This is not an elephant.

I wanted to show the world my new prized possession but I didn't know how.
Look, I have a new elephant painting! 
Look at my new elephant painting by Danny O'Connor. 
Look at my new elephant painting by Danny O'Connor gifted to me by Sandy.

No. Those statements mean nothing.
This elephant print deserves the justice and explanation that it's worth. So, I will tell you.

And of course, like most things that are important to me, it all started with a book.

A few years ago I picked up the book Hopeless by Colleen Hoover at Target. It was in a section of "If you loved this, then try this!" and I forget what it was a suggestion off of, but it caught my eye.

That book changed my life in so many positive ways.

It wasn't long before I found other fans of Colleen Hoover and became part of an amazing community. Then in no time at all I caught up on all of her books and joined everyone else in impatiently waiting for her brain to purge more words onto paper. Her brain is so, so beautiful.

Authors can do wonders. They can change people's lives in so many ways.
Colleen Hoover isn't just an author with a beautiful brain but she is also this real, down to Earth human being with an impeccable sense of humor and a huge heart. The people that gathered in this Colleen community were also amazing people with huge hearts.

Colleen wrote a book called Confess that came out earlier this year. I read the story, which centered around an artist who painted beautiful works of art based on anonymous confessions that he receives.

Oh good, you read a book.
No, there is never simplicity in reading a book. 1st because I have PTSD and books help me escape my mind and 2nd because this particular book was read at a particularly hard time in my life. I was newly pregnant with my 2nd child and we had a 6 week scan the day before we left for a road trip family vacation. That 6 week scan did not show what we had hoped it would show but instead it showed an underdeveloped embryo. The baby's growth along with blood work made there be a pretty good chance that I had developed a blighted ovum - meaning the baby would not continue to develop.

I would have to wait a week to go back and have another scan. I would go on vacation for a week and spend my days not knowing if the child inside me was thriving or dying.

Getting lost in Confess was one of the only ways I could stop my brain from obsessively wondering what my baby's fate would be. I won't get into all the reasons why I loved this book because I want to keep it spoiler free, but that book kept me sane in moments that I couldn't stand to be awake.

Colleen paired up with a real artist to depict the paintings that she talked about in the book. He brought the character of Owen to life. Throughout the book are beautiful images of Danny's work (as Owen).

I never ordered any of the art from the book - but I did continuously check on an elephant painting print that Danny had in his store because elephants mean so much to me.
Elephants have PTSD like I do... elephants appear big and powerful on the outside even though they are broken and sad on the inside from loss and trauma.

The way Danny captured the elephant in his painting actually shows that - in that one eye that is shown. I can see that elephant's pain and the truth in that one eye.

A few months ago when I was having a particularly hard time with my PTSD I started to focus on getting ready for my son to enter into our family. The blighted ovum was a false alarm and he started to grow beautifully after our vacation. I started to have to decide to part with some of my previously most prized possessions.
Instead of selling the things I loved, I decided to just make sure they went to good homes. So I jumped on my Colleen Hoover community and posted these things only asking for a reimbursement of shipping and handling since I was increasingly low on money (especially with my mental health going downward and losing the ability to work as much as I used to).

That's how I met Sandy. She has the most beautiful soul and a gorgeous smile. We started to chat back and forth and it didn't take long before I knew that she was my person. The person who would be gifted my many prized possessions of special John Green signed items that I had and adored and wasn't even really sure that I could part with.

When I found her, I knew she needed them more than I did. She needed to admire their beauty. I knew she appreciated them the same way I did. So I sent them to her, sometimes sending a bonus print or item. I was happy they had a new home and that I had a new friend that I could chat with until the late hours of the night about books and how they healed our hearts and busied our minds.

Sandy is a big fan of Danny's work and has many amazing Danny art pieces hanging in her special corner of her house that is filled with things that bring her joy. One time when we were talking about how amazing Colleen and Danny were - I think I very briefly mentioned about the elephant print I wanted when she asked if I had any of his art.

Weeks later, she purchased that print for me and sent it to me as a thank you. A thank you that wasn't needed in any way, but appreciated in every way. A thank you that represented a bond that stretched over states and generations. A friendship indirectly created by Colleen.

So, now the elephant hangs in that one special spot, next to my bed - above my night stand. There had only ever been one other print that had hung there for the last 12  years and there was no doubt in my mind that it needed to be replaced once that elephant showed up on my doorstep.

