Trigger warning: The following blog posts are heavy with describing details of Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum OCD, also including suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts and various medical procedures/complications during pregnancy and delivery. Please use caution while reading Under the Dome posts if they might trigger you.
I want to say that the time between the last post and this one are that of mere typical "motherhood"... and in part, that's true. The other "part" is that this one... this one is the hard one to put "out" there. Truth is truth... and if I can make one person feel less afraid and less alone, I will do whatever it takes.
My second child grew inside of me as the cancer grew inside of my dad. That fact coupled with my brother's addiction (which was worsening as well) is why I can't say for sure if I had a perinatal anxiety or depression. My stressors all ran into each other and blended in an overwhelming mess. The one thing that I was for sure of was this: since I was medicated, I had the upper hand on postpartum anxiety. I was medicated therefore I would not get it a second time. I was so wrong.
The only memory I have of my pregnancy now, is that I didn't feel very connected to the new baby that was growing inside of me. I did what I could to change that... I found out gender, I gave him a name that was important to me... and that helped, but only minimally. As his due date grew nearer, we were still dealing with a lot of harsh medical things in regards to my dad's cancer and the only thing ever on my mind was that I wanted my dad to be able to meet my baby. I worried that I was playing chicken with an aggressive cancer. Thankfully, my dad was here to meet Emmett and watch him grow for 7 months following.
My son was born...
and all I felt like doing was running. Running from every change that occurred.
I welcomed him with a burst of emotions. I loved him... but unlike with his sister, I wasn't madly in love with him. I remember nursing him after some skin to skin time while nurses were in and out of my room after his birth and I finally just asked one of them to take him. I didn't want him on me anymore, I just wanted some space. Later, a nurse would overhear me tell my husband that I was starting to like my son but only because he sometimes reminded me of our daughter. She didn't say anything.
Then came the moment that everything turned...
My in-laws brought my daughter to meet her new brother... and she absolutely hated it.
I have this photo of the three of us on my bed, where she looks at him and gives a faint smile that was mostly left over from seeing me first... the photo makes it look like we are happy but I know the truth. I know that it's the moment before she was flooded with disdain and distrust toward me. The moment before she then climbed off the bed and would not acknowledge me for the next week.
I was absolutely crushed. The night after she met him I asked my nurses if it was at all possible to discharge me early so I could go home and be with her and come back the next day for my son. The nurse smiled at me uncomfortably and never answered. I knew it was a stretch, but I was really asking.
That night, when I asked for my medications that I had been taking previously, my nurse told me that she didn't think that I was allowed them and I needed to focus on being a mom now.
I didn't sleep.
I didn't sleep for days after that either.
I stayed awake and stared at walls and pondered my decision to expand my family.
No. I didn't ponder it. That's sugar coating.
I felt like I made a mistake.
I cared for my son. I took good care of him.
I needed breaks... but none came. No one ever wanted to take over my motherly duties.
Unwarranted hatred grew inside of me and I grew resentful and angry towards anyone I was around that wouldn't give me the break that I needed. I convinced myself my husband was once more, an (irrational) enemy.
Every night I sat in the quiet, nursing my son, and felt so very alone. I was jealous and angry that everyone else got to be in bed sleeping sweet slumber and I had to be a slave nursing my son. Every night in those quiet moments I would confess to myself that I didn't want to be alive anymore.
I feared for my son in his fragile newborn stage as I had my daughter... wishing time would fast forward, but at times I only overcame my fear of leaving him with his dad during a (now) evening shower because I told myself that if my husband accidentally caused my son's death then I would have a reason to leave my husband and reverse the mistake that I had made in expanding my family.
I wrote of my understanding of lives lost here.
My mental health prescriber worked hard to find a medication adjustment to help pull me from my misery but the first few attempts only made things worse. I was left in a dazed fog and sometimes I had no idea what was going on around me. I remember being at an amusement park and my husband had taken my daughter on a ride... but I stood there with my son in his Ergo carrier and felt as though I was lost and I couldn't comprehend what was going on around me or what I was waiting for.
On top of my postpartum depression, my anxiety started to take over once more, but in a whole different way. I was now bound to my house, far too afraid of leaving causing some sort of life altering change. I now had two car seats in my car and if the car got hit on one side, then it would be whoever I had decided to put on that side of the car who would be injured or possibly killed. If I took a certain way to the store, it would be my deciding to take that route that got us killed.
At my worst, I couldn't even leave to go to the grocery store 5 minutes away. The only place I did religiously go was to visit with my dad and accompany him to his doctor appointments and hospital stays. Walking into the hospital room with my son in tow brought my dad to tears.
I eventually found the right medication and an amazing therapist and began to overcome my fears of leaving the house. My dad lost his fight against the monster in June and I felt numb to the world. He had kept me going, he had been my purpose. In the months following his death I decided to go off my medication. I didn't know what part of me was grieving and what part of me was maternal mental health. I wanted to know.
Then the monster reared it's ugly head.
I remember sitting in the playroom with my kids and having an unnecessary outburst of anger.
I yelled. I said things that were untrue and uncharacteristic of me. I was typically patient and loving but I felt like a monster that day. I had to remove myself from the room and hide from them out of fear of losing control.
