The Grace Unit

I don't know what happened. I really don't. Everything was fine until suddenly it wasn't. And just as suddenly as it did before, it hit me like a ton of bricks; postpartum depression. Except this time, it waited 6 weeks before moving in and was much, much worse. I knew what was happening, I could feel it. First, it was the overall feeling of hopelessness, regret and general stress. Then came the anxiety and fear of being alone with her filled with self doubt, and then finally the intrusive thoughts.

I once again was paralyzed on my living room floor in hysterics when my husband found me, just like before. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't control it. Hours earlier I had told him I felt I really was going to go crazy this time and he told me to just lie down for a little bit, but I couldn't. So there I was, a crying mess, physically unable to pick myself up off the floor. My husband came rushing home from work after a string of text messages I had sent him about him and the girls deserving better than whatever I was, that I was going to leave them to live a life without me. He told me we needed to figure this out and began rushing around the house getting the girls' things together; he was taking me to the ER. I cried harder. Why was this happening to me again? I don't want to feel this way!

I ended up driving myself to the ER. I could barely get the words out when they asked me what I needed to be seen for: "I just had a baby. No one trusts me to be around my kids and I have postpartum depression." I felt defeated in saying those words out loud. I had already beat this once before, but now I need to do it again?! They asked me if I trusted myself with my kids, and as much as I was in denial of it, I told them yes anyways. It was the honest truth.

I was taken to a special triage room with locked doors and absolutely nothing else in it but a bed. I was required to strip down to just my underwear in front of two nurses who took all of my belongings away from me, except my cell phone. A behavioral specialist called my husband and talked to him before coming into the room and telling me that they wanted me to be admitted for help. I was reluctant at first, but after a friend tracked me down in the ER and convinced me I needed to do this, I agreed. I hadn't slept in 4 days, had lost 6 pounds in 6 days and my symptoms had manifested themselves into physical symptoms that were so distressing on my heart and abdomen it literally felt like I had always just finished an intense ab workout, but without the great results...I just couldn't let myself keep feeling this way. I sat in that tiny room for 9 hours before being taken by ambulance to another hospital where I was officially admitted to the mental health unit. I remember the drive there. It seemed so fast, yet so long at the same time. I felt so normal strapped to that gurney and asked myself if I was faking it, because this just couldn't happen to me. Nevertheless, it was, and we had arrived at the Grace Unit at 11PM on January 3.

After being required to strip my clothes yet again in front of two more nurses, this time including underwear, I was taken to my room. Again, nothing was in it but a single bed. The walls were empty, the window was huge and bare and I felt so, so small. I stood there, staring at the blank, tan walls and said out loud, "How did I get here? How could I have let this happen?" I felt like I had failed everyone. My husband, my kids, my parents, my brother, my friends, and all the women I had helped over the last few years with their own postpartum depression. I was embarrassed I let this happen, and I was angry that it happened to me again.

Since it was so late, I got a quick tour of the small unit and was given a sleeping pill after they found out I hadn't slept in days. I barely slept that night still, but it was more than I had slept in the previous four days combined. The next day I had breakfast with the other five patients. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to do anything. I felt so stupid and silly and paralyzed with anxiety, but I forced myself to go to every group therapy session everyday anyways. The first two days I had minimal participation, and decided to call my husband at home. I was told my stay could be anywhere from 2-7 days, and I wanted to check in and see how I felt. Unfortunately, I had to end the call early as a full panic attack started creeping up on me and sent me running for my room crying. I couldn't go home.

It got better from there when I started participating. I shared every morning how I felt and set daily goals. I made sure to always meet those goals, and accepted where I was and what had happened that got me there. I knew it wasn't my fault, but still struggled with anyone finding out where I was. I still do. But while there, I met two beautiful souls that I bonded with. As crazy as it sounds, I found peace in being around people who knew how it felt to feel the feelings that I was going through. It was so easy to look at them and say how my anxiety was attacking me right now, and for the response to be that that sucks, but that they would walk the unit with me or watch a funny movie to help distract me. I heard stories from the other patients and learned what it really meant to be grateful, and I talked with the nurses about their own struggles with depression. I knew I wasn't alone, but man, everyday it still feels like I am.

On January 10, I came home. I am not recovered. I am in a full blown relapse and I fight with it everyday. I am struggling. I have fears and doubts. My heart still flutters and my abdomen tenses for sometimes an entire day, no matter what coping skill I try. But I'm sleeping and eating again. I can go an entire day without crying. My symptoms are still there, I still feel and think them, I am just able to better live with them. I thought about hiding this experience from everyone out of sheer fear of judgement, but I know I can't let myself give in to the stigma of mental illness either. I want everyone to know that mental illness does not affect just individuals, but entire families. My children and my husband were without me for an entire week. My husband missed work, neighbors brought him meals, friends babysat so he could work his business....mental illness is not just my illness, it's my families', and as long as I have them, I know I can keep fighting this. And if you're struggling, or someone you love is, know that you can fight this too. Don't ever go down without a fight, no matter how embarrassed or silly you might feel doing it. Fight. Because it's all we have left after depression steals everything else from us. <3

Two Lines

When I first found I was pregnant I was excited, happy, shocked and only a little nervous. It hasn't been so long that I've forgotten how it goes, so I was pretty surprised that my doctor insisted that I take an OB education class. I was reluctant, but made the appointment anyways.

So the day came and I sat there in the room with the Physicians Assistant and I thought maybe she'll tell me something has changed in the last three years (it hasn't) or that I can finally have deli meat (you can't) and as I told her how amazing my last pregnancy was, it seemed pointless to be there again. She explained exercise was fine (duh) and drink plenty of water (of course) and handed me my giant book all about how amazing being a mom was. The book was different than last time. Smaller. Interesting.

I briefly thumbed through it in front of her and took note of the stack of hand outs and pamphlets shoved inside the pocket about breastfeeding, carseat safety, vaccines, genetic testing and hospital registration information.

'Something is missing,' I told her.
'Oh? What's that?'
'There isn't anything in here about mental health.'
She stared at me for a brief moment before stumbling through her words, 'You mean, like, postpartum depression?'
'Well yeah. There's nothing in here about it.' Isn't that just as important as making sure my baby is vaccinated and protected against harmful diseases that can kill it?
'There's something in the book about it,' she explained.

Guys. It wasn't until I got home I decided to look it up in the book. Amongst the pages upon pages of how to care for all the lovely after birth physical symptoms and how a boob works, I found it: Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorders.

And it was a paragraph!

Dozens of pages on vaccinations and medications you can and cannot take and breastfeeding support and labor pains and everything else under the sun, but mood disorders got one paragraph. And here is what it said:

"Symptoms can appear any time during pregnancy and the first 12 months after giving birth. It does not matter how old you are, how much money you make, what your race is or culture you come from, any woman can develop these disorders."

The list of symptoms possible after that went on to list: trouble sleeping, changes in appetite, exhaustion, hopelessness, crying, trouble concentrating, feelings of being a bad mothers, lack of interest in sex and the baby, and thoughts of harming yourself or the baby.

This paragraph was then followed by two whole pages of helpful hints for dads and how to resume having sex again. 

What this doesn't explain is that there is more than crying and feeling sad and lack of interest in your baby....it doesn't explain obsessive thoughts, extreme mood swings, psychosis and hallucinations, intrusive thoughts or pure fear of literally almost anything. We are missing women here. 15-20% of women will develop postpartum depression or anxiety, and that's not including postpartum OCD, psychosis, post-traumatic stress disorder or bipolar disorder, or the fact that some men develop these conditions postpartum too. It is even estimated that 25% of Americans (arguably 50% by some) will experience a mental illness of some type at some point in their life.

I am sad. I am sad that this is what the women in my community are given when they first become pregnant, when you already don't have a clue of what's going on and are afraid of every symptom you get regardless of what it is. This is how we are preparing women and their families. 20% may not seem significant to some of you, but can we talk about these stats for a minute?

12%: Adults diagnosed with heart disease

3%: People diagnosed with celiac disease

12%: Women diagnosed with breast cancer

9%: Amount of current population diagnosed with diabetes

1.5%: Number of women that will experience bulimia

1%: Number of children identified on the Autism spectrum

My point here isn't to negate any of these illnesses or diseases; they are all important. My point here is that awareness for these conditions is widely spread and accepted in society. There are countless resources, screenings and support groups available for those that need it. Then there are new moms and babies and families that feel ashamed, confused and lost about what is happening in their own bodies. Most don't know where to turn. Many don't even know how to begin to ask for help, even though they have identified that something is wrong. And too many doctors are missing the signs in their own patients and letting them leave their office feeling hopeless over and over. When does it stop? When do we learn that mental health needs to be a priority?