It's not an elephant.
It's a representation of all that is good and whole in this world.
It's Colleen and her heart, it's Danny and his depiction of the world - pouring his heart on to a canvas, it's Sandy and our bond and friendship that came out of nowhere and everywhere all at once.

It's my place in the world.

Visit Danny's website and his Facebook page
If you weren't convinced that Colleen is awesome already, check out her amazing charity The Bookworm Box
Order a copy of Confess
Check out all of Colleen's other amazing books!

I love you Bliches!

Fun fact: My blog is named after a line in Colleen Hoover's novel Ugly Love :)

This is all for you, don't wanna hide the truth.

When I was younger and didn't quite yet know that I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) I used to lay awake in bed at night and dream up ways of showing people what was happening in my mind. I would replay my day and I would go up to the people who had misunderstood me or gotten angry at me and I would touch my finger tips to the side of their head and I would make them see what I saw, feel what I felt.

I would watch their face twist with horror and I would watch them fall to the ground wrapping themselves in a ball and begging me to take it away.

And then they would know.
And then they would stop being frustrated with me for being different.
And then I wouldn't feel so alone.
Maybe then it wouldn't be so scary to live in my head like I did because people would understand a small bit of what I was constantly going through.
Maybe they would be more kind and gentle with me.
Maybe they would speak softer.
Maybe they would ask if I needed a hug if I looked afraid.

I spent years going through this nightly routine of thinking of ways to show people.
It's been almost an entire lifetime wishing I had that special secret power. The routine eventually stopped but the wishing hadn't. I still spend entire days thinking of how I can show it. Of gathering resources and feverishly writing my thoughts out to be read and reread and understood.

I don't think it matters.
Not to the people who it's intended for.
It's intended for the ones who don't understand but I'm not sure how far it reaches.
It's not understood. Something is missing.

It's not lack of resources. I sometimes spend my days sharing them with those closest to me.
It's not lack of explanation. I will talk and explain until I'm literally blue in the face.
It's not lack of accessibility. I make my blogs public.

I am but one person.
I can't make a difference, why am I even trying.
Nothing changes.
My mental health problems turn into (or already are) disabilities. People don't leave their houses. They don't explain themselves. Why would they? This world is full of people with their faces pointed towards the sky. Not very many bad things happen up there besides occasional bad weather.

My dad has cancer.
Cholangiocarcinoma. It's a cancer of the bile duct and it typically presents and resides in the liver.
It's really rare and the cause was unknown. It wasn't anything he did. He didn't cause it.
Well, I mean, he exists, so I guess he is partially to blame for it.
When he got diagnosed my mom was overwhelmed so I started to go along to all of his appointments. Besides listening to doctors explain his case and the cancer and all of the treatment options and drugs, I did research. Any time I needed to understand something further, I asked a question or I looked things up. When I couldn't find an answer or needed validation I would ask his doctor. "Let me make sure I'm understanding you correctly,..." and then I would say what needed to be said for clarification. When I got home, I would write it all out in both ways that any medical people would understand and in complete layman's terms and then directly state whether it was good or bad and how it affects him. People helped in any way they could. No one really knew what it was like to have cancer, but they knew it wasn't easy. They knew it was life threatening and required treatment and care and kindness and prayers. People were gentle and helpful and encouraging and sympathetic.

What I did, wasn't that hard. He is my dad, it was affecting him and the entire family and anyone that loves him was concerned and wanted more information on what he was going through and how to understand it and what they could do for them.

Why, are we as a society, completely unable to view mental health in the same way?
My PTSD brain, is completely physically different and altered. I didn't do that. You can't blame me.
And my postpartum problems... would you blame my kids? My choice to have kids? Did I do it to myself? Is it a choice?
I'm not asking anyone to be an expert on it. On me. Not in the same way I became well versed in Cholangiocarcinoma and the various treatments that my dad went through.
Do I hope for that level of effort and understanding? I used to. I used to want a "person". After much debate and years of trying, I think I'm giving up on that one for now. It always ends in distance and frustration. Why sit with your ear to the ground when you can easily go back to pointing your face at the sky?
I'm also not asking for people to feel sorry for me in the same way they felt sorry for my dad and his cancer. I'm simply asking for a small ounce of kindness and gentleness and care. Maybe it will try to counter balance all of the shame and guilt and self hate.

