How a face can change when a heart knows fear.

I wanted to start off by thanking everyone for their kind words and support. So many people let me know they read and offered their support and help if I needed it. Even relatable stories and wisdom of "It gets better" are more help than you'll ever know. Someone even shared a song that lifted my spirits and has been on constant repeat on my playlist.

I think there may have been a small misunderstanding of sorts that I wanted to clarify though. I don't feel like I'm failing at being a parent. I'm a good mom. If there's anything I know - it's that. I love my daughter with everything that I am. That is actually, in fact, my problem. I want to be spending time with her and spending all of my time doing things for her and learning things about her and to help her that I can't seem to find time for anything else.

Parenthood isn't overwhleming to me.
Every other aspect of life is.
My mind can do nothing else but concentrate on her and things having to do with her.
Past, present, future.
She consumes me.

A majority of thoughts that run through my head during the day start with "What would happen if..."
I have problems trusting people with her. This isn't because I think they're irresponsible - but she might not be their main focus. Then what? What if they don't do things the way I do? So many times I hear people say "Oh, she's fine" or "She will be fine".
It's that "it won't happen to me" mentality that I don't have.
PTSD and trauma steals that oblivion from a person.
In my mind it can happen and in fact it probably will.

"No one else will love her like you do," my therapist says in response to my confession.
I nod.

It was my first therapy session this week so it was mainly a lot of fill in the blank, who is who, history type questions session. In between questions she would casually ask questions about my PPA/OCD.

"Do you have any trouble concentrating?" she asks.
I shake my head no but then I look up from my coffee cup.
"Well..." I start out. "Sometimes when I'm doing stuff I get easily distracted."
"Can you give me an example?" she asks as she begins to write.
"If I'm doing something like looking for a utensil in a drawer because I'm making something I will start to instead organize that drawer and then when I go to put something else away in a different place I end up organizing that area... does that count?" I'm unsure of myself.
"Anything else?" she asks.
She knows I'm not done. How does she know that?
"Yes," panic is starting to sit heavy in my chest now. "When I try to sit down to do work I have a million other things running through my head and even though someone else is usually watching the baby I feel a constant need to go in by them or I will remember that there are a pair of the baby's dirty pants laying on the floor from earlier that needs to get put away."
She stares for a few seconds before asking "So, then what?"
"I have to go put them in the wash bin before I continue what I was doing."
She nods. "And if you didn't?"
I stare blankly. "I don't know. I can't go on unless I do it. An hour of work turns 2 hours because I can't concentrate."
There it is. I said it.
Apparently, I can't concentrate.

I tell her about my constant fears.
I tell her how I fear death.
My death.
My husbands death.
How the death of my child would break me in ways that are irreparable.
How these thoughts are constant and unforgiving and never lessened or reassured.

She asks about my hobbies. What do I do in my spare time?
This leads into a conversation about the OCD part of my postpartum.
I have spare time in the evening when my husband comes home.
I spend it doing things for the baby.
Cleaning bottles.
Doing her laundry.
Filling diaper and wipe bins.
Organizing drawers.
Cleaning up toys.
Rearranging toys and bins.
Preparing diaper bags.
Do these bottles really look clean? Maybe they're not. I will rewash them.
I probably shouldn't sleep until the wash is done.
Maybe her toys got dirty from being on the floor. I should wipe them down.
Research about feeding cereal and solids.
Research baby led weaning.
Catch up on mom groups.

