Larry’s voice stayed firm and calm, “You’ve had a complete personality change. You’ve got to get serious professional help.”

I wasn’t sure whether to feel relief or anger. There was comfort in knowing that he would stay with me. And then I felt a deep concern that my own husband was telling me that I was losing my mind. Was he right? We trust each other implicitly. Was this how it would be now? Was this depression driving me crazy? I wasn’t ready to admit defeat, even though I could no longer recognize myself, either.

I tried to convince Larry that it was a passing phase, caused by the trauma of losing my career, and I would soon be myself again. I reminded him that I had trained and worked for years as a nurse and I would certainly know if I needed professional help. I had been around many patients who suffered from all types of maladies. I could tell Larry had serious doubts, and I was trying my best to pull off some good acting, since my own doubts were at least twice as strong as his.

I was known for surviving the death sentence decreed upon me by specialists in hepatitis C treatment. My attitude was, “Oh yeah? I’ll show you.” I determined that I would find the answer to my predicament, and find it naturally, mind over matter.

Now it seemed my mind had taken over the matter in my brain in ways that were becoming uncontrollable. But I wasn’t ready to wave the white flag. I was still convinced that I could fight depression on my own and had no idea that struggling with this serious illness without medication and other help would lead to what is known as “panic disorder.”

The holidays were approaching, but my usual festive spirit was nowhere to be seen. My daughter Ashley was completely devoted to her ongoing worldwide humanitarian work and she was often traveling out of the country. When she called from foreign countries, I would control my voice to sound as normal as possible. I was glad she couldn’t see my face. Wynonna seemed to be 100 percent wrapped up in her exciting dating life with her new boyfriend Cactus and blending the lives of their teenagers. I knew she was booking concert dates for 2012, and was busy resuming her solo career on the road and in the studio. I had not heard her beautiful voice in what seemed like a terribly long time. My days seemed to grow longer. I anticipated that I would soon be myself once again, yet, in truth, I felt like I was falling into a dark, endless abyss, alone. I didn’t attempt to connect with Wynonna, because I had no words for what was happening to me or why. How could I explain it when I was becoming a stranger to myself? In my vulnerability, I wanted her to reach out to me first, but I also wanted to give her the space to process for herself. My emotions were multilayered and complicated. As Wynonna clearly stated in her January 2015 televised interview with Dan Rather, who asked her about her family relationships, she was tired of being “reactive instead of proactive.” In retrospect, it appears that “proactive” in Wy’s definition meant that she couldn’t be around those she felt “reactive” to, which would be me.

One chilly December afternoon, my well-meaning group of sisterhood girlfriends convinced me to go antiquing with them. I could barely generate a single ounce of enthusiasm about the excursion. I was as uptight as a banjo string. Still, I had the thought that it would help to foster Larry’s hope that I would soon be back to acting like my ol’ self again. I could see an increasing shadow of worry on his face.

He has told me many times that one of the reasons he fell in love with me more than thirty-seven years ago was that I always knew what I wanted to do and how to get it done. That seemed to be one of my character traits that resonated with almost every person in my life. When Wynonna and I toured almost continuously between 1984 and 1991, I was the decision maker. I would almost look forward to the next challenge. Everyone from the bus driver to the backstage crew would turn to me to solve problems, from what to do for an earache to how to handle a technical emergency like the sound board blowing up.

A sliver of raw garlic clove wrapped in tissue would solve the earache and a call to the musicians’ union, which answers 24/7, would give us access to someone who could replace the sound board within an hour or two. I took every complication in stride. My coworkers and family have always been more than willing to let me take charge. They nicknamed me “the Queen of Serene.” But now I could not figure out how to fix my deepening depression and panic attacks and it was really starting to scare me.

I stood for fifteen minutes before my open closet door, paralyzed. I was unable to choose what to wear for an afternoon of shopping with the girls. I finally found a pair of black stretch pants and a jacket that I could zip up over a T-shirt, an outfit that I would normally never wear for an afternoon outing in town, but it was the best decision I could manage. I pulled my hair back into a rough twist and pushed it under a newsboy wool cap. I applied a heavy layer of cover stick makeup over the dark circles under my eyes.

At the first antique store, I wandered around, listening to the other women laugh and talk. I turned the corner, around a tall white armoire, and looked directly into an antique mirror in a gilded frame. The frame was ornate, but the mirror had about a dozen cracks running through it in jagged lines. The reflection of my face in the mirror, divided and distorted into broken pieces, stopped me cold. My image resembled exactly how I felt inside, jagged pieces, barely held together. I had a sinking feeling that this crazed reflection was symbolic not only of my present, but of my future.

* * *

The holidays came and went in a blur. I ventured out to buy a few gifts for the family and it took every bit of energy I could muster.

Every year, Larry and I throw a huge Christmas party at our house, a holiday gala that takes weeks of preparation. Our friends and family look forward to this gathering. I usually start talking about it in early October. Some of our friends even count this warm and intimate evening as their Christmas. One couple, Gary and Alex, retail gift shop owners, don’t put up a single decoration in their own home, because they get such a large dose of Christmas at my house. Every banister, door frame, nook, and corner in my house is decorated, even to the point of poinsettia plants and candles in the bathroom!

We invite about ninety people and have a catered buffet, an open bar with a bartender, and tables and chairs set up strategically throughout the entire downstairs where people can gather, eat, and chat. In our great room we arrange a stage area for live entertainment near the massive stone fireplace. There is always a keyboard player, drums, and guitars. Before the evening ends, we all gather around the piano to sing Christmas carols from old-fashioned songbooks.

As a child, I always dreamed of cozy, warm family gatherings like the ones portrayed on the covers of Christmas catalogs. I would picture scenes of pine boughs strung across our fireplace mantel with lit candles and angel figurines nestled in between. In my fantasies, there was a beautiful holy manger scene on a red and green table runner, candy canes and a plate of frosted cookies for Santa, and a stack of Christmas records playing continuously on our hi-fi. That’s not how it was, in the least. It was only near the front window of the living room that it looked like Christmas at all at our house. We would have a tree with sparse ornaments set up there, some handmade from our Sunday school classes.