I know, I know. "This is ridiculous, people DIE from cancer. How can you compare the two?!"
As of 2013 suicide is the second leading cause of postpartum death.
Google search postpartum suicide. It's not a selfish way out, it's a side effect of this maternal mental health problem that people don't think is important enough to properly voice.

Do I want to die?
I want to raise my kids. I want to know they are safe and loved and that no one else is replacing me in a mother type roll that could really never compare to the extent in which I love my kids.
I do understand the ones who don't want to live anymore. I sometimes whisper it within my own head. "I get it..."

And that makes me feel more alone than I have ever been.
Why am I even wasting my time on this? I am only one voice.

I might only have one match, but I can make an explosion. 

I broke my legs.

I broke both of my legs.
Fibulas to be specific... just the lower portion, below my knee.
This is all very new to me. I have perfected the art of living with a broken arm after having to do so several times over the last decade but this feat is new. I've never been without the use of my legs before and even though it's the same (a broken bone in my limb), it's still very different.

I'm confined to my house unless someone can put ramps on the steps to help me with my wheelchair. Some days if I feel like I am in dire need to get something from outside the house I might spend all day trying to figure out how to get both me and my daughter out of the house. It takes a long amount of time and patience. The smallest setback feels devastating.
Sometimes my husband is home and able to help out with this task. He sets up the ramps for me to wheel down and he easily carries my daughter to the car. Everything is far less trying and I breeze through a trip to the store without much effort.

Sometimes I am able to get out of the house to at least allow my daughter to run and play. Everything looks and feels so much more frightening from my new chair. I can't yet easily navigate the hills and bumps of the road as I previously did with my own legs.

My workplace has a long flight of stairs leading to the top. There is no way for someone to easily get both me and my chair up to my office so most days I have to stay at home. My checkbook dwindles.

As the trips to the store become less and less and the money becomes less and less, I find it necessary to always stock up on things that are essential. I fear running out of things and not being able to go to the store because of my broken legs. If I don't have these things I start to panic.

My husband talks to me throughout the day. The days drag long on him because I am constantly in need of his help. I can see it wearing on him. He asks me how I am doing throughout the day but doesn't seem to want my answers to coincide with my new found struggles of being in my chair or in physical pain. I struggle but I can tell he is just too tired. He can see I'm in pain and that I'm trying but I don't think he will really know the challenges of not having the use of his legs unless it happened to him. He doesn't understand the constant pain and how it affects you in a bigger way than can be described in words.

I forgot that I never mentioned how I even broke my legs.
I'm not going to say it was my daughter's fault, because it really wasn't. I will tell you that it did happen as a direct result of her. All of the right things had to fall exactly in to place for me to get hit the way I did. I was protecting her.

She will always be worth anything and everything.

It's for her that I will get out of my wheelchair when I can't get through doorways or areas in the house and it's for her that I will gladly crawl on my hands and knees. It's for her that I do whatever I can to learn about how to be in less pain and be more mobile. To heal. Unfortunately there aren't many interventions that can be done for pain because of my current pregnancy. I just have to learn how to deal with it. How to get through every day pretending it's not as bad as it really is. To pretend I can sleep just fine when I know for sure I toss and turn and wake up quite often because of it.

I cried out in pain a few days ago and I was asked to please keep my pain to myself unless it was caused by that person. Even if I explained afterwards that it wasn't their fault. Every day people either stare at me or expect me to be better if I look like I might be in better spirits.

"She lifted herself from her wheelchair to the couch so she must be getting better."
"She is smiling, not grimacing, so she mustn't be in pain."

No one knows what really goes on in my head. How I struggle to be normal even though it's clear that I'm unable to function normally. Not many people can tell when I feel as broken as I am. I have to ask people to help me. I don't like to do that.

I hear some people say I'm over reacting.
I'm not sure how you can over react a broken limb. Maybe they think it doesn't hurt? Do they think I'm faking? Do they think they could do better or control it or prevent it had it been them?

I go to see a doctor on a weekly basis to talk about my progress and to help me find new ways of doing with things and coping with my current disability. It won't be there forever but I do need to learn new ways of life to make it through. I focus on things that I am able to do. The mundane ones. It's all I can really do.

