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.

The Thank You Note

Christmas 2014 was one of the most eventful days of my life thus far. My parents were visiting since I was days away from my due date and couldn't travel, and we were celebrating Christmas in a small apartment, playing games, eating food (and more food) and spending the last few moments together before a new little baby would join us. My water broke on this day. Luckily, we were able to open presents before this happened. I can't recall one thing I received as a gift last year, but I do remember that well over half the gifts stacked in the corner of that apartment living room were for a person that hadn't even been born yet. Amongst her many gifts was a sweater. This adorable, hand-knit, baby pink sweater that my grandma's friend (whom I'd never met) had made for P. It was a little big, it wouldn't fit her until the next winter, but it was absolutely adorable and mostly unexpected.

The day after we got home from the hospital my parents brought the many, many Christmas gifts over to our house. As we went through them putting everything away my mom found that sweater. Tucked inside of it was a letter from my grandma telling me about her friend that made it, along with her address so I could send her a thank you note. I hung the sweater in P's closet and put the note on the kitchen counter as a reminder to send a thank you. My mom reminded me not to forget to send that thank you.

About two weeks later my mom saw the letter on my counter still and reminded me to send a thank you. Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it. I have a newborn, I don't have time for a thank you, I'll send it soon.

Two more weeks went by and my mom again asked me if I had sent that thank you. I hadn't. The letter was still on my counter, completely untouched.

I stared at that letter for two months before giving up and throwing it away. Every day I would look at it and tell myself to send the thank you. It wasn't that hard. I had blank thank you notes in a kitchen drawer, stamps and return address stickers....literally all I had to do was write Thank You on a card and mail it out. But I couldn't. The act of writing something down and mailing it out just seemed so crippling. I was physically incapable of doing a simple task that would take me less than a minute to accomplish. When I finally threw that letter away I felt so much relief. It was like this burden had been lifted off my shoulders because I finally didn't have to worry about sending out a thank you note anymore. If I couldn't see the reminder to do something then I didn't have to do it, right?

Here's my point: PPD is not in your head. It is not something to 'get over.' It is not overreacting. It does not mean you are weak or lazy. PPD is serious, in some cases severe and fatal, and can make even the most simple task, like a Thank You note, become daunting and impossible.

The sweater fits P now. She wears it to day care on chilly days and on long car rides for extra warmth. It looks adorable on her too. It was the first thing anyone had ever made, just for her, and by hand. And the most meaningful part is that it was made by a complete stranger who was also waiting and preparing for her arrival just as much as her parents and family. I don't have the note anymore, I don't remember the ladies name, and I will probably never thank her, but what I am left with is the reminder of how crippling PPD was in my life and how far myself and my family have come. And one super cute girl in one adorable little sweater.

How Running Saved My Life

I'm a runner.

If you know me, you probably just laughed a little bit. And you probably laughed a little bit because a runner can't be fat. And me? Well I might be a few pounds overweight. But wanna know something? Being overweight does not mean you can't run. And running saved my life.

It started a couple years ago. A close friend of mine had started running and she made it seem so easy! She would just get up, run a few miles, and get on with her life. Well. I could certainly do that. Then, in January 2014, that same friend told me about a weight loss challenge she was joining and invited me to participate with her. This was exactly what I needed! I jumped at the chance and the next week the challenge started. I wanted to do well. I wanted to lose weight and be healthier, prettier, and thinner. I bought a treadmill. And woke up the next day and started running. I ran 4-5 days a week during that challenge. I felt strong. And each week at weigh in I would slowly see the weight melt off. Like, super slowly. But I was getting healthier. I felt better. I felt like how I wished I'd felt my entire life.

