St. Catherine of Siena Parish 

My husband and I were told my daughter had bipolar disorder shortly after an overdose that almost took her life. From that point on, survival mode kicked in for us as parents. We searched every book, website, and attended forums to try to educate ourselves on this new diagnosis. I did find comfort for a few weeks attending Al-Anon classes, but still was searching for something geared more towards mental illness.
My daughter was in a  psychiatric hospital for a few months, so we knew we had some time to learn and prepare ourselves for the journey that lay ahead.  A very good friend saw the NAMI Family-to-Family class announced in the SCS church bulletin and forwarded me the info.
I was accepted into the class and began my 8-week course. On day one when I stepped into that class, I felt immediate understanding and compassion from total strangers I had just met. The classes were set up each week with different topics and discussions. I found myself looking forward more and more to each class, eager to learn and to see the “friends” I had made. Not everyone’s experience was the same, but we were bonded together with the main purpose of being a parent, caretaker, and friend of someone who battles mental illness on a daily basis. When my daughter came home from the hospital, we were better prepared. We are still using the tools I was taught in class to navigate each day. 
 For more information about the NAMI Family-to-Family course, contact Pam Truxillo at ext 1575.

My name is Aimee Calamusa and I’m an SCS parent. I’m a Registered Nurse and have many years of experience in critical care. I am a caretaker. It’s what I know and it’s what I’m good at. I enjoy being in that role and I get happiness from helping others.  For most of my adult life I’ve gone above and beyond to take care of my family and friends.  If I see a need, I am the first to step up and do what I can to help. Being a nurse also means I’m the “go to” family medical advisor. I’m blessed to have the knowledge and experience, so I don’t mind. I’ve also suffered for years with anxiety and depression.



I am the oldest of three girls. Growing up we didn’t have much, but we had each other. It was a fun childhood filled with lots of great memories. We were all so mischievous! We remained close until our late teens/early twenties when our lives took very different turns. I pursued a career and family life while my younger sisters went in separate directions. At some point, they both fell victim to addiction. Loving an addict is hard. The mental toll it takes is isolating and time consuming. You put aside your own needs and family to be whatever they need, whenever they need it. You try to save them at no emotional cost.

When you love an addict, everyday is unknown. There are so many unanswered questions. Will you get to see them sober? Or at all? Will they go to rehab? Will they stay in rehab?  Will they end up in jail? Where are they? Are they safe? Are their children safe? Are they hungry? Do they have a place to sleep tonight?  Will they call? Will they answer your call?  Will you get THE call?

This struggle lasts your entire life. It never ends. If they become sober, you’re worried about relapse. You question yourself constantly. Am I doing the right thing? Am I doing enough? Not enough? What could I have done differently? Did I do something to cause this? Your life is a consumed by unanswered questions and you have no control over the outcome. Unfortunately, the only certain thing when loving an addict will be their death. And even that is one big open-ended question.

I fortunately haven’t gotten THE call. But I got a call one day that my baby sister was critically ill. She was still at home and I went to see her right away, uninvited. We hadn’t spoken in years. With my nursing experience I took one look and knew what everyone else suspected. This was it. I spent hours with her. We gave each other forgiveness that day that we should’ve given each other long ago. We caught up on all the time we’d missed. Before I left, we’d already planned the next time we’d see each other because we missed each other so much.

I got to spend the next week with her and laugh and reminisce and tell her how much I absolutely loved her. That I was proud of her for fighting the fight. I got to watch my family get and give the same forgiveness. My sister knew she was loved. I got to hold her while she slept, I got to make her comfortable. I got to be her caretaker. God gave us the gift of time! I got to be the last one to talk to her. My baby sister died eight days later.

After her death, I put so much pressure on myself to continue to be the caretaker.  I could not be OK until I was sure everyone else was OK.  After all, I knew exactly how they were feeling because I felt it too. I had to save my other sister. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes all over again. This was my second chance to get it right.

This sent me into the deepest depression I’d ever been in. I didn’t get out of bed for 6 weeks unless I absolutely had too. I didn’t eat. I forgot to shower and brush my teeth most days. I slept all day and night long.  Most people had no idea I was suffering. I didn’t talk about it with anyone. Not even my husband.