I called my prescriber and requested an appointment to go back on my medication. I felt like a failure. What kind of mother couldn't be kind to her children without being medicated?
I messaged Becky and told her how horrible of a person I felt.
She reminded me that medication simply drowns out the monster and allows me to be who I really am. It took a while before I agreed with what she said.
As my son's first birthday neared, with a new type of medication now stifling my demons, I began to find myself again. As my mind cleared I was certain of one thing:
I could never do this again because I was certain that I would not survive it. I sold off all of my baby items with no sorrow whatsoever. I just wanted this time in my life to be over, no matter how much I had previously wanted 3 children I knew it wasn't a possibility if I wanted to be alive to watch them grow.
The reign of the baby was over.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Thursday, May 3, 2018
Under the Dome [Part 3]: Walls
Trigger warning: The following blog posts are heavy with describing details of Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum OCD, also including suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts and various medical procedures/complications during pregnancy and delivery. Please use caution while reading Under the Dome posts if they might trigger you.
July 2014 was the turning point of what would become an ongoing battle with MMH (maternal mental health) the next 4 years of my life. A local morning show was playing on the TV while I cleaned up the livingroom and my daughter played on the floor. A local woman named Becky Schroeder was talking about maternal mental health and she said something that I had never before heard.
Postpartum Anxiety.
Post
Partum
Anxiety.
I immediately googled the term and although it wasn't as easy to find, I finally found a webpage describing the symptoms of PPA. Every single word spoke to me. It said, here you are. I finally felt justified in what I was feeling. I picked up the phone and called my midwife and talked to the nurse. I told her something wasn't right with what I was feeling. She asked for specifics and it didn't sound like she agreed at first. Then I told her of my thought about dying being my only escape from the overwhelming fear. She put me on hold while she talked to the midwife and I was so relieved.
"Ok, we will send in a prescription for medication*."
...ok, and then what?
"Just take the medication, you should feel better."
In all of my years of counseling and all of the hard work that I had done with my PTSD, this felt like only a fraction of a solution. That's it... magic pill. I filled the prescription at the pharmacy and began taking it. Now, in addition to my mind attacking me, so was my body. The medication made me feel very physically ill and I could barely care for my daughter which only envoked more fear. I stopped taking it. It was then that Becky inadvertantly graced me with her presence a second time. She posted a link to her news segment in a local mom support group I had once attended in hopes to find some answers about how I had been feeling. I immediately messaged her filling her in on the last few months of my postpartum experience and how sick the medication had made me.
She helped me.
She brought me into this amazing group of women who knew how I felt and made me feel less alone. And even moreso, they gave me voice when I didn't have one. They called doctors for me and helped me find the more specific help that I needed. When I hit walls, they gave me a boost over them.
In the early years of my experience, there wasn't any urgency in the medical community to help moms. I wouldn't actually see a therapist or psychiatrist until several months later. Thankfully, the support group had advised me to seek help from my family doctor who gave me a different prescription that I didn't get ill from.
On the right dose of medication I became less and less anxious and started to enjoy my baby with less fear. I was able to leave the house and trust that she was in good care and even took a job in the career field that I had just graduated with a degree for.
I flourished.
I specifically remember those blissful months when I finally felt whole again. So filled with life and love and joyful anticipation for the future. I can see myself, standing on the lawn outside of my workplace, soaking in the sunshine with a smile on my face.
That's the last time I remember being truly happy.
I flourished
and then all hell came crashing down on me.
A month later we discovered my brother had a drug addiction.
A month after that my dad got diagnosed with cancer.
And two months later I got pregnant with my second child.
All before my daughter even turned 1 year old.
*Specific names of medications are omitted in order to not divert people away from taking them. Every mom is different and every medication works differently for every mom. What worked or didn't work for me may or may not work for you.
Becky Schroeder is now the co-founder of Mom's Mental Health Initiative, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping moms navigate pregnancy and postpartum depression and anxiety by sharing information, connecting them to resources, and providing peer-driven support.
July 2014 was the turning point of what would become an ongoing battle with MMH (maternal mental health) the next 4 years of my life. A local morning show was playing on the TV while I cleaned up the livingroom and my daughter played on the floor. A local woman named Becky Schroeder was talking about maternal mental health and she said something that I had never before heard.
Postpartum Anxiety.
Post
Partum
Anxiety.
I immediately googled the term and although it wasn't as easy to find, I finally found a webpage describing the symptoms of PPA. Every single word spoke to me. It said, here you are. I finally felt justified in what I was feeling. I picked up the phone and called my midwife and talked to the nurse. I told her something wasn't right with what I was feeling. She asked for specifics and it didn't sound like she agreed at first. Then I told her of my thought about dying being my only escape from the overwhelming fear. She put me on hold while she talked to the midwife and I was so relieved.
"Ok, we will send in a prescription for medication*."
...ok, and then what?
"Just take the medication, you should feel better."