I don't really feel right telling my support people how I feel day to day. When people ask how I'm doing they just want a mere "fine" instead of the loaded truth.

I feel empty.
I feel alone.
I feel misunderstood.
I feel like no one really actually wants to deal with what this actually is.

What's easiest of all - is to pretend like mental health is any different from the physical problems you might stumble upon. Like it doesn't need special treatment. Like you don't have to make any changes to how you treat someone when you can't physically see their wound. Like invisible wounds aren't important, aren't real.

I didn't break my legs.
But I just explained how it feels for me having PPA/PPOCD in the comparison to something you might easier understand.

Maternal mental health needs a voice.
Mine may not be very loud and sturdy, but I will surely be chanting along side my warrior moms and making sure I am, if nothing else, part of something more.

Benefit vs Risk

I had to force myself to sit down on the couch with my computer.
There are several things that I could be obsessively organizing or cleaning in order to ease my anxiety and fear filled mind. It takes me 10 minutes of pacing to convince myself that writing in my blog to raise awareness and tell my story is equally as important as cleaning a room in my house.

Right?
Is it?

This morning I decided that I would take a trip to a grocery store in town (15 minute drive) this afternoon with my daughter when I arrived home from work. She is out of fruit and I was planning on making mashed potatoes to go along with some meatballs for dinner.
I made a list.
I assured myself there was enough urgency for the items on the list to cause me to need to leave.
I assured myself that going to the grocery store wouldn't interfere with my daughter's schedule.
I can do this.
It really isn't that big of a deal.

At 10am I'm walking to my car after a prenatal appointment. My midwife tells me that I need to watch my weight gain. I've not been over eating and I try to get out and exercise as much as possible. I take my daughter for walks... I'm not sure what I am doing wrong.
I could get gestational diabetes if I don't watch my weight increase.
That could cause so many problems.
I obsessively consider how I've gotten here and what I might have done wrong.

By noon I wonder if I really need ALL of those things on my list.
By 1pm I ask myself which path to the store I will take.
I consider all options.
I wonder what is the safest.
I wonder if the path I choose will lead to our death.
If I pick a path and then pick another path, is that cheating fate or is that my actual fate?

By 2pm I've convinced myself that I now only need bananas and potatoes. They are in the same department and I can really quickly get them before needing to be home so that my sister can make an appointment.
At 2:50pm, my quick stop at a bank for work has taken far longer than I had expected and I now have no time to stop anywhere before going home. I might have time to quick stop for my anxiety medication increase prescription at Walgreens. I have now decided to just take my daughter to the local (more pricey, less options) grocery store that is only 5 minutes away when I get home and we will just get potatoes and a can of pears.
At Walgreens the pharmacist tells me that my medication is catagory C and I really shouldn't be taking it while pregnant because it's benefit vs risk.
Benefit vs Risk.
She keeps saying those words.
I want to ask her if not wanting to live is enough of a risk to consider it a benefit.
What about stress induced preterm labor?
She has made me doubt my ability as a parent.
Maybe I am not good for my own child.

By the time I drive the 3 minute drive home, I have decided that I will just make noodles instead of potatoes so that I don't have to leave at all.

I walk in the house and am bound by an invisible force that tells me I can't leave.
It tells me this world is not safe.
It tells me to just sit in my house and seclude myself from the world.
So, home I will stay.

It's where my demons hide.

I stopped writing in this blog 6 months ago.
I got better.
Well, I became more stable and was able to function properly.
The dosage of Lexapro that I had asked my PCP (primary care physician) to bump me up to had finally done the trick and made me feel like I wasn't chained down to my house anymore. I slowly pushed myself a little bit every day until my routines and thought process started to mimic those of someone who was healthy and thriving. Eventually I took a chance and I took a job opportunity that was presented to me.

My confidence was regained and I watched my daughter and husband grow a closer bond once he took over weekday evenings with her while I was at work.

Not long after, I was comfortable and confident leaving the house with them together. I missed them always but I was in a career, I was counseling people, I was making a difference.
I remember standing outside one day, in the sunshine, a warm October day... and I just closed my eyes and I smiled and I thought to myself life could not be more perfect.

Just like that, in a matter of weeks, everything began to fall apart.
My family fell victim to addiction at the end of October and then to cancer at the end of November. My days and nights were spent helping my family with one situation or another. Life and death were flashed before our eyes in both situations. Fear had taken on a whole new life and it was thriving, pulsing through all of us. Our patience was tested, continuously drawn out.

