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Sunday, June 5, 2016

"But, I'm Not An Angry Person!" Part 2

For the messy, raw Part 1, click here. If you'd rather skip and focus on what I have been doing to manage my depression, please continue reading.

     So we muddled through until Little Miss was born in August. I decided to have the placenta encapsulated this time, but I don't know taking it helped any or not. We decided to start with learning to track my fertility with the Creighton model of NFP, and began the end of October. While it isn't certain what causes postpartum depression, it has been speculated that hormonal imbalance is a plausible cause, and Creighton seems to be the best way for us to see how my body is functioning. We are blessed to not only have a good instructor reasonably close, but a NaPro trained doctor in town as well. Our instructor was able to give us a referral to the doctor, who was able to get me in to see him in November. And that really is a bit of a miracle, considering how busy he is. We had my hormone levels tested, and when the results came back normal for how far along I was postpartum, we decided to supplement with the generic version of Zoloft. He also recommended talk therapy, because being rejected by girls when I was young left me more deeply wounded than I thought. Honestly, we were just chatting as he was looking at my intake forms, and saw that I had Italy and Ireland down in the foreign travel section. I told him it was with the Christendom Rome Program, and he asked how I liked the place. Being honest, I told him it was really great academically, but really awful socially, considering the people I thought were my core group of friends abandoned me Thanksgiving break freshman year with no explanation. He found that very interesting, and proceeded to ask "Do you get a long better with guys or with girls?" Girls. Second question I don't remember exactly what it was, but similar vein. "Were you rejected by your female peers when you were younger?" Yes. (I'm tearing up as I remember.) "I think that's the root of your depression." Anyway. The rest of my prescription included exercising 20 minutes a day, spending time outside, and play dates. Yes, play dates. He said when women talk with each other they release oxytocin, which is one of the "feel good" hormones, and can do a lot to lessen stress, anxiety, and depression. I started therapy with the psychologist he recommended later that month, also a fantastic person. I'm not sure why I've been given such amazing people to help me through all of this. 
     My dosages of antidepressant were on the low side, and the doctor said that, generally speaking, they ought to be used to help the brain get used to feeling "happy", and when "happy" becomes the new default setting, the meds can be dropped. I weaned off mine in April (will document experience later). I've been rather stable since, once the withdrawal effects wore off. Up until last week, anyway. I've been an burrier of "bad" emotions for so long that learning to navigate them is a bit rough, to say the least. I plan on writing a post dedicated to my experience with therapy at a later date. For now, though, I recommend it. Being able to talk to someone who won't judge you and doesn't know everyone you know is wonderful. It removes the fear of gossiping or destroying another's good name, while also providing constructive feedback and perspective. 
     My fertility chart has been a typical breastfeeding one, with no indication of hormonal imbalance, which is good. We are getting much more outside time with the warmer, and sunnier, weather. It seriously rained all but a few days end of April into mid-May. My diet has been decent. We've been getting out to see people, and even hosting play dates. The only things I'm not good about are getting to bed before midnight, and exercise. And feeding my introvert. I stay up late because it's our only time without children. Every time I try to get up earlier than the kids for a workout and quiet me time I give myself a sinus infection. Hopefully on the tail end of one now, actually. And nursing baby who has no interest in a bottle is preventing good, restorative alone time. And change is hard and I'm really good at using the kids as excuses to not do things. But we are getting there. I am moving forward, oh, so, slowly. 
     Hopefully you will find my experience to be useful in some way. The first step - actually seeking help - is the toughest. Don't let fear keep you trapped. Some people have called me brave for being as open as I have about my journey, or other things in life, saying they would be too afraid to do something similar. It's not that I'm not afraid, because I am, often. But what they might not realize is that bravery is not acting without fear, but acting in spite of fear, or, as I prefer, hand in hand with fear. You don't have to struggle through this alone. Many of us have been there, and we are more than willing to help you get out.