Now that I am expecting again, I have been asked about how I feel about postpartum depression again. I know I'm at risk. I know I'm also at a higher risk of developing a more severe perinatal mood disorder. I won't lie, it is a little scary. The thought of having to experience that yet again not only terrifies me, but angers me. Once was enough! 

My doctor is also fully aware of my history and has already flagged my file at my own request to consistently screen me at every appointment while pregnant and and post-birth before I get the chance to leave the hospital. I hope I am strong enough to advocate for myself when I feel something is wrong, and I hope that I don't slip into denial if these symptoms do arise, but I can't say that for sure I will. With P, I walked away from my doctor five times without a diagnosis before that breakdown in her office begging for help. Five times. And she had no idea. 

I hope I have been transparent enough in my journey that my family and friends aren't afraid to ask me or question me if they sense something isn't right. In fact, even when things seem perfect, I hope you ask. I hope you ask the new mom in your life, whoever she may be, whether she smiles or not, laughs or joins you for dinner., ask her how she's really doing. Moms are warriors, and they are damn good at hiding their feelings when they need to. Don't be afraid.

Help be the change. Don't wait for it to be too late.

Missing Baby

You can't miss your boat. It's yours. It stays docked till you're ready. The only boat you can miss is someone else's. Let them have theirs while you wait for yours. -Glennon Doyle Melton

When I first read that quote I thought okay sure, that makes sense, that's true. I can live by these words. But what I didn't prepare myself for was for how bitter I actually was waiting for my own damn boat. I write a lot about postpartum depression and I am in no way ashamed of my story or what my family went through, but do my readers, do my friends, do my family, really understand how that experience felt?

I struggle to put into words the exact story for two reasons: some of those feelings have since drifted so far from my memory I honestly can't remember certain parts, and because even now, two plus years later, I am still trying to figure it out.

I want to bring you back to a post I wrote called The Pampers Moment in which I describe finally feeling peace with P; holding her, rocking her quietly at night with a light breeze through the living room where we sat as she peacefully slept. That was the moment I fell in love with her. Not mama love, but like that deep, passionate, I-cant-live-without-you, I-will-literally-fight-a-bear-for-you kind of love. That was the exact moment in time I knew I could do this, that she was mine and I was hers, and that this was meant to be. But guys, P was almost 8 months old when I wrote that. So what happened in those first 8 months?

I was not sad. Sadness, fear, hopelessness, anxiety and regret only fully consumed the first 2 months of P's life. So we're still missing 6 months. Are you following me? In those 6 months I felt happiness. I felt complete and fulfillment in everyday duties again, like grocery shopping or going to work and out with friends. I slept well, ate reasonably and exercised. I went through the motions. Deep inside I still struggled with bitterness. I hated watching women on TV or in movies have babies because they were so happy....and don't even get me started on Facebook. Oh Facebook friends, I really was happy for you. I was so happy to see you start a family and be happy yourself, but below that happiness for you was my bitterness.

How is this fair? How was I chosen while everyone else seemed to get off so easy? Why did everyone else get these amazing experiences and I got cheated! So cheated. And it made me so angry and that anger welled inside me and eventually turned into rage. One year ago today I wrote my post on rage: When You Lose the Battle. I had failed my recovery and I had failed my family and myself, and I had let whatever this is win. I am grateful that with time and proper support, that anger finally resolved, but the bitterness was still left. And the bitterness was mostly consumed by the unknown. Because folks, I honestly have no idea. What is it like to hold your newborn baby? Because I could barely hold mine. What is this love you feel for your baby? Because I looked at mine and felt nothing. What do you mean not sleeping at night is all worth it for that bundle of joy? Because I got mad at her when she woke me up. You went places? I didn't leave my house for 2 months unless it was to a doctor or my parents. Oh, you have silly pictures of your adorable new baby and your sleep-deprived self? With the exception of half my face in a hospital photographer's picture the day after she was born, there are approximately zero pictures of myself holding my daughter the first month of her life. 

The hardest part about sharing this experience with others is the pity. We Warrior Moms are not looking for pity. No, we are looking for someone to look at us and acknowledge that wow, that shit did suck, and I promise to fight with you so no one else has to feel that. We do not need your validation anymore; we have already climbed the mountain, but won't you join us at the top and help others up? And on the days when our foot slips and it feels as if we're going to tumble back down to the ground, won't you reach out and keep us from falling?

So the bitterness lurks, fueled by the unknown and the shame that P had to wait 8 months for a mommy that would fight wildlife to save her. I know, she won't remember. But there are not enough months left in my lifetime for me to forget and how much I miss my baby.

How My Medication Saved Your Life

Whenever I start helping a new mom, the first thing she tells me is that she doesn't know how to ask for help. She's afraid to ask for help. Her partner doesn't understand and a doctor probably won't either. So she stays quiet. She thinks those thoughts and feelings are shameful and should be kept to herself and she needs to accept this as her new life. She can never go back to the person she was.

I am calling bullshit.

If you were once a happy person, enjoyed life, found pleasures in the simple things, or were able to leave your house, you can be that person again. It is not impossible. And shame on anyone in your life that would make you think you can't be that person again. Shame on anyone that makes you think nothing is wrong. Shame on them for not being there for you when you needed them the most.

After I hear this heartbreaking new reality for these new moms, the next thing I tell them is this: admitting something is wrong is the hardest part of getting better.

Admitting to myself was the worst. I cried every day. I dreaded Hubs leaving me home alone, even if it was only for a few minutes. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn't going to have postpartum anything; I was fine. But around week 5 I knew this wasn't going to pass and was in fact, only going to get worse. Thankfully, my postpartum check up was right around the corner. (PS - if you think you are suffering, you DO NOT need to wait for this appointment. If you are one week postpartum, you can call. If you are 2 days postpartum, call and make the appointment). I feel so lucky that I only suffered for 6 weeks before finding the strength to ask for help. And my help wasn't even gifted to me through asking, but by my lack of ability to hold my shit together when my doctor cheerfully asked me how I was doing at my postpartum checkup and bursting into uncontrollable tears so horrible a nurse had to come take my daughter from the room because I couldn't hold her.

So I awkwardly laid there at my postpartum checkup while my doctor examined how I was healing as she explained she knew exactly how I was feeling and knew what I needed to feel better. She was going to write me a prescription for Prozac. Ya'll, I have never filled a prescription for something so fast in my life. I needed those pills. I had reached a point of desperation and anguish that I needed it to go away and go away NOW! I knew it would take almost a whole month to build up in my system to fulling start working, but after just a few days I started only crying once a day instead of all day, so I knew they were working. But then a mysterious rash started on my back and abdomen and was diagnosed with hives. I was allergic to fucking Prozac! My doctor then prescribed me Wellbutrin. The pharmacy told me it would take four days to get the medication in. I couldn't handle it. I was unmedicated, allergic to the one thing that gave me relief in almost 2 months and now I can't even get Option B. I called my nurse crying. My nurse, whose name was Jackie and I will never forget how absolutely amazing this woman was, called the pharmacy and miraculously they were able to fill it for me same day. (There is a special place in heaven for Jackie). After a week of the new medication, I didn't feel any better. In fact, I felt worse. I went back yet again to my doctor. I was miserable. She admitted she had been thinking about me since my last appointment and didn't think I was allergic to Prozac. Well hallelujah. Apparently my rash was something that most often occurred in postpartum women, but typically right after birth and not almost 2 months later. Go figure. So I was back on the Prozac. Things started to get better.

But why couldn't you just go to therapy?

I will tell you why. I was not just depressed. I had postpartum OCD, anxiety and depression. I wasn't 'just sad.' I feared things I had never feared before and in irrational volumes. I thought things I knew I shouldn't be thinking, and that made me fear doing much of anything. If I was driving the car with my daughter in the backseat, I would wonder what would happen if I just didn't stop at a stoplight, or didn't turn the wheel when the road turned.....I would be holding P and vividly see myself dropping her, or leaving her outside strapped in her carseat on the back step (in negative temperatures). I didn't think I would actually do these things, but how could I possibly know that? I never hurt P or myself, but those thoughts were scary and I was afraid for the one day I wasn't able to control them. I honestly believe that help came just in time.