Then, one afternoon my eight year old daughter walked into my room and asked if she could sit at the foot of my bed and play, if she promised not to turn the light on or make a lot of noise, because she wanted to spend some time with me. I cried. I picked up the phone that day and scheduled an appointment to see a therapist. It took all of that for me to finally admit to myself that I needed help. This wasn’t something I could take care of myself. The caregiver needed care. I needed to grieve and be a sister, not a caretaker or nurse.

Ten months later and I’m doing “OK”. I’m still suffering with anxiety and depression, but it’s no longer debilitating. I’ve learned about self-love and boundaries with the assistance of a therapist and medication. I now know what’s truly important and what I should focus my energy on. I’ve learned to take care of myself so that I can be my best version for others and to reach out when I have more than I can handle, which is still a lot of days.  I’m also still in constant unknown with my other sister.

I planned the funeral with the help of friends and a few cousins. It was too much for the family to do together, although I insisted that they participate when I could. They leaned on me to make most of the decisions. One of the decisions we all agreed on was that we wanted to tell my sister’s story. We would honestly list her cause of death, alcoholism and addiction, in hopes that her story would get people talking about it. Our hope was that she didn’t die in vain. We wanted addicts and their families to know, you are not alone.

Her obituary caused friends and strangers alike to contact us in support and understanding. Others were battling the same things. People were reading it aloud at AA meetings. My therapist presented it to the psychology department and it’s now hanging in the office to bring awareness.  It was being shared by strangers. Friends I’ve known for years reached out; they had no idea. Often, they’d have a similar story to tell.  The addicts reached out because they didn’t want their families suffering anymore. People were finally talking about it.

It was very difficult for me to write this because I’m so used to telling my sister’s story in effort to get something positive out of the situation. I rarely tell the story from my own perspective.  It’s too difficult. I was forced to do some self-reflection during this process, and it’s brought up grief and sorrow that I had tucked deep away. I now know that I’m not alone. It’s OK to be the grieving sister.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a crisis, please seek professional resources. To speak with someone immediately, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). If you’re ever worried that someone’s life is in immediate danger, call 911.

Have you ever had something you believe in so much, but for whatever reason you have a tough time doing? That is what this is for me. A year ago, I approached my wife and said, “I need to do something. I’m a therapist, a licensed professional counselor, and there is a crisis at St. Catherine.” It didn’t take a Master’s degree in Counseling Psychology or even a statistician if you want to be black and white about it. Anyone could see – way before the pandemic.

Time went on and I didn’t do anything. COVID hit the world and another suicide hit St. Catherine. At pick-up one day I remember going up to a masked Father Tim and saying, “I want to help.” I’m a therapist and I have a brother who has attempted suicide many times, and finally committed suicide after a lifelong struggle with mental illness and drug addiction. I know what this pain is about. Father Tim told me that a committee was forming out of Moms who were sick of burying their husbands and they were meeting the next day. I’m not mincing words, because he didn’t mince words.

I reached out to the committee immediately, and they suggested a testimonial. But then I’ve had the toughest time getting this experience out, even after I made a commitment. Effectively silencing myself. The irony.

A lot of people talk about the social stigma of mental illness. I’ll let others tackle that. I’m here for the internal stigma. The internal desire to just not open up that can of worms. Better to just put your head down and plug away at the next week. Whether it is selflessness or selfishness – the result is the same.

My life’s story was written in my older brother’s shadow and his struggle – chronic/severe mental illness. Why did I do so well in wrestling in high school? Oh, because I was so mad at my brother and it was a good way to take out my aggression. I’ll let you in on that one – completely false. We all struggle with anger, but I just wanted something I was good at and I found it there. It did help with the fear though. Why did I go to Rhodes College? Well, because Scott was there. Or maybe it was more because my high school girlfriend went there, but I’ll admit Scott was the reason I pledged the same fraternity as him. I really desired a relationship with him despite him being so volatile. Why did I go into psychology? For the longest time I claimed the overwhelming desire to cheer for the underdog. It just took me a long time to realize that I had cast myself as the underdog in my story. I was cheering for myself because at every turn Scott’s turmoil and destruction took center stage.