Monday, May 30, 2016

"But, I'm Not An Angry Person!" Part 1

     

     Today might not be the best day to be doing this, linking up with Flourish in Hope and Half Kindled for their annual PPD linkup. It was a bad day. I couldn't get a handle on my emotions. There was no logical reason for me to be having mini-breakdowns all day - Code Monkey was home, the kids were as good as they ever are (which, if you know us in real life, you know they are strangely spectacular, in spite of me), the sun was out, I've actually had over a week's worth of uninterrupted sleep at night, etc. Reading the posts about the struggles other women have had with PPD and similar disorders was icing on a very nasty emotional cake. But, perhaps the reason I should. The feelings are still fresh in my body. And reading about others is healing; I'm not the only one. I'm not crazy. I'm not just making this up. I'm not just lacking in self control. 
     Hah! Self control. If only you knew how much self control I used to have, or at least thought I had, back in high school. I've touched on my high school depression before, but one of my coping mechanisms was sort of emotionally shutting down. I needed the pretense of control, though it didn't seem like a pretense at the time. I needed to be the closed book, because I was too afraid to let anyone see. I never cried and I was never angry; I hid my pain well. So you can imagine my shock when I found myself raging at the boys after Juanito was born. It didn't show up until around 6 months after he was born. I would become intensely angry over nothing. "Nothing?" you question. Nothing worth raging over. Babies and toddlers cry. Not logically worth getting angry over. They make messes. Not logically worth bellowing at them for. "Bellowing? Really. Stop exaggerating." If only I was. I don't know that I have the language to describe it. Animalistic. Screaming at the top of my lungs, with all the energy I had, because I just needed it to stop. I. Just. Needed. It. To. Stop. Mostly the crying. I could physically feel the sound waves hitting my eardrums.  
     Raging only made it worse, though. The crying would pause, like the calm in the eye of a storm, only to begin again with a greater force driven by terror, terror of me, their mother. The person who is supposed to love them, comfort them, help them manage their emotions; not lose control of her own. I joined them in their tears, hating myself for not being able to be the grown up, for letting it get to me, for losing control. I never thought it would be like this. That I would be like this. 
     And the thoughts, the ones of violence. I understand, now, why mothers kill their own children. To make it, whatever it happened to be for them, stop. When you are in a moment like that, rock bottom, it is nearly impossible to imagine worse. The vicious cycle of anger, guilt, anger, guilt is enough to drive anyone mad. Without help, it's only a matter of time. 
     Thankfully, my rage subsided, mostly, all on it's own. I don't know if it was just the passing of time, but I found myself much more in control by the time we found out we were expecting Little Miss. We were doing great, until around 6 weeks in. Then the prenatal depression hit. I was completely blindsided. It had been over a decade since I had been that black. I was constantly irritable and annoyed. I lost my temper over the slightest thing. And the guilt. I felt as though I was stuck in a bog, slowly being sucked down into the quagmire of depression. At my lowest point, I was beginning to lose my fear of Hell. The fear of which was what kept me from killing myself as a teen. And it was fading. I just needed it to end. I was barely managing to hold my recklessness in check, because I wasn't willing to risk the lives of my children, but more than once I was so close to asking a friend to watch them for a few hours, and then just leaving. Finding a plane headed out west and just leaving everything, so they would have nothing to legally bring me back for. 
     I felt so empty. I had nothing left to give, and the little I was giving wasn't worth having. I was 100% convinced my family would be better off without me. All I could see was how I was destroying them. I don't remember how I came out. I knew I needed help when going to bed didn't make my "funk" any better. Normally, I would have an awful day, go to bed, and wake up feeling better, even if only for 15 minutes. I knew I needed help when that stopped happening, when I woke up just as defeated as when I went to bed. I went to adoration after my worst day, my third day in a row of waking up already defeated, and somehow it was never so bad after that. We muddled through the rest of the pregnancy, and started seeking help in earnest in October. 
     I should probably make a separate post detailing what we're doing to help mitigate the damage this time around, considering this post is quite long. And then I can link that one, so people don't have to muddle through this depression story if they don't want to. I'll link to Part 2 HERE when I write it. 
     

