I have dealt with depression most of my adult life. I have learned the tricks to get through it. We anticipated the depression would intensify after my son was born. But this was different. This wasn’t a sadness I couldn’t shake. It was fear. Crippling fear.

The kind of fear that grips you and doesn’t let go.

I couldn’t rationalize the thoughts I was having. They made no sense. I could imagine the worst possible thing and double it.

Eventually I could get ahold of my thoughts.

And then, years later, it came back worse than before.

This time it was more than feelings. I would have dreams where whole scenarios played out. I would see actual visions during the day. It was consuming.

One night while putting my son to bed, I literally saw events unfold in a car accident that claimed my life. I saw the officer go to my home to inform my husband. It was so real. My brain filed it under memories of real-life events.

In another incident, I was wrapping Christmas presents and as if someone was sitting beside me, I heard plainly that I would never see my son open those presents. Later, I heard the same voice tell me not to purchase a particular toy as a Christmas gift because it would be a waste of money since he would never play with it.

The voice would go back and forth whether it was I that died or my son. This went on for months. It was torture.

The fear was consuming and my constant companion.

I kept it to myself. I knew if I told anyone, they would think I was crazy.

Until I couldn’t take it any longer and finally shared the entire ordeal with a close friend. It was the first time in months I felt the sunshine. It literally felt like I came up for air under a deep, dark sea. I could sleep the whole night.

They didn’t offer magic words to cure my fear. And it wasn’t gone. But I was no longer facing it alone. My friend spoke the truth to the lies when I could not. They dared to challenge the voices and point out the good things in my life.

I was not alone.