In all of my years of counseling and all of the hard work that I had done with my PTSD, this felt like only a fraction of a solution. That's it... magic pill. I filled the prescription at the pharmacy and began taking it. Now, in addition to my mind attacking me, so was my body. The medication made me feel very physically ill and I could barely care for my daughter which only envoked more fear. I stopped taking it. It was then that Becky inadvertantly graced me with her presence a second time. She posted a link to her news segment in a local mom support group I had once attended in hopes to find some answers about how I had been feeling. I immediately messaged her filling her in on the last few months of my postpartum experience and how sick the medication had made me.
She helped me.
She brought me into this amazing group of women who knew how I felt and made me feel less alone. And even moreso, they gave me voice when I didn't have one. They called doctors for me and helped me find the more specific help that I needed. When I hit walls, they gave me a boost over them.
In the early years of my experience, there wasn't any urgency in the medical community to help moms. I wouldn't actually see a therapist or psychiatrist until several months later. Thankfully, the support group had advised me to seek help from my family doctor who gave me a different prescription that I didn't get ill from.
On the right dose of medication I became less and less anxious and started to enjoy my baby with less fear. I was able to leave the house and trust that she was in good care and even took a job in the career field that I had just graduated with a degree for.
I flourished.
I specifically remember those blissful months when I finally felt whole again. So filled with life and love and joyful anticipation for the future. I can see myself, standing on the lawn outside of my workplace, soaking in the sunshine with a smile on my face.
That's the last time I remember being truly happy.
I flourished
and then all hell came crashing down on me.
A month later we discovered my brother had a drug addiction.
A month after that my dad got diagnosed with cancer.
And two months later I got pregnant with my second child.
All before my daughter even turned 1 year old.
*Specific names of medications are omitted in order to not divert people away from taking them. Every mom is different and every medication works differently for every mom. What worked or didn't work for me may or may not work for you.
Becky Schroeder is now the co-founder of Mom's Mental Health Initiative, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping moms navigate pregnancy and postpartum depression and anxiety by sharing information, connecting them to resources, and providing peer-driven support.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Under the Dome [Part 2]: Fear itself
Trigger warning: The following blog posts are heavy with describing details of Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum OCD, also including suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts and various medical procedures/complications during pregnancy and delivery. Please use caution while reading Under the Dome posts if they might trigger you.
It wasn't until my 28th week that I was finally cleared from all testing following my baby's thickened nuchal fold. They wanted to be prepared when my baby arrived if she ended up needing special care and still warned me that the "reason" may present once she was here.
By the end of the 29th week I went into an anxiety induced preterm labor in which I began to dilate and was taken to Froedtert by ambulance to prepare for a preterm baby who would need a lot of care.
In all the times I had been hospitalized over the years during my pregnancies (which was a few times for each child), no one ever asked me what I was doing prior to my contractions. No one asked me how I was feeling emotionally on any level. Would it had made a difference? I'm not sure... but I would hope it could have.
I eventually got to go home on strict bed rest with the exception of doctor appointments I had to attend 3x weekly. I went from actively working 3 jobs (one full time, two part time) to not even being able to take care of any household chores myself.
It was that time that my anxiety grew from a nagging worry to a full blown constant panic. I spent my days researching how to prevent all things that could kill my baby. I obsessively researched SIDS, sleep accidents, car accidents/car seat safety, common illnesses that could kill newborn and infants, babies being left in a car, postpartum depression and various other things that I would catch from a story or show. I know everyone may do this... but the extent to which I delved into these topics was beyond what I wanted to. My anxiety reared it's ugly head and made me suddenly completely too anxious to have anyone over. A few people offered company or help but I couldn't allow it. I couldn't pinpoint why, but I felt like I was going to internally combust.
It wasn’t who I was. I was normally social with a small group of longtime friends and should have wanted some company in my long hours of sitting in one spot but my mind and body told me otherwise.
7 weeks later, after a sometimes stressful and scary delivery, my daughter was here.
I was IN LOVE. I felt all of those beautiful things people try to describe about how loving your child supersedes any love you’ve ever experienced.
My anxiety stayed true and strong even in the hospital. One minor fever in my baby and the doctors had me overly paranoid about keeping her as germ free and healthy as I could. Every person who came to visit us made me more and more anxious. I wanted them to lock us in a quarantine. I didn’t even want my own family there. I just wanted to be left alone with my new baby. Love and fear battled inside of me.
When I went home it was more of the same. My daughter was jaundice and required a UV blanket. Feeding her was a battle that I felt like I was failing and no one was there to tell me otherwise.
I felt immense sadness watching my husband bond with and take care of her. I felt like he was keeping her from me. I felt like he might take her from me. I knew that felt like a irrational thought process but I felt like he hated me and just wanted our baby.
The days and nights were long. I didn’t cherish the newborn days like people had repeatedly told me to. Instead I wished and prayed for time to fast forward a year or two so she wasn’t so helpless and dependent on me. Maybe if she was older then less could go wrong. Instead of celebrating milestones as she grew, I instead only felt relief that I was closer to her growing up - lessening the chances of things like SIDS. My baby being so helpless and dependent on me was overwhelming.
As the months went on I researched postpartum depression more and more. First once or twice a week and then on a daily basis. I went to doctor appointments with the mindset of answering the postpartum questions honestly, hoping to prompt a discussion from my doctor. I stared at the questionnaire but nothing it asked ever fit me and even when I lied (to prompt discussion), no one ever mentioned my answers or asked about my mood.