Sunday, March 6, 2016

What I Wore Sunday Linkup

     Things have been kind of, well, tumultuous here lately. And by lately I mean pretty much since Little Miss was born, so, like, nearly 7 months. But not in a bad way - more like in a growing can kind of be tough way. I have been thinking and pondering and contemplating so much, but haven't really felt like buckling down and blogging about it, mostly because I'm really good at making excuses to avoid as much "conflict" as possible, even if it really makes things worse in the long run. Cryptic, I know, but I'll explain eventually. 
     Today, though, I did something I *never* do:  I tucked my outside shirt in. HUGE victory for me in the body image department. You see, I never got around to explaining how ashamed I have been of my body, though not for the reasons you might think. I've never been fat; I've never been too skinny; I don't have stretchmarks anywhere that people would see in everyday interaction. In fact, my body was the envy of some people, and it probably still is. And that, in part, is what I have been ashamed of, especially considering I have done nothing to "work" for it - this is just how I am. What I was even more ashamed of, though, is the fact that I have curves. That my body is a female body. That my body will inevitably be the object of some males' lust, at some point. I was ashamed of the very essence of my being. So I did everything I could to avoid "showing it off". Low rise jeans, un-tucked & unfitted shirts, dresses that didn't have a defined waist. There was a point where I preferred men's jeans to women's because women's were too "form fitting" for me. Even the non-skinny ones. So, the fact that I chose to tuck my shirt in, and leave the house with it like that, is a huge thing for me. No, you can't really see any curves, but still. Big thing. 
     Much (most?) of the tumult has been around me working on accepting who I am, who God made me to be. At 28, I am only just beginning to accept that it is a good thing for me to be a female, to be interested in what are socially considered feminine things, to dress in a way that enhances my femininity. It's tough, but it will be well worth it in the end. Linking up with Rosie for What I Wore Sunday!
Shirt - Motherhood Maternity (gift)
Skirt - Tranquility by Colorado Clothing (Goodwill)
Shoes - Bongo (Kmart)
Socks - found in our woods
Necklace - friendship charm (gift)

Saturday, November 21, 2015

National Family Caregiver Month

     I recently learned that November is National Family Caregiver Month, thanks to discovering a moving blog series by Heather Von St. James highlighting her battle with mesothelioma. Her passion for raising awareness about mesothelioma and the dangers of asbestos are truly inspiring. I highly recommend this site for learning more:  http://www.mesothelioma.com/mesothelioma/ 
I've personally been meaning to write a post honoring my Mom, and this has given me the little push I needed. (I originally wanted to do write something for Mothers' Day this year, but that clearly didn't happen.) It isn't going to be terribly long or detailed, as she isn't a fan of her personal info and stuff floating all over the Interwebs. Which is fine. 

    Growing up, I always wanted to be more like my Dad. Maybe it was because I was already a lot like my Mom, or because his coolness factor was higher because gone a lot and was more mysterious as a result. I don't know. As I've grown older, I've noticed more and more similarity between myself and Mom, from the curling of our hair and our general build, to our tone of voice in the phrases we use. I've also come to appreciate being so similar to her, for she truly is a woman I want to emulate. Granted, everyone has shortcomings, but in spite of those I believe she was a fantastic mother. She would stifle her intense fear of creeping crawling things so our curiosity wouldn't be stifled. She powered through her fear of horses, and allowed me to see the realization of my dream of having one of my own, even to the point of taking care of him if I went somewhere overnight. She gave the best support she could give when I came to her with a problem. She gave me room to grow and be and figure things out for myself. 
     She's more than just a mom, though. She's a good wife. My Dad's had more than his fair share of bad luck when it comes to health issues, and Mom's been supporting him every step of the way. Yes, she's human and exasperation does show sometimes, but more often than not her patience, kindness, love, and ability to let go of things that don't matter in the grand scheme of things are what you notice. Her example of what it means to love and cherish in sickness and in health has been a profound inspiration to me. 
     A few years ago, we found out that Grammy, Mom's mom, had terminal cancer. Mom chose to bring Grammy to live with them for what time remained to her. I can't imagine what strength it must have taken, to care for her own mother in the last days of her life. And she did it with love.
     What I keep coming back to is how brave she is, though she has a hard time seeing it. She carries on in spite of all of her fears, putting the needs and best interests of those she loves before her own. And not once have I ever received the impression that she was some sort of a martyr for doing so. It is just who Mom is, and I am proud to be her daughter.