Someone wrote today and told me that she'd been struggling with the same issues I've been battling, and that reading this blog has helped her.
That's why I write. The worst part of it all was when I was a new mom, and I didn't know anyone who had gone through PPD, and I felt so alone and so crazy. It was terrifying. I didn't see how I could ever find my way out of the dark. Of course, now I know that it's common and treatable and survivable, but I sure didn't know then.
You're not alone. I'm here if you need to talk to someone who understands. And there are so many wonderful resources on the web. We're so lucky to live in this time, when we're all so connected to each other.
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Monday, March 28, 2011
Saturday, March 26, 2011
World Gone Mad
I saw the midwife about my migraines a few weeks ago, and she recommended that I increase my Zoloft from 25 to 50 mg, because sometimes Zoloft can prevent migraines. It didn't, but I have kept taking 50 mg because sometimes Zoloft takes a long time to work, and she didn't give me any time frame on when to expect things to get better. She also didn't change my prescription, so when I tried to refill it last week (much earlier than the one-month-supply allowed by insurance should have run out) I got a voicemail from the pharmacy saying, "We're trying to contact your insurance company, your refill has been delayed, we'll call you when it's ready,"). Consequently, I didn't have my medicine from last Friday till Monday of this week.
Just long enough to screw me up.
It's not a good time, historically speaking, to be off my meds. It feels like the world is on fire, and the crushing guilt of having brought three children into a world that is so profoundly screwed up is weighing on me. I think it's worse now that I have a draftable child. Jack was about 2 days old when I realized that he could grow up, go to war, and get killed. I was alone in the hospital at the time, and it hit me like a Mack truck. My head is a horrible place to have to live sometimes. (Yay, Zoloft.)
I think to myself, "What are the odds that I can keep three kids healthy and safe until they're grown? Statistically it's inevitable that one of them will get really sick, or really hurt, or worse, before I die. How will I cope with that?" The only thing keeping me sane is that my brother, sister, and I have managed so far without serious illness or injury. If my parents did it, maybe we can too,
I think to myself, "How on earth are they ever going to have a good life, with the national debt, the world running out of oil and clean water, corrupt and stupid politicians running everything, the recession, jobs going (gone) overseas, the environment, global warming..." I can go down that rabbit hole for hours, mentally listing everything that's wrong with the world. The only thing that keeps me sane is thinking that the world was pretty screwed up in the 1970s, too. My parents despaired over the world they'd brought us into (I know, I've asked) with Vietnam and the energy crisis and everything that happened in that decade, and we're ok. And my grandparents, coming out of World War II, (or BJ's coming out of the Great Depression) probably worried about the world they'd brought their kids into, too, and they're ok. So maybe my kids will be ok, too.
And then there are more local concerns... My job. Oy. Don't even get me started. And how long do I really think I can keep this up, with the three small kids and the working and the trying to keep the house from looking like a bomb went off? How long can I sustain this level of activity before I crash, before I just pull the covers over my head and refuse to get out of bed for a week? But I can't - I don't have that choice - I have to keep going for them. For BJ. There are too many people counting on me to be sane and functioning and somewhat cheerful, now. I don't have the luxury of being able to check out anymore. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, sometimes. I run all day, yet I'm standing still. The black cloud that follows me is that I'm letting all of them down - BJ, the kids, my family of origin, my friends, you readers. The evil voice in the back of my mind constantly chants, "You're ruining everything. You've let them down. You're not good enough. You never deserved any of this, and now you've ruined it, just like everyone knew you would, just like you knew you would. You're a failure at this, at everything."
But then the rational part of me takes over, and says, "Everyone's fine. You're fine. The house isn't that bad. The job stuff will work out. You can't do anything about the national debt or the environment, so you might as well not worry about it until it's time to vote. Just keep swimming, it'll be ok. You'll feel better in a few days." And so I put my head down, and I keep swimming, because I don't have any other choice. I hold my kids, and I hope that they'll have a part in fixing all the things I worry about, somehow. And when they're asleep, I whisper, "I'm sorry, for everything."
Just long enough to screw me up.
It's not a good time, historically speaking, to be off my meds. It feels like the world is on fire, and the crushing guilt of having brought three children into a world that is so profoundly screwed up is weighing on me. I think it's worse now that I have a draftable child. Jack was about 2 days old when I realized that he could grow up, go to war, and get killed. I was alone in the hospital at the time, and it hit me like a Mack truck. My head is a horrible place to have to live sometimes. (Yay, Zoloft.)
I think to myself, "What are the odds that I can keep three kids healthy and safe until they're grown? Statistically it's inevitable that one of them will get really sick, or really hurt, or worse, before I die. How will I cope with that?" The only thing keeping me sane is that my brother, sister, and I have managed so far without serious illness or injury. If my parents did it, maybe we can too,
I think to myself, "How on earth are they ever going to have a good life, with the national debt, the world running out of oil and clean water, corrupt and stupid politicians running everything, the recession, jobs going (gone) overseas, the environment, global warming..." I can go down that rabbit hole for hours, mentally listing everything that's wrong with the world. The only thing that keeps me sane is thinking that the world was pretty screwed up in the 1970s, too. My parents despaired over the world they'd brought us into (I know, I've asked) with Vietnam and the energy crisis and everything that happened in that decade, and we're ok. And my grandparents, coming out of World War II, (or BJ's coming out of the Great Depression) probably worried about the world they'd brought their kids into, too, and they're ok. So maybe my kids will be ok, too.