I didn't win the challenge (my friend did though - go her!) but I fell in love with running. And when the challenge ended, that's when my love turned unconditional. Within weeks of the challenge ending I found out I was pregnant (thank you weight loss), but I didn't want that to hold me back. I had been overweight my whole life and I didn't want pregnancy to negate all the hard work I had put in. I kept running, I kept working out and I kept eating right, until morning sickness took over and I lost all lung capacity. So I took a few months off and didn't run again until getting the OK from my doctor after P was born (and yes, I am going to brag about how I only gained 12 pounds my entire pregnancy because dammit, do you know how hard it is to watch every thing you eat when you are pregnant? It was hard work and I am damn proud of it. Brag over). I was already deep into my depression at this point, but I knew that running could help me.

I had just started anti-depressants, but needed them to work quicker. I couldn't wait 30 days for the full effects. When was the last time I was really happy? What was I doing? Running!! Hubs would come home on his lunch break and I would hand him the baby and go running on my treadmill and damn, I felt great! As I was running I would feel so happy, so fulfilled, so me and normal again. I really felt like I had this mothering thing under control because while I was running, I really had my shit together. But then Hubs' lunch break would end and I would be sitting there again, sweaty and hungry and holding this tiny baby that made me cry for no reason. And as quickly as those feelings of being super mom had come, they would leave. Just.like.that.

Running gave me hope. I was depressed, I was as low as I could possibly get, but then I would have these moments of happiness. Those moments only happened when I was running. So I was capable of being happy again and feeling normal and being me and knowing I could get my shit together. There were days of sadness, but there were moments of happiness hidden in between the glimpses of darkness.

I don't run anymore to lose weight, although it is a bonus. I run because it makes me happy. I run because I feel strong. I run because I feel like I am accomplishing something that myself (and many others) didn't think I could. I run because I want to challenge myself to be a better person. I run so I can fit into smaller jeans. I run because I freaking want to and I freaking like it. So you can go ahead and chuckle all you want when you look at me and think this is what a runner shouldn't look like, and you can tell me running is too hard or you don't understand it, and that's okay. I don't run for you anyways.

Success Disguised as a Failure

I try to be strong. I'm a mom. And I'm a supporter. I aid women overcoming perinatal mood disorders in an online support group; I take on their struggles and feelings and doubts and reassure them relief is near and recovery is possible. I preach it all day long to anyone willing to listen. But I have bad days too. Lately, I've had a lot. And after awhile it gets really hard to disguise them. My true colors are shining through. And I hate it.

How can I support all these other women when there are times I barely am holding my own shit together? How can I tell them it gets better when I am in fear that I myself am relapsing? How can I assure you that you will eventually feel like yourself again when I'm not entirely sure which role I should play anymore?

I still consider myself recovered as I find joy in each day, absolutely adore my daughter, I eat regular meals (at one point I stopped eating altogether), I sleep all night every night (usually), I look forward to things, I laugh with friends and mean it, and most of all am living a medicated free life (this is by far a huge accomplishment). I am recovered. But since I was a child I have always been plagued by the What Ifs. And I often think of the poem WhatIf by Shel Silverstein, a favorite of mine as a kid, and the part that goes:

Last night, while I lay thinking here,
Some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
And pranced and partied all night long
And sang their same old Whatif song.

Unfortunately, that WhatIf bug has been hanging out all.damn.day. So I appear a little needier. I'm a bit more irritated, more easily annoyed, a little more on edge....

I have recovered. I know that relief is possible and recovery is too. I know these things. I have felt these things. I AM these things. So why on Earth would I feel like I am taking steps backwards? I have been thinking about this for a couple weeks now in silence for fear that I have relapsed. For fear that I need to go back to the doctor. And I have honestly been waiting for Hubs to tell me he's had enough and to go back and tell the doctor I'm not better, but he hasn't. Because now that I've been thinking about it these last couple weeks, I realize that I am not relapsing. I am still learning. I don't fully understand PPD, so I continue to educate myself, and it is through that education I am re-living those early times of P's life. I remember those feelings so vividly it feels as though they could have happened yesterday. I think it's important to remember those feelings if I ever want to help someone else. 