Medication saved my life and it saved my babies life. I don't know what this disease could have done to me if I hadn't been able to admit, seek and begin treatment. I could have hurt others. I would have hurt others. I'm sure of it. My treatment was not easy. It can't always be a walk in the park. It's really hard. There are bumps in the road that are sometimes so huge you don't even want to attempt to get over them. But eventually it levels out and you get to live your life again.

Just when I thought I was better, I fell low again and needed medication to bring me back up. This time, I did need therapy too, which helped immensely, but I needed something to help control the emotions and irrational actions. We're trying this again, Hubs and I, and hoping for a full recovery. There are only a few pills left in the bottle I haven't touched in almost a month now. I hope I never need them again, but I can't be ashamed to admit when I'm wrong and when I need help. Admitting will always the hardest, but the outcome is so incredibly worth it. How could you possibly know how great your life can really be if you don't give yourself a chance? You're worth being the best you for you. Don't forget that.

Burdens

I've rewritten this blog post about 400 times this week, but since I have a great bout of insomnia going, I figure I would give it one last shot before posting it for the world to see.

Make that 402. I just wrote this post, twice, and deleted it, twice. I want to write to you about burdens and mental illness, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to put that into words. So maybe the key is to just write without thinking because if I don't get it out I fear I will never sleep again. So here goes.

I feel like my mental illness is a burden on others. Mostly, on Hubs and P. Is that true? I don't know for sure. What I do know is that they get the brunt of my illness. They have to deal with my emotions and my actions more than anyone else. There are days when I know what I'm doing is wrong and that I'm burdening them with my own issues, and on those days I feel like a super horrible mom. I'm such a bad mom. I still don't really know how to do this whole mom thing and I try to figure it out, but clearly some of you got the manual and I didn't because there are so many reminders on what I'm doing wrong. And I'm a bad wife. I don't remember my vows word for word anymore, but I'm sure I'm not living up to the expectations I set for our marriage on that day. And depression and anxiety are not my illness, but my families'; I may suffer from it, but they are carry the burden. My family lives with this everyday, and I bet there are days they get really sick of it. Me too. I am tired, ya'll (emotionally, not physically, because that would just be too good to be true).

I read an excerpt the other day about light and shadows and no matter how much we try to move, the light continues to cast a shadow behind us. The darkness, the shadow, is behind us. We cannot be in our own shadow; it's a mere reflection. It got more complicated after that, and I think it was actually a comparison to Heaven (not really sure), but as I read it I could only compare it to mental illness. This illness is a reflection of darkness, but there is light around it too.

So basically what this means is I have this thing that won't go away no matter how hard I try and there are good days and there are bad days and light and darkness and it all comes together to symbolically remind us that everything will be okay, but at the end of the day there is still a burden. (Yeah, it was really unhelpful when I read it, too).

I love my family. I don't want to burden them or make them feel bad or think they are in any way to blame for why things are the way they are and I just want everything to be better. To be okay. To be how it used to be. And then I try to remember what life felt like before we all became burdened and I really don't even know because it doesn't seem so bad now as it did before, but it's still not the same. And I don't know what any of this means, really, but what I do know is that there is a weight, a really heavy weight, and it's on my shoulders all the time. The weight cannot be lifted through selfcare (which I am a very fluent practitioner of), or rest or hugs or prayer (trust me). The weight, much like physical weight, will dissipate with time and hard work.

In the mean time, we suffer. And I somehow have to keep moving forward on days when I don't want to, and I still need to get out of bed even if sometimes I really need to convince myself that I can do it. And my family does too. They will keep tolerating me through my outbursts and keep loving me even when they don't like who I am in that moment and together we'll keep trying to lift this weight and push it off, into the shadows behind us, forever.

This is probably the only blog post that truly upset me because there was no solution at the end. I don't know what the answers are. I want to, does that count? I wish this story had a happy ending with a successful plan of action that you could put into place in your own life to feel less burdensome, but I don't have that today. And that's what this blog is for. I promised in my first post that this would be real and raw. So here it is.

22 months later. No cure yet. Will check again tomorrow.

Edit to add: If you read this entire post, thank you. I needed to get this out, which meant I didn't spell check or re-read anything. This was the result of that. I accept full responsibility of any spelling or grammatical errors.

Boxes and Bitterness

 After our recent move I decided it was time to organize all of the random baby items and clothes throughout the past year that were literally shoved into a box as we stopped using them. What this really should have been called was "after our recent move I decided to surround myself with triggers." Remember triggers? We talked about them before, it's a situation/thing/person/anything that triggers your mental illness. I am somehow in denial that I have triggers, yet I continuously throw them in my own face.

Anyways, I started organizing. And I was doing great; boxes were getting emptied, items were getting organized and grouped by size and age group and I was making great time! And then, as I started folding the teeny, tiny baby clothes up and packing them into boxes with size labels it hit me....

I am mad. I am still mad. And I am so, so bitter.

I think it's hard for people who haven't experienced a perinatal mood disorder to truly understand how I could STILL be so mad for something. I think it's hard for those people to accept that I still get sad about it. Well screw those people, because it's real and it sucks. As I folded those tiny clothes I realized I didn't miss having a baby, I missed having my baby. Do I want another baby one day? You betcha! But I will never, ever, ever, get to hold my tiny, newborn P and smile and love her and wanna be with her and cuddle. I will never get to experience first time mommyhood laying around on the couch with my newborn and walking lazily around the mall on a Tuesday afternoon. Nope. Because when I had a newborn, I couldn't leave my couch (ask hubs - I legit never left the couch). And I wasn't rooted to my couch with my little bundle of joy, I was paralyzed with sadness, fear and regret while P slept in her swing next to the couch. I could not physically hold her or emotionally enjoy her.

And that's kind of about when I lost it. I realized I will never get to hold my newborn again. This is what makes me bitter. And it makes me mad I feel this way because so many women wanted to hold their newborns and actually couldn't due to tragedy or otherwise, and yet I was able to hold mine, but was too sick to pick her up, and that's where the guilt comes in. The guilt that makes me want to apologize to all women that I'm sorry this happened to them and that I couldn't make it better, and the guilt that I'm sad over a period lost with my child, while others are sad over missing out on the entire lifetime of their children. How do you cure guilt? How do you cure sadness and anger and bitterness? Is there a cure?

So there I sat, in the middle of my living room surrounded by boxes of clothes and bottles that P will never need again, and I felt so small. I had failed my child at a time in her life when she needed me the most, and I know she won't remember those first couple months, but I will, and I'll be spending forever trying to make up for it to her. I will spend every day kissing her too much and hugging her too tight (sorry P) and splurging on her every chance I get (sorry Hubs) and doing everything I can to try to justify the bad mom I was to her in the beginning.

Damn those boxes.

I stacked those boxes up in a closet and there they will sit until I can use them again. And I promise that the next time I need them it will be different. I will revel in self care and selfishness to keep the guilt at bay and happiness on the forefront. I will enjoy the moments I have with my new little family when we decide to add to it, and I will learn from the past and fight to make sure it never happens again. PPD won that last one, but I am determined to win the next one. The fight never ends, but there is progress. There are days I see glimpses of my PPD peeking it's head around the corner to say hello, and although I cannot ignore it, I can acknowledge it, validate it, and learn from it.

Not everything can be packed away in a box, and that's okay.

What Really Changes When You Have A Baby

Lately, things have been a whirlwind for us. Between work, bills, traveling, summer plans, moving, managing two homes and everything else that's been thrown our way, it's been hard to take a breather and it's really got me thinking. What happened????

Let's put aside all the stereotypical stuff that can change after you have a baby, like appetite, your boobs, sex drive, exhaustion, packing up the entire house just to run to the ATM, etc etc....can we talk about the REAL stuff that changes?

Time. Seriously, where does it go? Not the cutesy time of watching our babies grow up and missing every stage after it's over even though we totally dreaded it while it was happening, but the actual minutes in a day. You have no more minutes. I don't know where they went, but they're gone. It seems like every day it never fails that as soon as I get home from work I'm already going to bed and someone has magically made dinner, unloaded the dishwasher and put the baby to bed, but no one has any actual recollection of who did any of that stuff. Want to do something out of the ordinary that day? Who the hell has the time! Go to the grocery store? Need new pants for work? You're now taking PTO just so you can go do it. Alone. Sure, you can take the kids with. Have fun.