"Have you ever tried to go to bed before this stuff was all done?" she asks.
"Yes. I have," I say proudly. I leave the silence a dead weight hoping she goes on to the next question. I pray she doesn't ask a follow up.
"What happens?" she asks.
Damn it.
"I start to get ready for bed. I want to go to bed. I'm tired," I stop right there because I can no longer see her face through my tear filled eyes. I breathe in deep. "I can't. Whatever it is that needs to get done, it has to get done now. Before I go to sleep. Sometimes I make it into my bed but I lay awake and the thoughts clutter my brain and I end up getting up to go finish all the baby chores so that I can sleep soundly."
She nods.
"And during the day?" she asks.
"I try to do as much as I can. It takes all I can do to get a few things done while the baby is sleeping - which is not often or for very long. I feel really guilty if I'm not playing with her or sitting next to her while she plays so I don't get much done. She isn't always satisfied playing indoors so we try to go for lots of walks because she enjoys the scenery. She's crabby lately and doesn't like to be put down or to sit in one spot. It's hard to get things done with one hand. I'm working on trying to get a carrier that is easy to wear her on my hip with. Sometimes I get a meal made or accomplish a big feat and I feel really proud of myself, like I'm making progress slowly. We have a routine and I think it just takes time to get used to everything else."

In the last 5 minutes she asks about my emotional support system.
Do I have people to talk to that will listen?
Will they listen without judgement, offer emotional support?

I leave her office feeling worse than when I arrived.
Hearing all of those things confessed out loud made it all the more real to me.
My sister watches my daughter that day as I work a long day.
I get home and she has washed bottles and folded and put away the baby's laundry.
I'm grateful for her. I'm so very grateful for her help and how much she loves my daughter.
Just like my husband, she accomplished things throughout the day - while watching the baby.

Why can't I do that too?
Why is everything so overwhelming?
Why can't I just walk away from her and leave her to play?
Why does fear have to seep into everything I love and do?
I'm sick. I'm hurting the people I love.

I just want to be normal again. 

Hurry up and wait.

The world is not very kind to mental health.
When I was 15 I was inpatient at a mental health facility for 6 weeks. Insurance covered an emense portion of it but from there on out I was put on a mental health hold (to not be insured) for 10 years.

Ten YEARS.
Even after getting my own health insurance through an employer in my 20's I was denied coverage of mental health because of my prior treatment. I paid for my therapy sessions out of pocket on a sliding scale and sometimes just went to the free clinic to see a doctor who hardly seemed to care much about the people she saw. She wrote my prescription wrong every time.

"You gave me a script for 50mg..."
Yes.
"I take 5mg 2x daily."
Oh. Let me change that.

In my many years of seeking professional help for my PTSD I learned to be my own advocate. I learned that just because someone has your illness listed as their area of expertise, doesn't mean they know enough to help you.

I've been trying for nearly 2 months to get help for my PPA/OCD. My OB and my family physician both put in a referral to the mental health facility that works with their clinic. They both said "wait for a call from them". So I waited. And waited.
And I eventually realized that a place that didn't care to call wasn't really a place I would want to be. So instead asked for some resources/help from a local support group I had been graciously accepted into. They were amazing and gave me a ton of leads. I started to call and started to get some of the same, non-urgent answers...
...Not taking new patients.
...We will call you back in a week or two to get your info.
...We don't have providers who take your insurance.
...You called the wrong number, you're looking for XXX-XXXX.
...Leave a message and intake will call you back.
...Sorry, we can't help you.

Finally one person called back and I could barely understand her but it seemed as though she was a partner clinic of the one who I was originally referred to. She could see that referral and told me to call them instead. So I did last week. I told the lady who answered about how I was told to wait for their call.

"Oh, yeah. We don't call people."
I was told you would call me... by both doctors...
"I know, but we figure if people really actually want or need the help they will eventually reach out to us. We prefer that so we aren't calling people who really don't even want the help and then don't show up to appointments."
Wonderful.
"Are you on any medications?"
Yes.
"For the postpartum?"
Yes.
"Is it helping?"
I don't know?
It might be...
I think it is?
I think I feel a little better.
"Ok..."
I can leave my house to go for a walk by myself.
Wow, could I sound any more pathetic?! I shut my eyes and furrow my brow. I should just shut up.
"Any other medications? For other reasons?"
Yes, for PTSD.
"What caused your PTSD?"