And then there are more local concerns... My job. Oy. Don't even get me started. And how long do I really think I can keep this up, with the three small kids and the working and the trying to keep the house from looking like a bomb went off? How long can I sustain this level of activity before I crash, before I just pull the covers over my head and refuse to get out of bed for a week? But I can't - I don't have that choice - I have to keep going for them. For BJ. There are too many people counting on me to be sane and functioning and somewhat cheerful, now. I don't have the luxury of being able to check out anymore. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, sometimes. I run all day, yet I'm standing still. The black cloud that follows me is that I'm letting all of them down - BJ, the kids, my family of origin, my friends, you readers. The evil voice in the back of my mind constantly chants, "You're ruining everything. You've let them down. You're not good enough. You never deserved any of this, and now you've ruined it, just like everyone knew you would, just like you knew you would. You're a failure at this, at everything."
But then the rational part of me takes over, and says, "Everyone's fine. You're fine. The house isn't that bad. The job stuff will work out. You can't do anything about the national debt or the environment, so you might as well not worry about it until it's time to vote. Just keep swimming, it'll be ok. You'll feel better in a few days." And so I put my head down, and I keep swimming, because I don't have any other choice. I hold my kids, and I hope that they'll have a part in fixing all the things I worry about, somehow. And when they're asleep, I whisper, "I'm sorry, for everything."
Monday, January 24, 2011
Intrusive Thoughts, Revisited
I'm over at Postpartum Progress helping Katherine fight the good fight today. Check it out.
Have you ever had intrusive thoughts?
Have you ever had intrusive thoughts?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Jedi Mind Tricks with Dr. Dave
Yes, of course I'm in therapy. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I've done the whole "Oh, I'm so ashamed of my PAMD/PPD" thing before, and it was bad for everyone - my husband, my kids, my extended family, my friends... Not to mention that it was bad for me. This time I'm charging into it head first, with my face painted blue and a sword aloft, screaming, "FREEDOM!" like some pregnant Mel Gibson...
I'll give you a second to let that mental image sink in.
The thing I love about Dr. Dave is that we don't spend a lot of time with the whole "tell me about your childhood" shtick. Yes, I've told him enough about my background that he has a good sense of who I am and where I come from. But he doesn't bother with much of it. His approach to psychology is a lot more practical (not to mention faster!) and, in my experience, it really works.
If you're going through anxiety or depression, whether it's associated with pregnancy or not, I can't recommend Cognitive Behavioral Therapy enough. Basically, the premise is that your thoughts create your emotions - not the other way around. A lot of people think that they feel sad, and that's why they're having sad thoughts. In truth, though, you have the sad thoughts first, and those sad thoughts make you feel sadness.
Think about it. You could see a perfectly neutral thing - how about a suitcase? So you see this suitcase, and it reminds you of the trip you just took to your favorite place, and you have all these happy thoughts of all the fun you had, and consequently you start to feel happy. Meanwhile, I see the suitcase, and I think about the business trip BJ has coming up, and how lonely I'm going to be, and how much work it's going to be to take care of the kids by myself, and then I start worrying about going into labor while he's gone, or his plane crashing, and suddenly I'm sad and anxious. The suitcase was neutral in both cases - it was the thoughts that were happy or sad. Those thoughts caused the emotions we experienced.
The idea of CBT is that you can get in better thought habits - you can train yourself to neutralize the negative thoughts that we all have, and over time they become less and less powerful. It actually re-wires the neural pathways in the brain, which is pretty amazing when you think about it.
So how am I re-wiring my brain these days? Well, last week we decided that whenever I have an anxious thought (and sometimes they're not even fully-formed thoughts, sometimes it's just an "Oh shit!" feeling that hits me out of the blue, especially in the middle of the night, and I have to really think about what thought triggered it - thoughts are sneaky!), I deliberately say to myself, "Reducing my anxiety level is good for the baby, it's good for the labor and delivery, and it will improve my ability to make decisions." (I actually "hear" it in Dr. Dave's voice, which I find funny.) That phrase addresses some of the specific concerns that underlie what's been causing my anxiety - that I'll hurt the baby by freaking out all the time, that something bad will happen during labor, and that I won't make good decisions about the delivery (for example, whether or not to induce). I've been thinking that thought 4 - 6 times a day, sometimes more, and it's really helping. I'd say that alone reduced my anxiety from an 8 (on a scale of one to ten) to a 6 or 6-1/2.
I've also been doing some deep breathing. I have a tendency (especially as I get physically bigger) to breathe very shallowly. I'm getting a lot better about breathing into my abdomen, which is probably an awful lot better for the baby. It's also helping me to relax.