Decisions. Lawdy, lawdy. Who would have thunk that every thing you did was an actual life decision? Well. It is now. Do I get gas now, or tomorrow? I could do it now, but the baby is with me and she's crying and I know she's hungry, maybe I'll wait until tomorrow. Welp. Tomorrow came and went and now it's twelve days later and you're coasting into that gas station with your crying, hungry baby anyways. Want to have a date with your husband? You are now running background checks on every person you've ever met in your life and every person they've ever met in their life just trying to find someone you trust to sit home with your sleeping kid for 2 hours before you decide to just stay home anyways, order a pizza and watch re-runs of Shark Week (great date!). Literally every thought you have will be followed by 40 more pros and cons. Remember when you didn't have kids and you just went and did stuff? Nope, me either.

Emotions. Everything is sentimental to you now. Every damn thing. That little newborn onesie at Target? Swoon and cry a little on the inside as you miss holding that tiny little babe sleeping on your chest. Charmin commercials? Don't even get me started. How much that little bear loves his mama bear and needs her help? Ugh, hand me a tissue please; I can't even. Kid tells you 'I love you'? Hey waterworks, missed you.

Food. You can now eat an entire meal that is steaming hot in approximately 35 seconds and not even get burnt. I don't know how, but I'm pretty sure it's a super power given to all mamas upon receipt of their firstborn. You will also notice you have this crazy talent to throw together a gourmet meal made entirely of cheese and crackers.

Sight. Your sight will significantly improve. You will be able to spot a piece of scotch tape on the ground from 200 yards away and think of all the horrible things that can happen if your child gets a hold of that. Brake lights 6 miles a head? Yep, you'll know about it. That guy sitting across the street from the park in his car? You don't even have to look - you know every time he picks his nose and changes the radio stations. Mama senses.


DGAF. For those of you not familiar, you will most certainly not give any fucks. Forget to put make up on? Whatever. Wore two different shoes to work? It's a new trend. Splattered milk on the backseat? It'll dry and crust off on it's own. Person glaring at you at the super market? That's cool. Baby pooped and no changing table in sight? Turns out the floor in the middle of this restaurant works just as well. And just when you think you might start to give a fuck, you will quickly realize that you most definitely, in no way shape or form, do not.

Bad-assery. This one is mostly for Hubs. You will find yourself becoming a complete and total bad ass as soon as you reach the DGAF status of parenthood. You will have no problem shoving children away from your child as you foresee danger approaching, you will yell at other children you have deemed rude or out of control that are within the vicinity of your child, and you will do whatever the hell you want with your kids, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Thought you were a bad ass before? No, you will reach an entirely new level of bad assery once you become a parent; your kid might not think so, but trust me, you are.

It can sound pretty overwhelming to experience all these new changes at once, but don't worry, they happen with time. Biology wants you to get used to the changes in your appetite, sex drive, sleep schedule and new body before it throws everything else at you, but over time you'll find that you are acquiring these new skills with little to no effort and that no matter how many times you forget to bring diapers with you or let your baby roll off the couch, you're still an awesome parent.

Why I Climb

It was the middle of the night; dark, quiet and still. I sat in the glider rocker in my living room holding P as she slept. Everything was so still. It felt like me, in this chair, in this room, in this house, were the only things that existed; everything outside these four walls wasn't there. And that was when, for the first time in my life, I felt completely and utterly alone.


It was in those late night hours when I felt like the only person on Earth that I scrounged the internet on my phone looking for answers, desperately searching for anyone that could relate to me to give me hope. It was in those hours that I stumbled upon an online support group where one particular post caught my eye: Event in your area - you are NOT alone!  An event? Near me? With other women who know how this feels? I HAVE TO GO!!!!

I needed to meet other women like me. I needed to be around other women who have felt how I had felt. I needed to know this could get better and that there was light, and I knew these women could provide me that. But more importantly than that, I needed to celebrate what I had gone through. I struggled and felt defeated, but I also clawed and fought for recovery. I deserved to feel liberated. I deserved to celebrate and to feel free of the shackles of depression. I deserved empowerment over mental illness and show that I will not lose. And at the same time, my baby and my amazing husband deserved a strong woman in their lives that wasn't ashamed of a dark season.


Life is a series of seasons, some better than others, but a season nonetheless. Times change, leaves fall, it gets hot and then cold, but we trudge through them because we are anxious to get to the next one. Mental illness is by far one of the darkest seasons we can endure, but the light of recovery shines over it and through it and leads to hope.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we deserve to need this feeling of light over our darkest season. And when your season is over, celebrate it. Don't let it fall away and fade into a distant memory, but rather hold on to the knowledge that you fought the war and won. YOU did.

So to anyone out there right now, scrounging the internet late at night in hopes of finding someone, anyone, that can relate to you, I am here. And I am your post telling you that hey, guess what? There's an event near you where women and families will gather, will celebrate, and will lift you up to hope and recovery. They will remind you that you are not alone and will climb through the battle with you to your light. #climbout #whyiclimb

For more information:
Find a climb near you: http://postpartumprogress.org/climb-out-of-the-darkness/find-a-climb/
 
More information: http://postpartumprogress.org/climb-out-of-the-darkness/

Support my team: https://www.crowdrise.com/sarahmaier1-COTD2016/fundraiser/sarahmaier1

Warrior Mama Out

So, here's the thing. People are motivating. They encourage you. They urge you to keep going and instill feelings of strength deep within you. People lay a thick layer of hope and belief in you that you might not have in yourself and they lift you up and liberate you to be this amazing person that they know you can be on the days when you don't think you can. But you know what? I'm tired.

Scratch that.

I'm exhausted. I cannot get up anymore. I feel defeated. And then there is this group of people standing in front of me yelling that they know I can do it, get up, keep going, you can do it!!

Well ya know what? I can't do it. And I don't think I should have to. I should not have to be a strong person all of the time. I want to inspire people. I want to lift others up when they feel down, but at the same time I want others to know it's okay that when you're down to not want to get back up. So here I am, telling you that it's okay. Stay down there a little longer. Take a nap. I am not going to force you to get back up before you're ready. Because I know firsthand that it is completely draining to keep getting up. Sometimes you need a minute.

I am giving you tired souls permission today to take all the minutes you need. Loathe in self pity for a few seconds, wish things were different, remember when things were easier and simpler and happier. Then, spend as much time as you need after that thinking of your next step, your game plan. But take your time. You do not need to figure things out right now. I am giving you permission to not give a damn today. Don't do the dishes. Let the laundry sit one more day. Stop texting people back. Do nothing. Self care does not need to be complicated. It does not need to be massages and girls nights and pedicures. Sometimes self care is just doing jack shit because it's the only way to remove yourself from how crazy things are getting around you. Sometimes self care is staying in the car just a few more minutes to jam out to your favorite song. Sometimes self care is a candy bar or non-diet soda. I'm not here to judge; do what you gotta do.

But I am TIRED ya'll! I need some self care. My knees are buckling and my back is breaking. I cannot be strong anymore today. I know warriors are suppose to be courageous and aggressive, who fight in battle and never give up, but hey, a warrior needs a day off here and there.

Today I am waving my white flag. I am putting down my shield. Warrior mama out.

212°

I've been sitting here for awhile, writing and deleting this paragraph over and over, trying to think of something clever to say. I thought about describing how, like it is for everyone, some days are hard and some days are amazing. I thought about writing how thankful and blessed I am to have someone as supportive as Hubs in my life, who has literally gone through the ringer being my husband, but loves me just as much as the day he married me. Yep, I've been trying for hours to be witty and yet, this is the best I got.

What I really wanted to say with this post is easy: parenting a toddler is hard. Being a parent with anxiety to a toddler is super, super sucky.

Life is really busy right now. Between work, home life, summer plans and selling a home, there are some days I literally don't remember them happening at all because they went by so incredibly fast I didn't even realize it. There are entire conversations I don't remember having simply because I had too many of them that day. My mind is constantly thinking 479 things at the same time because I need to remember to buy diapers, cook dinner, meal plan, go to work, meet deadlines, pick up dog food, go to the gym, do the laundry, make the bed, text the realtor, approve showings....and the 479th thing I'm thinking is that I cannot ask anyone for help, including Hubs, because for some reason I need to do it all myself. Hubs is capable, willing and able, but Anxiety tells me I just need to do ALL THE THINGS and then get mad that I am doing ALL THE THINGS. And then Anxiety lies again by making me think I really am doing all the things, when really Hubs is taking on just as much, if not more, than myself.