I stayed strong. I kept up with both situations and performed my job with constant praise from my clients and coworkers. I did it all, and then in the spare time I did have - I was a wife and mother.
I thought back on the times that I had previously struggled with all of my anxiety and OCD and I wondered how in the world it had crippled me so entirely.... because look at me now. I wasn't just surviving, now I was thriving again. 

My counselor that I had finally obtained had let me go as soon as I showed any sign of turn around. She had told me that I knew where to find her if I needed her but she felt as though I was pretty self aware and smart enough to reach out if I felt like I was going backwards at all. She really hadn't given me much of anything as far as tools or coping skills except to tell me that it's normal for moms to worry about their children.
I knew what I was experiencing wasn't normal but I also knew that this woman wasn't able to help me or challenge me in the ways that I needed so I took her suggestions and left.

It wasn't until mid November when I was able to go to see the psychiatrist. This being 3 months after I had initially even figured out (no thanks to any doctors that I was constantly seeing for postpartum care or infant care) that I had PPA/PPOCD. My daughter was now 8 months old. I had been under the wrath of maternal mental health since my bedrest in January and then more-so when she was born in March.

The psychiatrist had asked me a lot of simple questions and spun me in mental circles a few times. I thought he was going to say the same thing my therapist had previously said. An "Oh, you're fine," sort of thing. No one understood that I have spent so many years fighting my PTSD that I was well aware of what my "fine" was, and this was far from it.

He eventually sighed and sat back. "You're very smart," he told me. My face twisted and I muttered a question filled thank you. He looked at the wall beside him that held one of his many degrees.
"I've been doing this for a long time," he said still staring at the wall. He brought his glance back to me again. "You're a pretty remarkable woman," he said. I just looked back at him and mumbled a confused "Ok,". He went on to explain his reasoning which made me sound intelligent and self aware and blah blah blah. My PCP would now take over prescribing my Lexapro and I was to stop taking it in March.

I became pregnant with my second child in February. My midwife did some consulting with other doctors and they decided that if I was ok with it, they would rather keep me on my Lexapro.
I believe her reasoning was to "get a head start on the postpartum anxiety".
I found it to be a good idea. I knew that PPA was most likely to make a re-occurrence - especially considering I had PTSD currently and previous to my last experience with PPA/PPOCD. My daughter had been well worth any struggles I had and I knew my second child would be too. This time - I would be aware of it and I would be ready for it.

This time I had a resourceful group and I had the Postpartum Progress website.
This time maybe it wouldn't pin me to the ground as it had last time.
This time I would be vocal about my symptoms instead of cowering in fear and shame.
I was strong.
I was ready.

And then, just like that, it was back.
Except it wasn't "just like that", it was slow and quiet.
It was small at first and I could explain it away. I could attribute it to pregnancy hormones.
It was small, until one day it swallowed me whole.

I was driving to Target last week with my daughter, a trip that was unplanned but needed in order to utilize a diaper sale. I tried to reason with my husband as to why he should come along with me but it wasn't reasonable and he had other things to do.
I was only a few miles from home before a deep panic set in.

Go back. 
Go back. 
Turn around. 
This is a horrible idea.
Something will happen!

I knew it was a horrible idea. I had chosen the wrong Target. I should have gone to the other one. Something bad was going to happen on this path. I knew it was. I felt it. I convinced myself I had some sort of pregnancy induced ESP and I knew I was leading my daughter and myself to our death.

We might die. 
We might get hurt badly.
Can they save my unborn baby?
No, it's too soon...
Should Celia's seat be in the middle?
Will we all die?
Will I lose her?
I should go back.
I need to go back.

I went to Target. I went and they didn't have the size diaper Celia needed so we walked around for as long as we possibly could. I didn't want to leave. What if the ride home was going to be my doom?

What if I took another route, to throw off fate?
What if changing my route is part of the plan?
What if that's why we die?  

What am I talking about?!
I spent the whole ride home retracing the last few months. I saw all of the signs. I saw them in all of the days leading to this day. Now I saw them for what they were. Somehow, although I had no idea how or if it was possible, my PPA/PPOCD was back - 5 months into my pregnancy.

This wasn't the head start I had planned.