Growing up and into adulthood, I saw my parents pour every cent into Scott’s care. I saw them go into debt for his care. I sat with my mother at dinner while she recounted each step she took to save my brother’s life after a second major suicide attempt in a week. I ended up driving his car from LA back home to Dallas, but my mother came home with PTSD. I saw the flashes of anger and tears of sadness that fell over my typically happy dad as he would struggle to find meaning in my brother’s suffering. Scott’s first psychiatry appointment was at age 3 and if you can name a treatment they tried it. He finally committed suicide after being discharged from yet another hospital stay - plainly stating that he was back on the hunt for opioids. Chronic mental illness is expensive, heart breaking, and the statistics are downright miserable when you think about lifespan.

I know now what I didn’t know then though. You do anything for your kids – even if they are grown adults. My parents tried to do everything for Scott, and I respect them for that. It took me listening to the loved ones around me, including my wife – and ultimately in response having children of my own that I wanted to protect – that I needed to set boundaries. It sounds simple, but 6 months of sobriety and a willingness to do better was all that I required for a relationship with Scott. This resulted in only a few more interactions over the next 10 years prior to his death. I don’t regret those boundaries because it kept me sane. I was not immune to the destruction and at each of the big events, particularly the attempt in LA and when he finally committed suicide, I had major left turns. I left a doctorate program the first time and left a job that I really enjoyed the second time.

The other piece that helped me get through is centering myself in empathy for this truly broken person. I mentioned the word regret earlier, and this is what I do regret. I wish that, even after a lifetime of personal and professional study, that I could have gotten to the place of empathy that I have now. Scott struggled with mental illness his entire life, even before he started drinking and doing drugs. All of this was throttled by an opioid crisis where he could hop from pharmacy to pharmacy getting script after script. Fortunately, I can remember him for more than that now – an extremely bright person who was so fluent in Spanish that he passed for a native speaker anywhere despite his blue eyes and blonde hair. He tried to get better, to BE better – I know that and respect him for it. There is honor in the effort to heal, to get better, and even to fail.

My story of growing up with someone in my family who has chronic mental illness is tough to tell, but I tell this story because it is important to not be silenced, whether by a stigma or by yourself. Sharing that pain is what creates opportunity for growth, and areas of support often time reveal themselves through that process. I hope that knowing other people have struggled will make it easier to share.

There is a beautiful African greeting that really drives home this point of interdependence amidst the struggle. The First person asks the Second, “Are you strong?” The Second person replies, “I am strong, if you are strong.” To which the First states, “I am strong.”

You see, there is nothing that changes amongst the two besides the knowledge that each person is needing strength and that they can find it in one another. This is community. This is where we find strength. If you are that First person out there asking if anyone out there is strong?!, know that I am here and the St. Catherine community is here saying, “I am strong, if you are strong.”

If you or someone you know is experiencing a crisis, please seek professional resources. To speak with someone immediately, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). If you’re ever worried that someone’s life is in immediate danger, call 911.

My name is Emily and I am an SCS mom, a military spouse and a pelvic floor physical therapist. I used to be in outpatient orthopedics until my own birth trauma and subsequent anxiety led me to a career change into pelvic health. It’s been a long road, but God has helped me find purpose in my suffering and that is a large part of what has helped me heal.
I have always been “type A,” but after my second was born I became paralyzed by anxiety. The anxiety got so bad that when I look back on that time, I hardly remember it. It was like I was living my life, but I wasn’t really present. Immediately after my second was born, I felt great!....or so I told myself. His labor was quick (2.5 hours from start to finish), he was born on his due date, and we were only in the hospital for 2 days. As we settled into our new life as a family of 4, I was very mindful and proactive about addressing any postpartum depression (because I had heard a lot about that, but not postpartum anxiety). I prioritized things that helped me decompress, asked for help when needed, and started exercising again (WAY too early). I thought I was doing well. Then a week later, I got mastitis.