And then life gets super, super busy. It gets so busy I forget to take my medication, and when that happens you better make sure you have a strong drink in front of you at all times because Mama Bear comes out with fists swinging (figuratively speaking). I thought back to last week and estimated that I roughly went four days in a row without taking my medication. A few side effects erupted from this, such as extreme irritability, overeating (awesome), inability to control my anger, and general lashing out at things completely out of my control.

Honestly, those side effects just sound like a bad day to the average person, but to a person with anxiety, it affects daily life and relationships. When the dogs whine, I scream at them. When the dishes and laundry are piled up, I cannot bring myself to take care of them even though I want to because it's too overwhelming. When P cries, I lose my shit. Like, storm out of the room type lose my shit. My anxiety level soars extremely high extremely fast when I cannot meet her needs or soothe her fast enough.

P is the victim of my irresponsibility. The thing is, is I don't want her to grow up with a mom who yells. I don't want her thinking I'm always mad at her, because I'm not. And I don't want Hubs to think all I do is yell at everyone in the house (which he does, but he forgives me and loves me anyways). It's not that I can't 'handle' things, it's that I struggle with just holding my shit together sometimes. My emotions are not directed at any particular person because of something they did, my emotions are spilled out at everything in front of me because I can be a forgetful person. No bueno.

So no, this post isn't going to be clever or witty, and there's no special lesson learned. It's a simple post. One to explain 1) toddlers are super whiny sometimes and there's nothing we can do about it, 2) parenting with anxiety makes just about every task more difficult, medicated or not, and 3) taking medication when you really need it is extremely important; it doesn't matter what other methods you use that you 'think' will cure you. #meditateonthis

So there it is. Honesty. An update on life as a working mommy to a toddler who just wants to not be such a basketcase all the time, but really can't help it. And a reminder to myself that I need to keep myself in check. P deserves the best mom, and Hubs deserves the best wife, and there is really no excuse for not delivering that.

(Note: If you are also struggling to remember to take medication, or need to keep your emotions in check, download the app called Start, currently only available in the Apple store.)

Trials

I don't consider myself a particularly 'religious' person and tend not to talk about it often, if at all, but this Sunday was different. I sat in church this past Easter, as I'm sure many of us did, listening to the message of Christ dying for our sins, and rising from the tomb and the testimony from one couple of the congregation. They were an average couple whose testimony did not necessarily jump out at me, except for one sentence: We aren't sure why God gives us the trials to go through that he does, but we know we can get through them.

I thought about this a lot throughout the service as P kept wiggling around from seat to seat. I thought about the trial we had been through together and would be lying if I told you I still wish I knew why I was chosen to suffer from mental illness, why I didn't have the strength to get help sooner, why I feared fear so much, and most of all why my prayers weren't answered every night for weeks as I laid in bed begging God to fix whatever was wrong with me.

I think a big part of religion, Christianity, and having faith, is acceptance and forgiveness. I still carry a lot of guilt as a mom for those first few months of P's life. I struggle with forgiving myself and accepting the past is the past and I can't change it, that P is growing every day and now she's too big to cuddle with (mostly because she won't let me). Yes, I have missed out on those newborn times with her, the times when I could have spent an entire day just napping with her, holding her, admiring her little fingers and toes and watching her sleep (I do sneak into her room from time to time just to catch a glimpse). No, I can never get that time back with her. I can never experience the happiness and overwhelming feelings of love and amazement as my first baby is placed on my chest for the first time. I think about this a lot. Maybe more than I should.

We don't go to church every Sunday, or even every month, but I do expose P to religion and Christianity. She has her own Bible that we read from time to time, and she has been known to fold her hands for prayer before a Holiday meal. She has witnessed baptism, although there are no plans in the near future for her own. She has attended church and celebrated Christmas and Easter. Maybe she doesn't know what it all means quite yet, but I want her to know it's okay. Religion isn't meant to be something magical where you ask for something you want and receive instant gratification. I want P to grow up knowing that God is peace. Through God, you can find acceptance and forgiveness. You can find comfort in uncomfortable times and the strength to do things you never thought you could. God will not cure you. God will not change the circumstances of your life or the people in it, but what He can do is give you the tools you need to survive this season.

The thing with trials is they are lengthy. Hello, they are trying. They are not easy. They come with ups and downs, setbacks and strides, and they come with no end date. And after the trial is through there is still the processing period. Processing what happened and why and learning to adjust back to normal life. I would like to think my trial is over and I have moved into the processing stage. I am still working towards accepting my past and forgiving myself for something I had no control over. Things happen, and as much as I would like to, I cannot change that.
 

“When you look at the past without God’s eyes, you subject yourself to deception. The past no longer exists and God doesn’t linger there. However, Satan will show you whatever you want to see and believe, so you will be trapped in an emotion that cannot communicate truth, beyond what you want to remember.” - Shannon L. Alder

Finding Peace

I remember shortly after P was born, in the midst of my struggle, my own mother telling me, "She's too little to give right now; all she can do is take." And in those first few months my mom would tell me this and I would roll my eyes because how stupid, but over the last year I have found myself saying this over and over.

{don't you just hate it when your mom is right? She really is, like, all the damn time}

So I waited for P to grow up and I wished the days away (no, I do not regret that) and wanted her to be older so she could hug me and miss me and appreciate me and give. And a few weeks ago the clouds broke and my little girl grew up. I asked her for a hug, and wouldn't you know she actually gave me one! Then she started blowing kisses. And now, she leans forward for me to kiss her tiny little forehead. I could hug that girl forever, except after about two seconds the hug is over and she pushes me away and starts pointing at a piece of lint on the floor and reaches out for that instead of me, but as soon as I ask her for a hug again, she willingly gives one.

Were the horrible days of wanting nothing to do with my baby worth it to get to this place of appreciation and love? Probably. Would I want to go through it again? Hell no.

But what I have learned is that in our short lived hugs together there is peace. When I sit with her on the floor and she builds her block towers and squeals and points for me to see it, there is peace. When she lays still in her crib while I tuck her in at night, there is peace. When we're driving home from a fun filled weekend at Nana and Papa's house and she's sleeping in the backseat, there is peace.

These moments do not happen multiple times a day. Some days are filled with cries and tantrums and her attempting to throw a toy at me because I told her no or won't let her eat my shoe, and some days are filled with boredom when she has no interest in her toys and relies solely on me or Hubs to help her climb to dangerous heights on furniture (no dear child, no). Some days are harder than others. Some days I need to walk away from her and just have a moment to myself. Some days I wish she would just watch TV and give me a break for an hour or two (too young?). Some days I get frustrated. Some (most) days I make Hubs do most of the dirty work (literally, because some of those diapers I just can't even). Some days go too slow and I count the minutes until bedtime. And some days I never want to end because I can't believe how amazing this is and I fear tomorrow will be a poop-filled, crying over my dirty shoes kind of day that I won't be able to handle.

I take those moments of peace I have with P and I tuck them away for when days like that happen. I keep them close to me for when I'm having a bad day. I remember them when I'm struggling. When P was born, she was only able to take, but I was too sick to give. I'll spend forever trying to make that time up to her and to myself, but I will find peace in knowing that I am well enough to give now, and on the days when she can't that I am more than happy for her to take.

When You Lose the Battle

I was standing by the kitchen sink. Hubs was standing next to me telling me about his day, when our two dogs entered the kitchen. And that's when it happened. My blood pressure sky rocketed, my mind went blank and I could no longer hear what Hubs was saying. I lost it. I began screaming at the dogs to get out of the kitchen, get out of my way, get out of my life, they were ruining everything and always in the way and couldn't I just please get a moment to myself for ONCE! The dogs ran away, clearly in fear. 'Why are you yelling?' Hubs stopped telling his story. Because they're always in my way and I'm sick of it! I lied. The real reason?

I didn't know.

I had no idea why I irrationally flew off the handle, flew into a rage and screamed. And that wasn't the first time, nor was it the last. Yelling was normal in our house now. I yelled (yell) constantly. At everything. At the dishes, at the laundry, at the dogs, at the weather, at the bathroom sink, at the water in the tub, the food on the floor, the dogs not eating when I wanted them to....you name it, I found a reason to be mad about it.

