixed with the tears as I raised up and looked in the mirror. I saw myself and heard the ugliness of depression once more.

Who do you think you are, Molly? Do you actually think you’re somebody? What a fucking joke. You’re nobody. You’re nothing. End it all now.

The panic attack began. I tried to slow my breathing. But it was too late. The snake of anxiety began slithering up my legs, weaving its way to my neck with eyes on his prize. It wrapped its rough scaly body around and began squeezing the breath out of me. I was stuck in its gaping jaws, arms tied down by the strength of his predatory instinct. My heart is barely beating now. But the blood inside is still warm. The snake likes it best that way. It wants me to feel the pain . . . while I’m powerless to fight against it. I surrender and let it swallow me whole.

When the snake finished his meal, I gave way to the weight of my legs and fell to cold tile. My skin clammy from the remnants of adrenaline that just coursed through my veins. I picked myself up off the floor as I was expecting a new roommate to arrive any moment. I forced myself to recover, walked out of the bathroom and hugged her beautiful face when I saw her. I went to the expo hall with my roomies. I smiled, I laughed, I pretended as if nothing were wrong. Because I desperately wanted to enjoy myself. I tried.

I dressed up for a party. Lipstick. Short denim skirt. Stilettos. All the while I knew I shouldn’t go. Upon arrival I felt uncomfortable. So I headed straight for the open bar.

By the end of the night I had downed seven glasses of champagne. Even though I know alcohol is a one way ticket to crazytown and sadville for me. But I wanted to be drunk. I wanted to feel the tingle and then the release of nerves. All my friends were having fun. And I was crying in the fucking bathroom stall as fake Lady Gaga waited for me to vacate. I wanted to go home. I wanted to collapse and cry in my husband’s arms. He is used to my breakdowns. These people are not. They will hate the real me, I thought.

When I got back to my hotel room I didn’t want to sleep. I went to the hotel bar and ordered a $10 glass of wine. I went to the empty dining hall and hid behind a staircase while hugging my glass of wine. I called my husband at 3:00 a.m. his time. I cried to him and told him that I hadn’t been honest with him about my depression resurfacing because I was afraid he would tell me not to go. I wanted to go to BlogHer for so long that I put my health aside and went anyway.

Drunk and crying, I told him everything. The trouble I had been having at work. The road rage, which was getting worse. The incident in the garage. He told me to call the airline and come home as soon as I could.

I returned to the room and told my roommates I was leaving the next day. They were obviously confused. Probably because I hadn’t told them how much I was struggling. I didn’t want them to be bothered. I wanted them to have fun.

I paid an extra $300 to change my flight to the next morning. But due to the hangover from last night’s binge I didn’t make it. And I couldn’t pay the additional $500 to switch it to later that afternoon. I was stuck while having a major breakdown in the middle of BlogHer. Surrounded by people who were having the time of their lives. Stuck.

Can I just say how amazing my roommates are? Jill, Suzanne and Torie gave me nothing but support. Nothing but hugs and love and a few extra texts or tweets checking to make sure I was okay. And even a late night prayer in the hallway. Oh, how grateful I am for these ladies. To Katherine and Heather and to the little birdie who told them that I was not doing well. Thank you! I don’t think I would have made it back out of my hotel room at all if these two ladies hadn’t come to my rescue. There were others who helped too. The ones who gave me a simple text or smile or hug. If that was you, I want you know how much I appreciate those small slices of goodness. That, for me, was the best part of the conference. I realized how these women care so much more than through a computer screen. And even if they don’t understand what I’m going through they can still provide comfort. They can still accept me for who I am.

I came away from this conference learning less about blogging and more about myself. I think that’s okay. I learned that when my gut tells me something, I should listen. I know now that I never should have gotten on that plane. I realize now that, even if I’m doing everything right as far as treatment goes, things can still go wrong. It’s just the nature of this illness.

But I can’t regret something that wasn’t mine to regret. This anxiety? These thoughts? I refuse to claim them. They are not mine. I don’t want them. I hope you all know that.

I want you to know that my experience had nothing to do with the BlogHer conference itself. You’re all amazing. Keep doing what you’re doing. I am proud to be a part of it. This blogging community that rocks the world in ways no one could imagine. Maybe someday I’ll get another chance. But it’s obviously not the priority right now.

I returned home and celebrated my son’s third birthday with a low-key party. Bounce house, balloons, presents, cake and family. Then I called my psychiatrist. He got me in the next day. That’s when I told him about the incident in the garage.

I told him about the morning I got in my car alone and for a second, just one millisecond, my brain told me to keep the garage doors closed, put a cloth in the exhaust pipe and go to sleep. I remember thinking it was crazy. A completely crazy thought that popped up out of nowhere and that I never wanted to act on. The morning had been fine. Nothing bad had happened. But there it was anyway. That’s what confuses me the most about this disorder. These thoughts don’t make sense and I usually challenge them right away.

Hey brain, stop it with this suicide crap. I don’t want to die, okay? I love my husband and my kids and this is ridiculous. STOP IT.

The doctor told me those messages pop up because of the chemical imbalance in my brain. He told me that they don’t have to define me. I won’t let them define me. He put me on a very strong medication that is supposed to take those thoughts away in about a week. It’s fast-acting. That’s what I need.

In my purse there is a doctor’s note that says I “need two weeks off due to inability to perform normal work duties.” Yet I am still working because I am afraid of losing my job.

I am afraid of losing everything.

I will take these meds because I’m terrified of the alternative.

I don’t want to leave my beautiful boys. They are the reason I breathe.

I want to be here on this earth. I want to stay. I’ve got a lot of living to do.

I hate these thoughts that cloud my brain with white. But I know walking through the fog is worth it. For on the other side . . .

there is life.

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