No big deal. Lots of people get mastitis. I called my OB and started antibiotics, but then my milk supply basically dried up overnight.  After that I was constantly agonizing over producing enough breastmilk to ensure he was gaining weight, trying desperately to regain my supply, and spending far too much time on FB groups geared toward breastfeeding, child rearing, and natural remedies for increased milk production. Somewhere along the line, this snowballed into me diving down a rabbit hole of information about all the substances in our environment that are potentially harmful to our children. And then it happened. I went nuts ... legit nuts.

My anxiety got so bad that one day my husband came home to find me throwing away every cosmetic and cleaning supply we owned because “it was poisoning our children”. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I knew this was irrational but in that hormonally charged and sleep deprived state, no one could convince me that I was wrong. I started making my own cleaning supplies, laundry detergent, and deodorant. I refused to use candles, would only use homemade soap from my grandmother to bathe my kids, and spent far too much time scrutinizing food labels. I even spent a ridiculous amount of money on a Berkey water filtration system for drinking and cooking water because “our tap water is toxic”. My anxiety spiraled so out of control that I second guessed every single decision I made as a parent. I would lie awake for hours wondering if I should have let my 2 year old have that one M&M … because you know … dye.

When my husband found me one evening, credit card in hand, ready to purchase a $12,000 mattress from Australia because it was flame retardant free and “organic”, he lovingly encouraged me to get some help. So, slowly I began talking openly about my anxiety. I asked my OB for a referral to therapy and started the discussion about the possibility of taking anti-anxiety medication. I also began seeing Sara Reardon (who is now my colleague) for pelvic floor PT. You see, my son’s delivery was physically traumatic for me, but I had blocked that out. I told myself “This is fine. Constant pelvic pain is fine. Peeing on myself when I sneeze is normal. Feeling like my insides are going to fall out is common after 2 vaginal deliveries”. Sort of like that meme of the dog in the burning room, saying “this is fine.”  It wasn’t until I saw Sara (almost 2 years after my son’s birth) that I realized how much this physical trauma had affected me on a mental and emotional level. And as scary as it was to admit that I was debilitated by my anxiety, it was also freeing.

It’s been a long road and I’m not out of the woods yet. I am now 5 years postpartum from my second and I still have to manage my anxiety daily, but it no longer controls me. I consistently go to therapy, still see Sara for a tune up here and there, have added some relaxation and healing practices (lots of journaling and quiet time with God) to my daily routine, I exercise daily, and I share my story. That’s truly been the best part. Sharing my story has allowed me to meet other women who have had similar experiences, has allowed me to be a more compassionate therapist, and it has taken the isolation out of the anxiety. Ultimately, that also helps with the shame. I have learned to avoid triggers .... you know … all those FB groups I was in. I’ve realized that (while they no doubt help many other people) they were not helping me.

I know I will always struggle with anxiety.  I know that I will need to consistently “treat” it and that’s ok. Thankfully, I have a wonderfully supportive husband, a fabulous therapist, a great pelvic PT, and a wonderful community of support.

So if you are experiencing postpartum anxiety, know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE! There is help. I encourage you to speak to your healthcare provider to find a plan that works for you. That might include therapy, meds, treatment for physical ailments, support groups, or a combination of these things. That’s OK! At the end of the day, remember that loving your children is the most important thing. Not the dye free food, washable diapers, homemade soap, etc. It’s the love! So I hope that today you can just allow yourself to love on your kiddos, and love yourself. You’re doing GREAT momma … keep it up!

Below I have listed some links for information of postpartum anxiety, and resources to find help managing it.

1. Postpartum Support International www.postpartum.net
2. Anxiety and Depression Association of America. https://adaa.org/living-with-anxiety/women/postpartum-depression
3. MGH Center for Women’s Mental Health www.womensmentalhealth.org
4. Bryce Reddy LMHC I Mom Support on Instagram @mombrain.therapist

If you or someone you know is experiencing a crisis, please seek professional resources. To speak with someone immediately, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). If you’re ever worried that someone’s life is in immediate danger, call 911.

36 years old
Husband, Dad, Attorney

I am never out of the fight. - Excerpt of the Navy Seal Ethos

Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. - Romans, 5:3-5.