Ok, now seriously.
Can it be in the questionnaire training manual or maybe can you just take two damn seconds to think of WHAT you just asked me? Post traumatic stress disorder is from having to unwillingly relive traumatic events through flashbacks and nightmares. I spend most of my day warding off those thoughts. So hey, why don't you ASK me to TELL you. To PURPOSELY remember.

I want to be rude and swear at her for her stupidity but I quickly make up a vague reason.
She will have someone from intake call me within 7 days to get further information and setup an appointment.

Hey - no rush, I'm not losing my mind or anything.

My day yesterday was one of my worst yet to date.
I was at my wits end for various reasons.
My daughter was having a few extra bouts of exploding from either end.
She was also not having any of this "put me down" business, despite the fact that I didn't have an extra set of hands for the night because my husband was busy.
And to top it off, it was the anniversary of the day that my grandmother went missing all those years ago. Something I was trying so very hard to completely forget for the time being since it's usually something that consumed me.
I don't have time to be consumed by other things. I have a child to worry about care for.

PTSD
PPA
PPOCD
I didn't have a nerve left, much less one to begin with. I debated, as I did any other day, going to the store with my daughter. I had an ongoing list, one that seemed to only grow and never lessen. I could spend hours telling myself how important it was that I go get these things or how much more I could get done if I had them... but I can never make it urgent enough to warrant leaving my house with my baby by myself. Not unless it was her that needed something and if she did, I could surely get it at the grocery store that was nearby quickly.

I need to go to the store.
I can do it.
I can go.
I can go.
I can maybe go tomorrow?
I don't need to go.
I can't go alone.
I'm not going.

It's not that I'm afraid to be alone with my baby. I'm not.
It's my thoughts that I'm afraid of.
If someone is with me, they distract me.
But instead, I can't even bring myself to leave the house unless I have to go to work.

It's evening and my daughter continues to scream and I do all that I can in order to finish the taco meat and stick it in a container because there is only one thing that I can do that keeps her quiet and that is take a walk. I could continue to hold her on my hip but my anxiety is through the roof and I just need a second to myself. If I set her down she screams so hard she starts to cough and gag and then puke. Nothing is wrong, she just wants me. I want her too, but I just want a minute.

I just need to figure out how to breathe again.

I put her in her stroller and she screams as I buckle her in. I run in to grab a burp rag and bib and her zip up because the sun has set and it has cooled off considerably. I'm always obsessively checking her to see if she's too hot or cold.
I'm halfway down the block before I realize that I have no idea what I look like. Well, I have some idea... I'm quick approaching a group of ladies who are standing in a driveway and all look like they were at a modeling shoot earlier in the day. One is chasing a toddler, although I'm certain it's not hers. I'm pretty sure he belongs to the one person who is standing on the stoop in capri yoga pants and a tshirt. I'm wearing a tshirt from softball... the year I turned 21, a pair of yoga pants that may or may not be see through in the underwear region and I think my hair might be in what would be considered a pony tail... which is better than them knowing that I didn't bother to dry or straighten it when I got out of the shower this morning. I didn't have time.
I never have time.

My steps are hurried as I try to get out of their line of sight. I see them all trying to catch a glimpse and it's most likely because of my arm of tattoos. It tends to be a reason for gawking. I can feel their judgement.

When we get to the end of the block I put on the brakes on the stroller and touch my daughters arms. They feel cold and I'm a bit chilled myself. I should put on her jacket. I unbuckle her and she starts to scream and cry. She doesn't want to be stopped. She thinks the ride is over. She starts to squirm and rock out of my grasp in protest and I try to hurriedly put on her jacket. She leans forward and hits her head on the tray of her stroller. Now she's crying tears of pain. I quickly scoop her up and cuddle her and kiss her head and coo into her ear.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm failing.
People probably hear us and think I'm a horrible mom.

I buckle her back in and we proceed our walk.
Walking up hills gives me comfort. They make my entire body burn and that feels better than feeling like I needed to jump out of my own skin.
It's starting to get dark now but I opt for one more block.
I need more time. I'm almost better.
A car rolls by, window down - a man is in the drivers seat.