I wasn’t depressed.
I was happy.
I was happy and fear was swallowing me whole.I hardly slept.
When I did sleep, I woke up several times in a panic to check on the baby. Fear was keeping me up at night... not my baby who had started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks. I put her to bed and then made sure her things were in pristine condition. If I felt like her bottles on the drying rack may have been contaminated, I rewashed them. If I washed them and still felt anxious then I sterilized them. I washed her clothes and dried them and folded them. If I folded them and set them on something that I then thought might be dirty then I would rewash them and wash a sheet or towel with them that I could then set on the ground to set them on.
One night, when my daughter was 4 months old, I laid down in bed at 2am to hopefully get some sleep and as I shut my eyes and tried to will my fearful thoughts away I thought "This will never ever stop. I'm always going to be this afraid of losing her."
That thought swallowed me whole.
"I will be fearful my whole life... until I am dead. If I died, I wouldn't have to be afraid anymore."
And with that thought, came peace. And for the first time since I got pregnant, my body relaxed and I fell asleep.
It wasn't until my 28th week that I was finally cleared from all testing following my baby's thickened nuchal fold. They wanted to be prepared when my baby arrived if she ended up needing special care and still warned me that the "reason" may present once she was here.
By the end of the 29th week I went into an anxiety induced preterm labor in which I began to dilate and was taken to Froedtert by ambulance to prepare for a preterm baby who would need a lot of care.
In all the times I had been hospitalized over the years during my pregnancies (which was a few times for each child), no one ever asked me what I was doing prior to my contractions. No one asked me how I was feeling emotionally on any level. Would it had made a difference? I'm not sure... but I would hope it could have.
I eventually got to go home on strict bed rest with the exception of doctor appointments I had to attend 3x weekly. I went from actively working 3 jobs (one full time, two part time) to not even being able to take care of any household chores myself.
It was that time that my anxiety grew from a nagging worry to a full blown constant panic. I spent my days researching how to prevent all things that could kill my baby. I obsessively researched SIDS, sleep accidents, car accidents/car seat safety, common illnesses that could kill newborn and infants, babies being left in a car, postpartum depression and various other things that I would catch from a story or show. I know everyone may do this... but the extent to which I delved into these topics was beyond what I wanted to. My anxiety reared it's ugly head and made me suddenly completely too anxious to have anyone over. A few people offered company or help but I couldn't allow it. I couldn't pinpoint why, but I felt like I was going to internally combust.
It wasn’t who I was. I was normally social with a small group of longtime friends and should have wanted some company in my long hours of sitting in one spot but my mind and body told me otherwise.
7 weeks later, after a sometimes stressful and scary delivery, my daughter was here.
I was IN LOVE. I felt all of those beautiful things people try to describe about how loving your child supersedes any love you’ve ever experienced.
My anxiety stayed true and strong even in the hospital. One minor fever in my baby and the doctors had me overly paranoid about keeping her as germ free and healthy as I could. Every person who came to visit us made me more and more anxious. I wanted them to lock us in a quarantine. I didn’t even want my own family there. I just wanted to be left alone with my new baby. Love and fear battled inside of me.
When I went home it was more of the same. My daughter was jaundice and required a UV blanket. Feeding her was a battle that I felt like I was failing and no one was there to tell me otherwise.
I felt immense sadness watching my husband bond with and take care of her. I felt like he was keeping her from me. I felt like he might take her from me. I knew that felt like a irrational thought process but I felt like he hated me and just wanted our baby.
The days and nights were long. I didn’t cherish the newborn days like people had repeatedly told me to. Instead I wished and prayed for time to fast forward a year or two so she wasn’t so helpless and dependent on me. Maybe if she was older then less could go wrong. Instead of celebrating milestones as she grew, I instead only felt relief that I was closer to her growing up - lessening the chances of things like SIDS. My baby being so helpless and dependent on me was overwhelming.
As the months went on I researched postpartum depression more and more. First once or twice a week and then on a daily basis. I went to doctor appointments with the mindset of answering the postpartum questions honestly, hoping to prompt a discussion from my doctor. I stared at the questionnaire but nothing it asked ever fit me and even when I lied (to prompt discussion), no one ever mentioned my answers or asked about my mood.
I wasn’t depressed.
I was happy.
I was happy and fear was swallowing me whole.I hardly slept.
When I did sleep, I woke up several times in a panic to check on the baby. Fear was keeping me up at night... not my baby who had started sleeping through the night at 6 weeks. I put her to bed and then made sure her things were in pristine condition. If I felt like her bottles on the drying rack may have been contaminated, I rewashed them. If I washed them and still felt anxious then I sterilized them. I washed her clothes and dried them and folded them. If I folded them and set them on something that I then thought might be dirty then I would rewash them and wash a sheet or towel with them that I could then set on the ground to set them on.
One night, when my daughter was 4 months old, I laid down in bed at 2am to hopefully get some sleep and as I shut my eyes and tried to will my fearful thoughts away I thought "This will never ever stop. I'm always going to be this afraid of losing her."