But it wasn't just the anger. I distanced myself from others and didn't open up much about what I was really going through. I went through the motions, but the real stuff stayed in. The stuff I wanted to say and ask and find opinions on what my friends thought was going on, but I couldn't. I wanted to know if it was normal to follow your baby around when they played and put their toys away behind them, or to constantly feel the need to be cleaning something up, to get mad when dishes weren't washed right away or put in the dishwasher, to feel utterly irked by the fact that melted snow made a tiny puddle by the door. Is it normal to be completely annoyed by a puppy wanting to cuddle with you? Was it okay that I didn't want anyone or anything touching me, unless it was P giving me a hug or sitting on my lap? Was that alright? Is it normal to go on a weekend getaway to the lake, but constantly feel the need to be cleaning something or moving? To wipe down restaurant tables after eating and tidy up? Are these just normal 'mom' things?

I honestly felt that these little quarks, these feelings, these worries and annoyances, were normal to mtoherhood.

The first time I became of how out of control I had become was when P started to fear me. I had yelled at the dogs for something or another and P started to cry. I hadn't yelled at her, she had done nothing wrong, but she felt like she had. She sat on the dining floor crying, refusing to reach her arms out to me when I tried to pick her up to comfort her. And that's when I knew. I was causing fear in my own child of me, the person that she's suppose to be able to count on, to feel safe and comforted by, to receive love from. This wasn't an end all that made me see the error of my ways. This same scenario played out multiple times and eventually P cried almost every time we were alone together. I told myself it was just a phase, but deep down I knew it was because she was afraid of my temper.

It was February 3rd, 2015 when I was first diagnosed with postpartum depression and it was August 4, 2015 when I deemed myself well enough to stop taking medication. But sometime after that things blurred. My recovery turned into anxiety and my anxiety turned into anger, an anger I couldn't control. I pushed it away and thought if I ignored it that it would fix itself. I was afraid of relapse. I was afraid of old feelings. I was afraid of letting everyone down around me that I wasn't better. I preach to women on a daily basis that they are warriors, that there is no shame in seeking help and that the sooner they get that help the sooner they would feel better. But I couldn't take my own advice. It was too hard to accept that I wasn't over this.

When I started this blog, it was mostly to help my recovery. Writing has always been an outlet for me and I thought if I could write my entire life about everything and get through it, then I can write my way through this too. Over time, my outlet turned towards a bigger cause: helping others. I wanted to be honest, even if it was embarrassing or intrusive, because I wanted other women, and society, to see the truth in PPD. So here I am again, being honest, being open and letting everyone intrude themselves into my life. I am not better. I still struggle. I find it hard to ask for help and accept when I need it. I struggled for months before giving in.

It was February 8, 2016 when I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety and my recovery has no set end date. I won't stop fighting for this. I may have lost this battle, but I am determined to win the war.

The Silent Struggle

Ah, Wednesday. The week is half over and the weekend is almost here - wahoo!

Except.

I love work. I love getting up early, getting ready, going to work and sitting there all day, going home, playing with my baby and making her dinner and putting her to bed, then relaxing on the couch with Hubs and our furbabies. And five days of the week that is our routine. The other two days? They can be painful.

I try to stay busy on weekends. I try to leave town or make a list of errands to run to get out of the house. I need plans. What happens if I don't have a plan? Panic. Anxiety. Not because I'm Type A, but because PPD. Weekends, when nothing is happening and no one is around, are when small glimpses of maternity leave seem to creep their way back into our living room. And what happens when those memories come back to the surface? Panic. Anxiety. No, I don't burst into tears and have full blown breakdowns like before, but the anxiety stays and rises. I worry. Inside, I'm freaking out.

I spend my week brainstorming ways to leave the house on weekends. I wish I could be at work every day. Understand it's not because I don't want to be around P, because I do. I love hanging out with her and cuddling her and taking her places and watching how excited she gets when she sees something for the first time, and for that reason I cannot stand being home with her. When you're pregnant, it sounds relaxing. Baby gets older and starts to play independently while you sit on the couch and watch in awe, sipping a cup of coffee and flipping through a magazine. Maybe you imagined yourself watching a movie, or painting your nails or organizing your kitchen cupboards. Fat chance, and good luck. Once baby is here and playing independently your days (or atleast, mine) are spent chasing them around the house, putting tupperware back in cupboards, pulling them away from the dog dish, making snacks, putting down for naps, changing poopy diapers (seriously, how much can one small person poop in a day?), reading the same book 17 times, scolding them to get out of the garbage can, attempting to do the dishes only to wash one before said small person poops again.....the days can be busy. They are busy. But they can be painful and lonely. In between chasing a toddler around, there is down time, when you sit on the couch and watch them play with blocks (for about three minutes) when you don't know what to do. And those moments are frequent throughout the day. The moments come and go of being busy and moving and being productive and moments of being still and silent and panic filled.

Where does the panic come from? There is no harm in simply staying home and just not doing anything, you crazy lady. You're right. There isn't. But somehow, staying home with P and simply 'watching her' for 12 hours straight has the power to bring me to the brink of insanity. And don't think these moments are better because Hubs is there. He is. But the anxiety still happens. The anxiety does not stem from loneliness, but from the mere memories that tend to surface when I am stuck inside my home for an entire day.

There is a silent struggle. Not every day poses challenges, but each week does. I don't know if it will get easier. I don't know if it will get worse. But PPD took 9 long months to build and take over every minute of my life, and 'getting over' it I suspect is going to take many, many long months.

What I do know is that as long as I'm out, busy, experiencing, doing, everything is okay. And if the worst thing that happens is that I get a few more things on my to do list done, or experience a few extra things with my daughter, then I guess it's not so bad.

Reflections and Goodbyes

I cannot express how extremely happy I am that we are in the final hours of 2015. This past year has brought me life changes, tears, heartache, hopelessness, selfishness, a joy and love I never thought I could feel towards another person, amazing new friends and a diagnosis that I never expected.

But let's talk about all that bad stuff for a minute. I spent the first couple months of 2015 in tears. Every moment of everyday that someone could not see me, I was in tears. At times, hysterical tears. I once sat on my daughters bedroom floor while she napped in her crib bawling so hard I lost track of time, and before I knew it two hours had passed and she was awake. Yep, let's leave that in 2015.

Not only did 2015 start off in full blown tear sessions, but I felt hopeless. I never thought I would be happy. I didn't think I would ever find who I was in the new role I was given as a mother. I was scared I would live the rest of my life feeling uncertain and miserable. It physically hurt to smile, to laugh, to talk to someone about my baby when they asked....

And then came the extraordinary relief of validation. Validation that it was okay the I felt the way I was feeling. Validation that I wasn't alone. Validation that I wasn't the only one who had ever felt this way. Validation that there was a way out and that I would be able to feel good again.

I sit and write this to you, my wonderful readers, from the same couch I broke down on and told Hubs how I felt. The same couch I could barely move from the first two months of my daughters life. The same couch that I rested on to make that phone call to see my doctor. And now, here we are 10 months after that phone call was made, on this couch, the same one I sat on and read to my daughter this morning before day care, and the same one that tonight I cuddled her on before saying goodnight and putting her to bed.

Why, yes, 2015 has brought it's shares of struggles. But there was good stuff too.

I met this amazing group of women (my Tribe) that I talk to daily. I gained this ridiculous sense of self confidence and motivation. I became a Warrior Mom with Postpartum Progress and connected with other recovering and recovered mamas. I learned what unconditional love was through my recovery; my heart no longer hurts when I look at my daughter, but swells up with immense happiness and love for her. Because of her, I have found peace in the events that have happened over the course of the year and learned that it is not always about forgiving others, but about forgiving yourself and relieving the burden we tend to carry with us.

I don't have any goals for 2016. I don't think I need to make any. I don't think a date on a calendar should set the precedent for change to be a better person. I'm pretty sure no year could be more challenging or trying than this one, and I am ready to put that behind me. There are days I still struggle. I consider myself recovered now, but I am not cured. I am determined to focus on me, my family and my career, instead of living up to some unrealistic goal for myself that I must achieve within 365 days or else I will have failed the whole year. No.

What I can promise you though, is that I will never again let something rob me of the time I have here in the way that PPD did. I will not take for granted the people in my life I care about. I will never suffer in silence again, refusing to ask for help because of fear. I will trust that those I am closest to in my life have my best interest in mind and will not judge me. I will experience everything I can, take chances, and make a difference. I will be thankful for my recovery and strive to feel joy in each day.

And with that, I am not just saying goodbye to 2015, but I am bidding farewell to PPD: your place is in 2015, and in 2015 you shall stay.