What if he's going to abduct me?
What if he takes me and my baby?
What if he only takes ME?
What if she's out here all alone?!
What if she's out here all alone and crying and no one hears her?
What if when they finally do hear her, they don't know where she belongs or who she belongs to?
What if she feels abandoned?!

My heart breaks and my steps become faster and faster.
I'm now in a panic.
I can't let that happen.
It suddenly seems very likely to happen.
At any time.
What was I thinking, I can't go on walks alone!
What if something happened?

Are you feeling better?
Yes.
How do you know?
I can go for a walk outside by myself.

The monsters they forget.

When I was pregnant, I thought I knew what I would be like when I became a mom. I knew that despite my friend Nicole swearing up and down that I would use a nose frida, that I would definitely not be sucking snot (I couldn't even wipe a child's nose without gagging) up a tube with my mouth. Despite what Nicole said about washing mixed loads, I would not be washing my own clothes in scent and dye free detergents with my baby's clothes. I loved the smell of my clothes. I loved to use lavender Tide and scented dryer sheets.
Nicole gave me much needed pregnancy advice and support but I sometimes thought she was a little "out there" with her mom suggestions.

Yesterday morning I sat on the living room floor folding the umpteenth load of laundry in the last 5 days and I didn't even flinch as I ripped my 5 month old daughter's velcro bibs off of the elastic of my tank tops. I actually smiled for a moment when I put on my shirt this morning because my own clothes smelled like baby Dreft detergent which reminded me of snuggling close with my daughter. Then I laid her on the floor and proceeded to suck snot out of her chronically stuffy nose through a nose frida. 

You think you know.
But you don't. 

You think you know the limits and depths of love.
People tell you. 

And just as most people say - you cannot even fathom it until it happens. 

Until that tiny human being that lived in your body for many, many months is laying on your chest and in your arms you don't know. 

Your heart bursts with joy and I'm pretty sure it leaks love throughout your entire body. 

From the moment my daughter was born I was overfilled with joy. 

Obsessed. 

In love. 

Enamored.

Mesmerized.

Afraid. 

I was afraid.
I was afraid something would happen to her.
I was afraid of things I didn't even knew I could be afraid of.
Fear took over my mind on a minute to minute basis. 

Make sure she can breathe. 

Make sure she's not swaddled too tight.

Is she eating enough?

Can she breathe while she's nursing?
Is her head tilted back enough?
Can she breathe?

Is she breathing?
Why is she wheezing?

Don't fall asleep.
I can't fall asleep.

The first month of my daughter's life was a blur.
People would oooo and aaaaah over her and they would say "She's so tiny! Don't you just love when they're this small?" and I would say "No! I wish she was bigger! I don't want her to be this small! I want her to be able to move around and play and not depend on me 24/7."

No one caught on. Not even me. 

I thought it was normal. I thought it was the overwhelming frustration every new mother feels.

I was very aware of the possibility of postpartum depression. I knew it was real. I wasn't afraid of it. I was ready for it. In my history of mental illness I wasn't going to be ashamed and I wasn't going to hide it. I read up on it when it would show up on websites I was browsing. I read through other people's blogs and personal stories. I was supportive and sympathetic when my fellow moms started to confess to having it. I was ready.   

But I was ok. It wasn't happening to me. Not even in the slightest.  

Is she breathing?
Did she eat enough?
Is she one year old yet? 2?
Please grow faster!
Is her breathing monitor on?
We can't leave the house!
We can't go to the dr office! What if she catches a cold from sick babies?!

What if she gets sick and I don't even know?

Check her breathing.
Is she hungry?
Should she sleep this much?
Oh my God, what if I lost her?!
What if I lost her dad?
What if I lost them both?!
HOW WOULD I EXIST WITHOUT THEM?!
I can't exist without them.
Is she breathing?

I don't need sleep.
I'll sleep when she's 2.
...On her bedroom floor. 