That thought swallowed me whole.
"I will be fearful my whole life... until I am dead. If I died, I wouldn't have to be afraid anymore."
And with that thought, came peace. And for the first time since I got pregnant, my body relaxed and I fell asleep.
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Under the Dome [Part 1]: 1614 days
Trigger warning: The following blog posts are heavy with describing details of Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum OCD, also including suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts and various medical procedures/complications during pregnancy and delivery. Please use caution while reading Under the Dome posts if they might trigger you.
I thought long and hard about how to describe what it feels like to be stuck in the battle of maternal mental health and it wasn't until I was freed that I could come up with that analogy.
You know how some people believe that there is good and evil in all of us? How we make daily choices that make us either good or bad?
Maternal mental health struggles are like that. You get split into two different people. Imagine that the "good" part... the part that helps you flourish in joy, that is made up of a million tiny things that make you "you", gets locked into one of those old style outdoor cellars with the two wooden doors. The wooden doors are old enough to see the world in slots of light and dark. To watch the broken parts of yourself carrying on with a life you had dreamed about since you were young.
One thousand six hundred fourteen days I was trapped in that cellar.
I feel like I owe it to every other mother who suffers any form of maternal mental health struggle to share my story - in it's entirety - with every shameful, heart wrenching, fearful truth that I never wanted to share. I didn't want to, but I have to. With my third baby came this new wave of struggles... to admit to a happy, blissful, and (nearly) perfect postpartum experience and be even closer to knowing why my story needed to be told. If version #3 was how everyone else experienced postpartum and motherhood then they really didn't understand what the rest of us had been going through.
Truth: 40% of women experience maternal mental health struggles starting in pregnancy.
I wish I had known that. It actually wasn't something I came to know until I was pregnant with my 3rd, believe it or not.
The first 12 weeks of my first pregnancy were filled with a lot of obsessive reading about everything and anything that could go wrong. While this is probably what happens with lot of people, with me it was a bit different since I suffered from PTSD. PTSD never allowed me to truly envision a future - especially not one where I could be a mother - so I was pretty certain that something was going to happen to crush any dreams of normalcy that I had.
In the beginning I called my new OB/GYN and asked her nurse about medications I was currently taking for my PTSD that I had been on for over 10 years. "Stop them immediately" she told me. I asked if she was sure. I told her that I feared that the stress of not being medicated was going to be far more harmful than the medications were. She told me that wasn't correct. I asked her to ask the doctor if I needed to wean off of any of them, she said no.
I sat and stared at a wall before then calling back and requesting to be switched to a midwife.
My midwife listened to everything I had to say and said she would call me back. When she did call back she agreed with my feelings about stress>medication harm and told me that she would support my staying on them. She also suggested that I inform my mental health prescriber before my first doctor appointment.
My mental health prescriber was an AODA specialist since I was taking a low dose of an AODA medication for my PTSD. My reasons for taking the medication had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol but my doctor was unable to ever get out of that mode of thinking.
"You can stay on the drugs if you can research them and prove they are safe. You also need to bring the father in and I need his permission to prescribe to you since this is his child too" he told me.
So, I went home and researched and actually found out that the medication had been used in various other countries as a fertility drug and that the people who took it had stayed on it after conceiving with a lesser outcome of miscarriage while taking it. My husband (then boyfriend) came with me to the next appointment where I made my case and then listened to my doctor explain that he was unaware of what the medications would do to me and needed his permission to prescribe them.
"I trust her" Kevin said with a unwavering stare.
Everyone seems to be in charge of my life except for me.
My worry kept me up at night.
My worry paralyzed me.
My worry had me obsessively scouring the internet.
My worry made my body hum with anxiety so vicious that once, during an argument with my husband, I told him I wished we hadn't gotten pregnant so we could instead get to the point of complete understanding of each other before bringing another life into the world.
I worried about miscarriage...
and sometimes I wished it would just happen already so I could be put out of my worried misery. So I could start over and do things the right way.
My worry caused me to over analyze every pregnancy symptom I had which led to many worried calls to my midwife and then scans and tests to make sure that the symptoms were not a result of a real, sometimes life threatening, problem.
At week 11 I got a call back from the doctor regarding a scan I had to make sure bleeding hadn't been a result of a bigger issue. Thankfully, it wasn't but unfortunately they had found something else. They had seen that the nuchal fold was thicker than it should be and wanted me to see a specialist who would be able to measure properly to confirm. They made me an appointment right away and I hung up to then search what nuchal fold measurements had meant.
Down syndrome.
I talked it over with my husband and did all the research I could before my next appointment. We were going to love a baby no matter what challenges it brought us. I wrote entries about my appointments in more detail but here's the truths I left out:
My doctor never told me that there was an option of "everything is fine". In every option there was going to be a high risk of a mental disability, shortened life, or no life beyond the womb at all. In order to find out "which one" I was going to be doomed with my doctor told me I could either have a blood test done (which would take weeks for the results and not be as specific) or I could have a CVS done (which was going to be done immediately, a sample taken from the placenta via needle through my stomach going in and out of it over a dozen times to collect the needed amount).