My readers, thank you for sticking with me all year (seriously, huge props to those that have stuck with me since the first post). I am so excited for the coming year and the BIG things that are happening. I cannot wait to share all of these exciting happenings with you as they come. Happy New Year, and I'll see you next year.

Why I Won't Teach My Daughter to Share

We've heard it our whole life: Share. You share with kids in schools and you share your toys when friends come over to your house and you share what you have with others because it's just nice and makes you a nice person, right?

I don't know about you, but after middle school I stopped 'sharing' things with people. Usually, they lost them or broke them. Typically, they 'forgot' to give it back and probably still have it to this day or pawned it for cigarette money. So I'm over sharing, and I refuse to teach my children to take part of this barbaric tradition we teach kids.

I think my passion stemmed from a story Hubs told me. He was doing pick up at daycare and P was sitting in the toddler room, which was pretty typical for that late in the day, and she was playing with a toy phone when a toddler came up to her and ripped it from her hands. Luckily, P is pretty chill and just rolled with it. Upon hearing this story, I got super Mama Bear. I asked Hubs if he yelled at the kid (I would have) and he explained that he just stared at him (trying not to push him over, I would assume). I asked him if any of the teachers yelled at him (they didn't). Umm what the hell. This, my readers, is not sharing. This is being an asshole. But the situation itself is not uncommon. How many times do we see a child cry because they want the toy someone else has? And more often than not, we tell the child to hand it over to the whiny one because it's 'nice to share.' Admit it, because we're all guilty of it. And we were all wrong.

I believe there is a difference in sharing (total bullshit) and playing nice. I want P to play nice with other kids, but not be told she has to give up a toy she is playing with and 'share' it with someone else just because they want it. I want a lot of things, but I'm pretty sure that if I cry every day about the Mercedes I wouldn't mind driving, that no one is going to just give it to me. P is not always going to get her way. P won't always get what someone else has, and in no way am I going to raise her to think that she is owed something just because someone else has it and she wants it too.

Maybe my toddler story isn't fair. Maybe a teacher didn't see him do it. Maybe they didn't think it was a big deal because Hubs was there to take her home anyways and obviously she had to be done with the toy because she was leaving. Maybe that kid really is just an asshole and thinks it's okay to rip toys from a baby's hands, but it stirred something in me. As much as I don't want P thinking if she asks nicely or cries enough for something that someone else has to give it to her, I also don't want her to think that if someone else asks or cries at her that she needs to give up what she has. That's not how the world will work for most of her life, so that is not how her life should work as a small child.

Now don't get me wrong, P won't be running around hoarding toys yelling 'MINE MINE MINE.' No, she will be raised to play nice. Play with others and play nice. Don't feel like you need to give something up if you're not done with it. You have just as much right to an object as the next person. Under no circumstance should you feel like you need to give something to someone for no reason simply because they wanted it too. Don't take from others. Wait your turn. Don't be an asshole.

It's simple, right? Stop sharing. (Unless you own that Mercedes and are looking to give it away, in which case, I'll take that).

The Working Mommy

It recently occurred to me that I started this blog to share my experience as a new mom in the midst of postpartum depression recovery, and working full time, yet I have yet to really talk about what a typical day is like in my full time life. So, here I am again (in case you missed me) forfeiting some details about my life as a full time mom, full time wife, full time furmommy and full time working lady.

My day technically starts at 6:30am. I don't start my day until about 6:45am. I get P ready in the morning and finally start working on myself. I try to hurry and have everything ready the night before, but sometimes it just doesn't work out that way. I'm usually late to work. 8:02 a.m. Never fails. Some days I'm early. 7:58 a.m.....yessss.

I work for a great company. I spend 9 hours a day there and sometimes I'm not ready to leave at 5. Sometimes I wish I could stay longer, not because I don't want to go home to my baby, but because I'm really into what I'm doing and wish I could keep working on it. I get a sincere sense of enjoyment and fulfillment from my job. Not every day at work is a great day, but I've never truly felt a sense of dread when I walk into the office on a Monday morning.

I think working full time and wanting to work full time throws a lot of people for a loop, especially stay at home moms. I've been asked if I don't get a sense of enjoyment from my baby if I'm needing to find it in my work at the office. These two things, family and work, are not the same thing. It is not the same feeling. I am a mom, but I am also me. When I became a mother I added another being in my life for me to love, but it did not replace the love I have for other things. Becoming a mom did not take away the passion I have for other endeavors. It added to it. I work because I want my family to have the best health care. I work so my family can have the income to send our children to the best day care. I work so my family can live in a nice home, take vacations, support two hungry furbabies and have opportunities we might otherwise have to go without. I want P to go to college. I want P to not have to worry about how she will go to college. I might never be able to afford to pay for her entire college experience, but when the time comes I want to be able to tell her I tried, I am trying, and we're going to make it work. I want P to grow up in a place where she can take advantage of every opportunity she wants, not just the ones I can fit into my budget. I work and give up time during the day with her so I can provide her with life long advantages, not just short term ones.

After work I am overjoyed to pick up P from daycare. We go home and I let the dogs out and feed them their supper. Then her and I play, she helps me make dinner, watches me fold laundry and unload the dishwasher. On a rare occasion we might have to run an errand. We eat dinner together and clean up the house, then Hubs comes home and gives her a bath and puts her to bed. I keep cleaning and doing laundry, letting the dogs out, prepping meals and snacks for the next day and making grocery lists. I might pay a bill or answer some emails. I'm constantly moving. Sometimes I go to the gym or make a late grocery store run. By 8 p.m. I am almost always settled in on the couch with a glass of wine and Words With Friends.

My day ends at 10 p.m. I'm exhausted. But sometimes I am enjoying this time with Hubs so much that I just can't bring myself to close my eyes. I enjoy his company. I enjoy having conversations with him and laughing with him after a long day without the distractions of a little person tugging on my pant leg or crying because a dog licked her face. Sometimes my day ends at 11 p.m. Sometimes later.

My days are busy, crazy, non-stop, and rarely involve a break. I am constantly multi-tasking and constantly wishing coffee stayed warmer longer. There are days I feel like saying screw it and letting the house get messy and grabbing a pizza for dinner instead of cooking, but my mom never did that. My mom never stopped working, moving and giving. Whether I like it or not, P is watching me. P is studying and learning from everything I'm doing. If I give up, if I say screw it, if I let myself stop living these crazy days, what will she think of me? What will she think of our family? Of herself? Of her future? Maybe I'm over thinking it.

Of course I miss her! I have her picture on my desk. I have her artwork on my walls. I think about her almost all day. I talk about her to my co-workers and show them funny pictures of her on my phone. I don't think about the time I'm missing out on with her because I'm too busy planning all the things we're going to do together in the time we do have. I don't worry about milestones she's making without me, but I hope if she does start walking that daycare keeps their mouths shut and lets me think she's doing it for the first time with me. I leave P every day with people who keep her safe and meet her needs, who play with her and provide her with way cooler toys than what I can. I leave her with people she loves and reaches for when we drop her off every morning, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

At the end of the day I love being a working mom. I take pride in the fact that I work my 45 hours a week, can come home and still take care of my family, the household, my two Ferrel dogs, and keep everyone happy. That's why I work. That's why I won't be a stay at home mom. That's why I won't ever feel guilty for putting P in daycare so I can go to work. And that's why I'm grateful for the opportunities I have and that I'm able to provide my family with. And one day, I hope P will be grateful too.

My two adorable furbabies. 

**Disclaimer: this post is a reflection of our everyday life post-recovery from PPD.  This is not a representation of what life was like before seeking help and starting a treatment plan. I also want to make it clear that I in no way feel superior to stay at home parents. Two, full time working parents is what works for our family at this moment in our lives. For those who do stay home with their children, it truly does take a tremendous amount of strength and integrity and I admire you for those qualities.**

Stigmas, Lies and the Government - Oh My!!

Disclaimer: This post may contain triggers. This is your warning.

Alrighty then.

Please raise your hand if you think mental health stigmas in this country no longer exist. Don't worry, I'll wait.

Why didn't you raise your hand? Oh, that's right, because that was really dumb of me to ask. OF COURSE we still have stigmas around mental health. If we didn't, why did you struggle for so long to ask for help? It's hard! We're afraid of what a doctor will tell us, what our families and friends will think and that recovery won't work.

Next question won't be so difficult. I'll make it multiple choice.

What is the #1 killer of infants and children in America? A - SIDS, B - Birth Defects, C - the hands of parents........don't worry, I'll wait.