Are they holding her too tight?

Are they watching her belly rise and fall?

Will the doctor find something wrong with her?
What if something's wrong? She can't tell me!
Is she breathing?

And then I start to watch her grow and every morning I'm overwhelmed because every morning I thank God she's still here and I run through all of the things we survived the day before. I cry for the moms who no longer have their babies. I cry for the moms who watched their children grow and then lost them. I cry because I can't fathom my life without my daughter. 

Her dad goes out one night without us for a friend's birthday and I spend all night in a panic that he might die. My daughter will never know him! What if I lost him?! What if I lost him and I can't do this alone?! I message him constantly to remind him to be careful. I tell him things he already knows.
I'm not religious, but I pray.

I sleep and I dream of death and in the morning I thank God we are all still alive. 

My daughter babbles and I reach out to touch her tiny foot. She sleeps close by even though the pediatrician said to move her to her own room.
I can't. 

I can't. 

I can't. 

I can't. 

I won't. 

Being a mom consumes me.
It's ok.
This is what it's like... right?
I love her. I love being her mom. I don't mind.
I don't go places or do things.
We are safe here at our home.
She is safe with me.
Is she breathing?

Is she choking?
Is she puking?

Make sure to prop her up so she doesn't choke on puke.
Don't lay her flat.
Is she breathing?

This is what it's like to be a mom.
I spend all of my spare time researching everything I need to know about my baby.

My husband is good.
My husband is supportive.
He makes me dinner and reminds me to eat and when he takes the baby I can do things.
I can wash bottles.
Do her laundry.
Pack her diaper bag.
Clean her room.
Organize her clothes.
Steralize her bottles.
Do her laundry.
Did dust from the garbage get on the clean bottles?
I can wash them again.
Change her sheets.
Change her changing pad.
He's taking the baby for a walk.
I stand at the door and remind him of the things he already knows.
He listens because he knows I have to say it or I'll end up running after him. 

I start to imagine all of the bad things that can happen in life.
I'm scared for her.
It's overwhelming.
I don't know what to do with it.
One night I awake from a nightmare and I lay in the dark and I think to myself "I'd rather die than live in fear for her."

And then I finally know.
Something's not right.

I call my OB. I explain a few feelings and they prescribe me a drug over the phone.
It makes me violently sick.
Eventually my family doctor agreed to see me. He prescribes me something different.
He looks at me with pity. 

He tells me I'm doing a good job.
He tells me I'm a natural mom.

I know about postpartum depression. 

I watched for all the signs. 

I knew I was ok. 

I knew I didn't have it. 

I'm ok. 

I'm not ok. 

I don't have postpartum depression. 

I have postpartum anxiety and postpartum OCD.
They're the monsters they forget to tell you to watch for.  

The Pink Elephant

(Written while I was pregnant with my daughter.)

In my PTSD blog I often refer to my intrusive thoughts as "pink elephants". They are there first thing in the morning when I wake up, they are there in the daytime when I'm not expecting them, they take over my mind and my life. They even dare to follow me in my sleep.

I didn't want them there.

I used to think of them as the enemy...

...until I created one of them. 

I created this being who began to take over my thoughts from the very moment she existed. My thoughts of her would come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time - all the time.

Now I wake in the morning and before I open my eyes that tiny pink elephant is nudging me with tiny feet and fists encouraging me to move somewhere more comfortable for us. She's in my every thought as my day goes on, sometimes giving me a gentle reminder kick to the ribs or rapid punches to my side. She's there... filling my thoughts - making me wonder how on earth I became so blessed as to be able to share my body with this tiny human.

I never thought I would learn to love each morning when I wake up to a tiny pink elephant making my belly shift as she tries to get comfortable. 

Sometimes... we are lucky enough to turn the things we fight against - to the things we fight for. ❤️

Here's to a different kind of pink elephant, one who makes me whole again. The one who keeps my monsters out of reach for now.

Thank you Tiny Pink Ellie

Love,

Your Momma