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.

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.