I am human, afterall, who has life experiences and feelings and recovery means not forgetting that. If I forget, if I don't stay relevant, then my advice and support to those currently experiencing PPD/A/P will become robotic. My words will be monotone and my heart won't be in it anymore and if my heart isn't in it anymore, well then, that torture I experienced and that misery I felt would have all been for nothing.

 So yes, I might be a little irritable some days. I might get annoyed by the way you tap the steering wheel when you drive or the way you're chewing your food, but it's those WhatIfs...they're there, and we're working on finding them a new home, but if you could just bare with me for a moment while I try to get my shit together and work through it, I promise I'll do something good with it. I promise to keep moving forward and to keep helping others. I'm only human. I need a bad day here and there. And I promise that if you let me have one, I'll let you have one too.

The New Guide to Mamahood

#1 Have mama friends (if you're not sure exactly what this means, see previous post). You need mama friends, but the best part is they need you too. When that baby pukes in your hair right after you finally styled it for the first time in weeks, your mama friends will feel the pain with you. And if you pump 8 ounces of breastmilk in a single session, your mama friends are so ecstatic for you that you would think they were the ones accomplishing this feat. Yes, you need mama friends. Go get some.

#2 Always have a bottle of wine on hand, in case of emergencies. So after that baby pukes in your freshly styled hair and you end up wearing a pony tail all day, which is then too tight and gives you a headache so you end up sick at work and unable to drink your coffee until 4 p.m. when you suddenly realize you've had no coffee at all today (dear God, the horror), and you get home and the dishes have piled up and your crockpot dinner burned....oh yes mama, open that bottle of wine! The only thing that will make that day worse is to have to go back out the door to the liquor store and deal with the general population to get that bottle of wine. So save yourself the trouble and just always have a few bottles on hand.

#3 Tell your mama friends everything. Tell them the funny shit. The sad shit. The embarrassing shit. They're not going to judge you. They are going to embrace you. They will be brutally honest with you because they had two hours of sleep last night and a baby hanging off their boob the last 3 days; they don't have time to be nice to you. They will laugh with you and encourage you. Do not fear their judgement, for it barely, if ever, exists.

#4 Cut your hair. Or don't. But if you want to, do it. You gotta feel good about yourself, be happy, feel confident. Do what you gotta do it and just do it. And if you regret it? Refer to rule #3. 

#5 Stop enjoying every moment because not every moment is enjoyable. I really hate when people tell me to love every minute with P. Sorry, but I don't. I don't love when she pulls my hair out and screams and kicks me in the stomach. I don't love the car rides where shes wailing in the backseat for 45 minutes. I don't care for the nights she wakes up 3,017 times just to say hello. I don't find peace in her screaming because I clipped a nail too short. I am not happy when I am stressing over the fact she stopped taking a bottle from me. So no, I will not enjoy every moment and you should feel ashamed for making me feel like I should. Dear parents, you're allowed to not enjoy every damn minute of your time with your children.

#6 Be selfish. Sometimes. You deserve time for you too. You deserve to treat yourself and feel good about. Don't let anyone guilt you because you went out dancing for the first time in two years, or the fact you spent $60 on coloring your hair, or that $40 Express sweater you've been eyeing all Fall...do you girl, and do it well!

#7 Don't take shit from anyone. Really, who the hell has time for that? Sorry people of the world, but I do not have time to deal with your crap. I have enough crap of my own to deal with. Unless you're one of those mama's.....I can squeeze you into my day anytime.

#8 Embrace mommyhood. Don't be ashamed that you can't do the things you used to or that you prefer the Cartwheel app over Instagram now. Don't let anyone make you feel bad that 10 p.m. is late and past your bed time (ahem, rule #7), because you're the one getting up with a baby the next morning, not them. Be whatever mommy you want. Breastfeed, formula feed, wear your baby, don't wear your baby, baptize, don't baptize, let your baby teethe on a shoe, or not. But whatever methods you choose to raise your children with, embrace them. Embrace the new you. Embrace the early bed time and quiet weekend evenings. Embrace the mom car.