"If you take the blood test route you will be further into your pregnancy and by then if we abort due to possible complications we would have to take your baby out in pieces since it will be larger."
I excused myself to the bathroom to sob in private.
That is the moment that my fear went silent. That all of my previous worries had lost their voice and instead caused a constant hum throughout my body that simply said "run".
I thought long and hard about how to describe what it feels like to be stuck in the battle of maternal mental health and it wasn't until I was freed that I could come up with that analogy.
You know how some people believe that there is good and evil in all of us? How we make daily choices that make us either good or bad?
Maternal mental health struggles are like that. You get split into two different people. Imagine that the "good" part... the part that helps you flourish in joy, that is made up of a million tiny things that make you "you", gets locked into one of those old style outdoor cellars with the two wooden doors. The wooden doors are old enough to see the world in slots of light and dark. To watch the broken parts of yourself carrying on with a life you had dreamed about since you were young.
One thousand six hundred fourteen days I was trapped in that cellar.
I feel like I owe it to every other mother who suffers any form of maternal mental health struggle to share my story - in it's entirety - with every shameful, heart wrenching, fearful truth that I never wanted to share. I didn't want to, but I have to. With my third baby came this new wave of struggles... to admit to a happy, blissful, and (nearly) perfect postpartum experience and be even closer to knowing why my story needed to be told. If version #3 was how everyone else experienced postpartum and motherhood then they really didn't understand what the rest of us had been going through.
Truth: 40% of women experience maternal mental health struggles starting in pregnancy.
I wish I had known that. It actually wasn't something I came to know until I was pregnant with my 3rd, believe it or not.
The first 12 weeks of my first pregnancy were filled with a lot of obsessive reading about everything and anything that could go wrong. While this is probably what happens with lot of people, with me it was a bit different since I suffered from PTSD. PTSD never allowed me to truly envision a future - especially not one where I could be a mother - so I was pretty certain that something was going to happen to crush any dreams of normalcy that I had.
In the beginning I called my new OB/GYN and asked her nurse about medications I was currently taking for my PTSD that I had been on for over 10 years. "Stop them immediately" she told me. I asked if she was sure. I told her that I feared that the stress of not being medicated was going to be far more harmful than the medications were. She told me that wasn't correct. I asked her to ask the doctor if I needed to wean off of any of them, she said no.
I sat and stared at a wall before then calling back and requesting to be switched to a midwife.
My midwife listened to everything I had to say and said she would call me back. When she did call back she agreed with my feelings about stress>medication harm and told me that she would support my staying on them. She also suggested that I inform my mental health prescriber before my first doctor appointment.
My mental health prescriber was an AODA specialist since I was taking a low dose of an AODA medication for my PTSD. My reasons for taking the medication had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol but my doctor was unable to ever get out of that mode of thinking.
"You can stay on the drugs if you can research them and prove they are safe. You also need to bring the father in and I need his permission to prescribe to you since this is his child too" he told me.
So, I went home and researched and actually found out that the medication had been used in various other countries as a fertility drug and that the people who took it had stayed on it after conceiving with a lesser outcome of miscarriage while taking it. My husband (then boyfriend) came with me to the next appointment where I made my case and then listened to my doctor explain that he was unaware of what the medications would do to me and needed his permission to prescribe them.
"I trust her" Kevin said with a unwavering stare.
Everyone seems to be in charge of my life except for me.
My worry kept me up at night.
My worry paralyzed me.
My worry had me obsessively scouring the internet.
My worry made my body hum with anxiety so vicious that once, during an argument with my husband, I told him I wished we hadn't gotten pregnant so we could instead get to the point of complete understanding of each other before bringing another life into the world.
I worried about miscarriage...
and sometimes I wished it would just happen already so I could be put out of my worried misery. So I could start over and do things the right way.
My worry caused me to over analyze every pregnancy symptom I had which led to many worried calls to my midwife and then scans and tests to make sure that the symptoms were not a result of a real, sometimes life threatening, problem.
At week 11 I got a call back from the doctor regarding a scan I had to make sure bleeding hadn't been a result of a bigger issue. Thankfully, it wasn't but unfortunately they had found something else. They had seen that the nuchal fold was thicker than it should be and wanted me to see a specialist who would be able to measure properly to confirm. They made me an appointment right away and I hung up to then search what nuchal fold measurements had meant.
Down syndrome.
I talked it over with my husband and did all the research I could before my next appointment. We were going to love a baby no matter what challenges it brought us. I wrote entries about my appointments in more detail but here's the truths I left out:
My doctor never told me that there was an option of "everything is fine". In every option there was going to be a high risk of a mental disability, shortened life, or no life beyond the womb at all. In order to find out "which one" I was going to be doomed with my doctor told me I could either have a blood test done (which would take weeks for the results and not be as specific) or I could have a CVS done (which was going to be done immediately, a sample taken from the placenta via needle through my stomach going in and out of it over a dozen times to collect the needed amount).
"If you take the blood test route you will be further into your pregnancy and by then if we abort due to possible complications we would have to take your baby out in pieces since it will be larger."
I excused myself to the bathroom to sob in private.