If you guessed B, you're correct. If you guessed C, you are highly misinformed. Here, let me help you.

Being diagnosed with a perinatal mood disorder does not mean you will hurt your child. It does not mean you are at risk of hurting yourself or others. It means you need help, and with the right help you can recover and live a fulfilling life of joy and happiness with your friends and family. It means you're struggling more than others, that you need someone to listen more than before, that you need to be taken care of and that you need time to heal. It does not mean you are crazy. It does not mean you don't love your children or your spouse.

Last night, the March of Dimes hosted a Twitter chat about postpartum depression in new moms in the NICU (bravo to them for starting the conversation, by the way). Throughout this conversation a comment (not made by the March of Dimes) was made that not only shocked me, but it hurt me. It hit home for me. It stated that postpartum depression was the leading cause of death in infants in our country. Well, the good news is that, according to these people, stigmas on mental health no longer exist. Thank goodness. Because now I have been classified as a number one suspect for murdering my child, but I no longer need to fear asking for help or seeking help. Pardon my language, but only a true idiot could make a statement such as this.

It's hard to write about this. It's hard to even think about. It angers me beyond belief. Through my own recovery I have met countless recovered moms who adore their children. I have met women that are currently struggling and counseled them, helped them find help, and assure them things will be okay. They're scared and they want to know what to expect, what the doctor will say, what to do if their doctor doesn't believe them, and there are times when I struggle to convince them IT WILL BE OKAY! It will be okay. But as long as statements like these are made, women (and men) are only instilled with more fear. Fear that now the life of their child is at risk. I'm not naive, I know not every person recovers and there are times when it ends in tragedy, but I also know better than to think that every woman is putting the life of her child in danger because she isn't happy anymore.

I am asking you to help. I am asking you to reach out to the Office of Women's Health and ask them for their help. We need to keep the conversation going, but more importantly, we need to keep the conversation going in the right direction. We need to make strides forward, not backwards.

 

 Photo courtesy of Katherine Stone, PPI. You can read her original reaction to this event here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/postpartum-depression-stigma

PSA: I Have No Idea What I'm Doing

Going into motherhood I had the typical image in my head: home dishelved, dishes piling high, take out bags scattered about, my hair a mess and the thought of wearing jeans is just a distant memory. And as my pregnancy progressed I accepted that my home was going to change and began to prepare for the tornado that was about to strike. But things turned out a bit differently. Most days end with the satisfaction of knowing I worked a full day, hit the gym, did laundry, cooked dinner and took care of my family to the best of my ability. Maybe even ran an errand or two. I call those my Super Woman Days. And they happen a lot. *toot toot*

Some days are harder than others, I admit. There are days when the laundry basket sits for four days full of clean clothes because I just really don't want to put them away. Sometimes we eat off paper plates. There are nights when P just won't stay asleep and one of us (Hubs) ends up sleeping in the recliner cuddling with her half the night. The dogs run away, we forget it's garbage day and trash bags pile up, and the cupboards become empty and we're stuck with frozen pizza for dinner again. But for the most part we got this.

I am happy. Hubs is happy. P is happy. The dogs are probably happy, but who can really tell. We go on family walks and eat dinner together. We take trips, laugh and play, tickle tiny baby feet and take turns changing diapers. We read books to P and play silly games together. We try really hard to make sure she has everything she needs to have a happy childhood and a successful future, but want to know the secret to it all? I have no idea what I'm doing.

The internet is filled with forums and parenting blogs confusing and panicking parents into an all out frenzy if they're making the right decision, and if you don't you are potentially psychologically damaging your child for life. {Because we weren't already terrified enough as parents.}

I'm not immune to these same worries. I Google just about everything, but I try not to stress about what I read, nor do I choose to believe everything I read, regardless of who the source is. I choose to believe that the decision I feel is beneficial for my baby is, despite what the mom of 7 kids who has 'seen it all' says on that forum.

We gave P cereal at 4 months. We gave her puree's at 5 months. She slept in a rock and play until 8 weeks old and was then left completely alone in her own crib in her own room in complete darkness and has been there ever since. I stopped trying to force her to look away from the TV at 6 weeks old. We've let her suck on a lemon that was in our glass of beer without rinsing it off. We used the Cry It Out method (and it worked, and it's been awesome). P doesn't wear shoes. In fact, sometimes we even let her teethe on shoes. She's had two colds and both times we gave her baby cold medicine, switched on the humidifier and let it run it's course (which took forever, by the way). She's sat in jumpers and exersaucers longer than the allowed 15 minutes. She sleeps with a blanky. I don't check on her in the middle of the night. Sometimes she wears boy clothes. I didn't really care to be anywhere near her the first 6 weeks of her life and y'know what? She doesn't even hold it against me. She still climbs on my lap and smiles and cuddles and reaches out for me when I walk by.

I have no idea if any of these decisions we've made for P are going to damage her in the long term. I actually highly doubt any of them will. She appears to be healthy. She's happy. She likes being around us (usually). Why as parents do we feel the need to ask, to Google search, to reach for answers from every stranger on the internet if what our baby is doing or isn't doing is normal? If it's okay to take them outside when it's 30 degrees out (it is, and it's called a coat)? I once saw a mom ask Facebook if it was okay that her baby didn't want a pacifier and if she should be concerned.

I may not know what I'm doing, but you need to trust yourself. Listen to your baby. Trust your baby and trust your instincts. Don't take your baby outside in -50 and a blizzard, but don't be afraid of a little fresh air. Your baby probably needs to go to a doctor if they haven't eaten in two days, but they're probably okay if they just don't want that pacifier in their mouth all the time.

Someone once told me I made parenting look easy. Maybe I'm naive because P is only 11 months old and the worst is yet to come, but it really is easy. There is no secret. I try not to stress about the things I can't control and I make sure P doesn't fall down the stairs or eat an electrical cord, and as long as she isn't doing those things and is laughing with a belly full of food, why do I need to be concerned?

You'd be surprised how much easier life can be when you stop worrying and just start flying by the seat of your pants. You end up in some great places. <3

An Open Letter to Everyone Else

To Whom It May Concern,

My daughter is pretty awesome. And I'm not just saying that because she's mine. She's happy. She smiles and laughs....sometimes, when you tickle under her chin, she does this deep belly laugh that seriously melts your heart. She scowls, she waves, she claps....she dances to rap music and falls asleep to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole. See, she's pretty cool. 
 

She has a best friend (whose a boy, but he's a gentleman, so we're not getting too protective yet). She loves long stroller rides and falls asleep during car trips. She really doesn't care much for TV, but can't take her eyes off the screen during crime shows and Resident Evil. She sweetly says dada when she's happy, and yells mama when she's mad. She walks now too, did you know that? Probably not. She still needs to be holding on to something, but otherwise she pretty much has the walking thing down. She loves her puppies and forgives everyone. Lucky for you. However, her mama ain't quite so laid back.

Her mama is one big protective bear.

Unlike my innocent 10 month old, I have life experience. I know what you're doing. It's too much work for you now. You have your own life, your own family, your own stuff to do. I get it, and I understand. Things come up, people get busy and sometimes it just doesn't always work out to visit. That's okay. But if you do choose to be a part of my daughter's life, it cannot be later. As her mama bear, I took the oath the day she was born to protect her and teach her and make sure I do the right thing to ensure she grows up strong and successful. Please don't think for a second I will make an exception to that oath for you. No, no. I will protect her from the heartbreak of the revolving door of people that claim to care about her. She's 10 months old. She's not new. The door is slowly closing and pretty soon you'll need to get through me to get to her. 

This isn't personal. It isn't mean or malicious or comes with some type of personal agenda. It's a mama bear, with life experience, refusing to let her cub get hurt.
 


I have volunteered this delicate information about my daughter to you. You have not asked. You don't stop by. You weren't there to lend a listening ear when we were dealing with the very real case that our awesome daughter could potentially have a hearing disability (she's fine, by the way). You've never changed a diaper or pushed her in a swing at the park. You haven't taken her on a walk or tried to soothe her cries. Luckily, other people have. People I have not had to ask, people who I have known for mere moments of time....and I encourage you to remember this if the day shall come where you decide to accuse me of purposely keeping my child from you for my own personal gain.

You have met her less than a handful of times, if you've even met her at all. The only pictures you have are ones you've seen on Facebook. This will be all you will ever have. So enjoy it. Soak it all in and accept it. We'll be okay here; we're not missing you at all.