I’m generally a happy guy. If you’ve met me, you’ve seen a smile on my face. But I also struggle. Sometimes a lot, but always hidden with a smile. I have to. Too many people depend on me to let the hurt take over. Therein lies the problem.

I’m what some describe as an “unhappy achiever.” On paper, my life is wonderful. I have beautiful wife who loves me more than I can fathom, a son who’s my best buddy in the world, a great job, a good home, and a fat puppy that acts like my coming home is the biggest event of his day. In my mind, I have an unending obligation to all of them to make life, or my work, perfect. I’m a perfectionist by no means, but someone who sets the bar higher for me than anyone else will. It’s the idea that others – family, work, the community, and even my SCS family – need something of me, the best of me, and I have to make sure that I come through for them. Letting them down is out of the question.

That no accomplishment is ever enough (in my eyes) and I can’t fix everything that affects those around me are tremendous sources of anxiety. I have had attacks in my house, in my office, in my car, at restaurants. The more noise, or the more pull in different directions, the worse it became. I felt my heart start to race, my focus fade, and an ultimate loss of control. The loss of control builds until it is replaced by an overwhelming sense of defeat. If I’ve lost control, I can’t fix the issue, and I can no longer achieve a given goal.
           
If the goal is turning off the engine for a little while, but I’m surrounded by noise and distraction, I’ve lost. I can’t fix the problem. If the goal is cutting down the mountain of paper on my desk, but clients keep calling with question after question, I’ve lost and I can’t fix the problem. If it means giving my wife another baby and my son the sibling he prays so hard for every day, I’ve lost. That’s the big one. That’s the one that knocks me down on almost a weekly basis. And I can’t control that. I may not be able to fix that.
           
We struggle with fertility, but in my eyes, as an “unhappy achiever,” I struggle with fertility. Before we conceived my son, the years of “trying” were soul crushing. There was no joy. We alienated ourselves from friends, especially those who conceived so easily. We were very lonely even though we were fighting the same battle together. Many nights, I considered walking away from marriage, not sure if we could ever be happy without a child. But for some unknown reason, I came across Romans 5:3-5. It was as if St. Paul was speaking directly to me, saying that God will allow me to struggle. He will allow me to face struggles because it is through the struggles that I will become stronger. I will endure because I have hope. In other words, never lose hope and you are never out of the fight. Keep going!
             
We tried a few things, and by the grace of God, we had my son. It was the most amazing experience of my life. Goal attained, and hope renewed for the future. St. Paul was right.
           
After Jackson, we hoped things would continue to get better. Two years passed with no success. We returned to our doctor to try again. Several attempts later, we continued without luck. I underwent test, after test, after very invasive test, finally learning that I developed a stone in the prostate gland that catches and holds bacteria, leading to a somewhat permanent infection. Conception would be hard, though not impossible. I lost faith in both God and the process. I lost hope. The suffering of the first struggle paled in comparison to this struggle. Jackson wanted a sibling, my wife wanted another baby, and I couldn’t make it happen. I failed. I was on the doorstep of atheism because I was so beat up emotionally and spiritually. I could shout my prayers and only hear my echo. Never a response. No loving God, if he exists, could leave me in such heartache over such a pure and wonderful intention. I even told my wife that I don’t believe in God anymore. She was rattled, and I was empty. Coupled with the stresses of life, finances, family, my job, and even Covid, the noise was too much. I was exhausted.
           
I stumbled across the movie Lone Survivor one day, and its central theme resonated with me. “I am never out of the fight.” No matter how dark it gets, no matter how alone I feel, I am never out of the fight. I can make it through any struggle if just I keep going. This was exactly what Romans 5:3-5 told me. I will face challenges, I will suffer, but I will come out on the other side. Hard as it may seem, this is God’s plan for me.
             
I know now that I will continue to battle with anxiety and depression. My sense of failure will come and go. But I will hope, and I will endure. I am never out of the fight.  For her, and for him, I will keep going. And I will get through it. That’s God’s promise.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a crisis, please seek professional resources. To speak with someone immediately, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255 (1-800-273-TALK). If you’re ever worried that someone’s life is in immediate danger, call 911.