That is the moment that my fear went silent. That all of my previous worries had lost their voice and instead caused a constant hum throughout my body that simply said "run".
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
I will try to fix you.
This photo is of my son Emmett curled up next to my dad today.
What neither of them knows is that the ugly cancerous tumor that is taking my dad's life is the reason that Emmett exists. And what everyone else doesn't know is that Emmett is the reason that I exist on the (somewhat) sane level that I currently do. The trials and tribulations of the last year plus have been that of which I wish I could have just said "forget it" and drown my reality in some sort of mind altering substance.
But I didn't.
Why?
Because I know better.The real reason?
I have a child to protect.
I have a child to nourish.
And that child is here because my dad's cancer exists.
And I won't let that not matter.
I will fight. Always.
Emmett is here because a few months after his diagnosis, with a dozen unanswered questions, more uncertainty than not, and a grim outlook even in the best case scenario, I knew we were on borrowed time. It was with that knowledge that I slowly convinced myself and then my husband that sooner was better than later for child #2. Don't get me wrong, I took my time deciding. I asked all the right questions and had valid reasons. They were all reasons and questions I just hadn't had before the cancer.
I wanted my dad to meet my baby.
What if that baby would be a son, the first grandson?
What if my dad beat the cancer and got years to live afterwards then all would be happy and well? Then he could watch him grow.
There were periods of time during my pregnancy when I feared the life inside me wasn't growing. Concurrently my dad was fearing that the life inside of him was growing. There were moments where my doctor appointment wouldn't go well but his would and then times when mine would be looking up and his would be some sort of unexpected bad news.
I wanted both of us to come out winners in this battle.
But that isn't what happened. Instead I watch my dad's face fall into sorrow and sometimes tears when he looks at my son... not because he knows why he exists, but because he knows he won't get to watch him grow.
Cancer.
I could dwell on how much I hate it. I could go on forever about the up and down emotions of watching someone die. How one minute you're grateful for the time you do have and the next minute you're cursing and throwing something across the room at the wall out of a rage that rumbles so low within you that you're not sure you'll ever be rid of it.
Instead I will say that I will first thank my dad for everything he contributed to my life, for working hard and providing for our family, for teaching us right from wrong and work ethic.
And then I will thank him for harboring the (cancerous) life that sequentially gave me Emmett.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Shadow self.
I understand why she did it.
That is the only thought running through my head in the shower tonight as I tried to force what was left in my travel size body wash onto my loofah.
I understand why she did it.
This is often the only thought I can clearly identify on a near nightly basis for the last month.
When my mind has reached that point I can usually follow up with an explanation and it's normally the same answer: because she lost who she was.
Maybe she lost who she was. Maybe it was just a matter of no one telling her that she had just simply morphed into someone else... but it really isn't that easy to accept.
Motherhood strips you of who you are. At least for a little while it does. You double the amount of people you're responsible for and somehow you are at the bottom of the list.
Sometimes it's harder for some people... and with that comes shame and fear. Fear that if I tell you that I have a postpartum mental health disorder you might think I'm an unfit mom. I might make you uncomfortable. You might not know what to say.
We need to learn to celebrate and acknowledge the people we become when motherhood is added to the ever-growing list of things we juggle.
When I first heard of Sasha's passing I told myself that would never be me. I cried for her babies. I wanted to pretend that I didn't understand. The more I learned about Sasha, the more she sounded exactly like the things that people would say to describe me. That scared me even more.
I could be her.
That could be me. No, that could never be me.
And then, within a week, I had a moment of clarity in which I understood her.
That's what I'm thinking about as I'm showering at 7:30pm as my daughter lays outside of my bedroom door crying for me. That's what I'm thinking at 9pm when my husband and daughter are asleep and I realize that my son has blown out of his diaper onto the pjs I just dressed him in and on my own freshly changed clothes. That's what I am thinking when I type this next to a kicking, cooing, wide awake baby.
Is motherhood shameful?
Because that's what it feels like.
Sometimes it feels like punishment.
I happily live sleep and breathe my children but at the end of the day I'm not entirely sure what it is that leads me to identify and sympathize with Sasha Hettich.
Maybe like me, she felt really lost.
And felt really alone.
And overwhelmed.
And under-appreciated.
And she felt like no one noticed all the things that mattered.
Like she didn't matter.
Like being here was far more frightening than feeling like this for the rest of her life.
Of being afraid for her children.
For what the world would do to them.
For what she would contribute to who they become.
Failing them.
Two under two has very quickly forced me into the realization that any type of career or work outside the home is nearly impossible unless I am ok with giving my entire paycheck over to a daycare provider and essentially pay them to raise and make memories with my babies. At the end of any day I knew that I wouldn't want to take my last breath and think to myself "Why couldn't I have worked more and spent less time watching my children grow up?"
So, I succumbed to the fact that I would need to temporarily be at home with the kids instead of continuing to follow my own path.
My own path... or maybe the path I was on that led me here.
Maybe they are my path?
Maybe I'm here for them?
Maybe my purpose in life was create them and allow them to grow into the people the world needs them to be.
I used to be human.
I used to be someone who contributed to society in a way that society is willing to recognize.
I used to be able to answer the allusive question of What do you do? with an answer that I was proud of because it gave some illusion that I "was somebody". The truth is that I'm now more important than I had ever been.
What do I do?
I work 24/7.
I nourish my baby with my own body.
I do everything humanly possible to make sure my kids are happy and healthy and thriving.
Learning and growing and safe.
But on the other hand my children dictate everything I do or don't do even down to the clothes I can wear. Taking care of them 24/7 leaves me in a struggle with my travel size soap at 7:30pm trying to figure out how to become someone recognizable.
That's how I end up here every night.
Sitting in my own head.
Sometimes honestly wondering if I am still alive or if I'm in some strange purgatory where I only think I'm alive and contributing to the world. Maybe when we die, life just goes on and we think we are part of it.
I'm overwhelmed.
But tomorrow is a new day and in the morning I will sing song good morning to my daughter with my son tucked underneath my arm as I let light through her window. And she will smile and say "momma!" in the sweetest voice I've ever heard.
It's not my children I'm afraid of.
It's the rest of the world.
Sasha, I'm sorry if you felt like you weren't human.
You weren't.
You were fucking super human. And you deserved to feel that way.
That is the only thought running through my head in the shower tonight as I tried to force what was left in my travel size body wash onto my loofah.
I understand why she did it.
This is often the only thought I can clearly identify on a near nightly basis for the last month.
When my mind has reached that point I can usually follow up with an explanation and it's normally the same answer: because she lost who she was.
Maybe she lost who she was. Maybe it was just a matter of no one telling her that she had just simply morphed into someone else... but it really isn't that easy to accept.
Motherhood strips you of who you are. At least for a little while it does. You double the amount of people you're responsible for and somehow you are at the bottom of the list.
Sometimes it's harder for some people... and with that comes shame and fear. Fear that if I tell you that I have a postpartum mental health disorder you might think I'm an unfit mom. I might make you uncomfortable. You might not know what to say.
We need to learn to celebrate and acknowledge the people we become when motherhood is added to the ever-growing list of things we juggle.
When I first heard of Sasha's passing I told myself that would never be me. I cried for her babies. I wanted to pretend that I didn't understand. The more I learned about Sasha, the more she sounded exactly like the things that people would say to describe me. That scared me even more.
I could be her.
That could be me. No, that could never be me.
And then, within a week, I had a moment of clarity in which I understood her.
That's what I'm thinking about as I'm showering at 7:30pm as my daughter lays outside of my bedroom door crying for me. That's what I'm thinking at 9pm when my husband and daughter are asleep and I realize that my son has blown out of his diaper onto the pjs I just dressed him in and on my own freshly changed clothes. That's what I am thinking when I type this next to a kicking, cooing, wide awake baby.
Is motherhood shameful?
Because that's what it feels like.
Sometimes it feels like punishment.
I happily live sleep and breathe my children but at the end of the day I'm not entirely sure what it is that leads me to identify and sympathize with Sasha Hettich.
Maybe like me, she felt really lost.
And felt really alone.
And overwhelmed.
And under-appreciated.
And she felt like no one noticed all the things that mattered.
Like she didn't matter.
Like being here was far more frightening than feeling like this for the rest of her life.
Of being afraid for her children.
For what the world would do to them.
For what she would contribute to who they become.
Failing them.
Two under two has very quickly forced me into the realization that any type of career or work outside the home is nearly impossible unless I am ok with giving my entire paycheck over to a daycare provider and essentially pay them to raise and make memories with my babies. At the end of any day I knew that I wouldn't want to take my last breath and think to myself "Why couldn't I have worked more and spent less time watching my children grow up?"
So, I succumbed to the fact that I would need to temporarily be at home with the kids instead of continuing to follow my own path.
My own path... or maybe the path I was on that led me here.
Maybe they are my path?
Maybe I'm here for them?
Maybe my purpose in life was create them and allow them to grow into the people the world needs them to be.
I used to be human.
I used to be someone who contributed to society in a way that society is willing to recognize.
I used to be able to answer the allusive question of What do you do? with an answer that I was proud of because it gave some illusion that I "was somebody". The truth is that I'm now more important than I had ever been.
What do I do?
I work 24/7.
I nourish my baby with my own body.
I do everything humanly possible to make sure my kids are happy and healthy and thriving.
Learning and growing and safe.
But on the other hand my children dictate everything I do or don't do even down to the clothes I can wear. Taking care of them 24/7 leaves me in a struggle with my travel size soap at 7:30pm trying to figure out how to become someone recognizable.
That's how I end up here every night.
Sitting in my own head.
Sometimes honestly wondering if I am still alive or if I'm in some strange purgatory where I only think I'm alive and contributing to the world. Maybe when we die, life just goes on and we think we are part of it.
I'm overwhelmed.
But tomorrow is a new day and in the morning I will sing song good morning to my daughter with my son tucked underneath my arm as I let light through her window. And she will smile and say "momma!" in the sweetest voice I've ever heard.
It's not my children I'm afraid of.
It's the rest of the world.
Sasha, I'm sorry if you felt like you weren't human.
You weren't.
You were fucking super human. And you deserved to feel that way.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
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 :)
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