Another trick Dr. Dave taught me today was the Fade Technique. Let's say that BJ is on a business trip. Before, because I'm a nutjob, I would have a lot of anxiety about his flight. I would picture, like a horror movie, all the terrible things that could happen in excruciating detail. Then I'd get on FlightAware.com and I'd hold his plane in the air through the sheer force of my own will, only relaxing (a little) when he landed safely (after all, he still has to fly home). Well, from now on when I have those thoughts, I'm going to deliberately picture BJ on the plane, happy and safe, reading and drinking a Coke, maybe taking a nap, then landing safely, getting his luggage, and arriving at his hotel. For every one time I go all horror movie in my head, I'm going to imagine the happy outcome twice, in detail. Research shows that over time the horror movie will fade and it won't bother me anymore.
The third technique was the first one he taught me, back when MG was a baby and I saw him before. I had a lot of anxiety that I was going to ruin her, and that if I loved her the best way to protect her was to get as far away from her as possible because I'm such a horrible mother. Dr. Dave had me write down a list of what constitutes a "good mother." Big surprise, I was already doing everything on my list. So, I logic myself out of that, "I'm a bad mom!" thought, now, when it comes. It was hard at first, but it's gotten really easy now. Now when that voice says, "You're an awful mother!" it doesn't take any mental effort or energy at all for me to shout it down.
I do this obsessive anxious magical thinking crazy-making in several different ways, so we talked about some different ways I can apply these three techniques to some specific things I tend to worry about.
Dr. Dave told me about a longitudinal study (14 years?) that was done on normal, healthy people. They kept track of all the things they worried about. Over the course of the study, 98% of the things that they'd worried about never happened at all, and the 2% that did happen weren't as bad as the people had predicted. He said that people tend to overestimate the likelihood that something bad will happen, and at the same time they'll underestimate their own capacity to deal with it. "Oh yeah, I totally do that," I said.
So that's what I'm working on right now. We don't expect to get me to the point of having no anxiety at all - only sociopaths can claim that distinction, and I don't aspire to be one! There's a functional level of anxiety around 3 or 4 on a scale of one to ten, that's actually beneficial. It's an inverted U shape, with anxiety on the x-axis and performance or ability to function on the y-axis (see image below which I borrowed from this website). I was at an 8 before, as I mentioned. I'd say I'm down to a 6-1/2 now. We're aiming for that optimal 3 or 4.
I'm mainly writing this post for myself, as a record of what I've learned in therapy so that I can go back and re-read it over the coming weeks and months. There's an off chance that it might help someone else, too. If you're reading this, though, please know that I'm not a psychiatric professional myself, and this is written based on my own experiences and my own recollections from therapy, and that it is not meant to be advice of any kind, except maybe, "Find yourself a cognitive behavioral therapist!" if you're struggling. You don't have to suffer.
 |
| Baby on Board? |
The thing I love about Dr. Dave is that we don't spend a lot of time with the whole "tell me about your childhood" shtick. Yes, I've told him enough about my background that he has a good sense of who I am and where I come from. But he doesn't bother with much of it. His approach to psychology is a lot more practical (not to mention faster!) and, in my experience, it really works.
If you're going through anxiety or depression, whether it's associated with pregnancy or not, I can't recommend Cognitive Behavioral Therapy enough. Basically, the premise is that your thoughts create your emotions - not the other way around. A lot of people think that they feel sad, and that's why they're having sad thoughts. In truth, though, you have the sad thoughts first, and those sad thoughts make you feel sadness.
Think about it. You could see a perfectly neutral thing - how about a suitcase? So you see this suitcase, and it reminds you of the trip you just took to your favorite place, and you have all these happy thoughts of all the fun you had, and consequently you start to feel happy. Meanwhile, I see the suitcase, and I think about the business trip BJ has coming up, and how lonely I'm going to be, and how much work it's going to be to take care of the kids by myself, and then I start worrying about going into labor while he's gone, or his plane crashing, and suddenly I'm sad and anxious. The suitcase was neutral in both cases - it was the thoughts that were happy or sad. Those thoughts caused the emotions we experienced.
The idea of CBT is that you can get in better thought habits - you can train yourself to neutralize the negative thoughts that we all have, and over time they become less and less powerful. It actually re-wires the neural pathways in the brain, which is pretty amazing when you think about it.
So how am I re-wiring my brain these days? Well, last week we decided that whenever I have an anxious thought (and sometimes they're not even fully-formed thoughts, sometimes it's just an "Oh shit!" feeling that hits me out of the blue, especially in the middle of the night, and I have to really think about what thought triggered it - thoughts are sneaky!), I deliberately say to myself, "Reducing my anxiety level is good for the baby, it's good for the labor and delivery, and it will improve my ability to make decisions." (I actually "hear" it in Dr. Dave's voice, which I find funny.) That phrase addresses some of the specific concerns that underlie what's been causing my anxiety - that I'll hurt the baby by freaking out all the time, that something bad will happen during labor, and that I won't make good decisions about the delivery (for example, whether or not to induce). I've been thinking that thought 4 - 6 times a day, sometimes more, and it's really helping. I'd say that alone reduced my anxiety from an 8 (on a scale of one to ten) to a 6 or 6-1/2.
I've also been doing some deep breathing. I have a tendency (especially as I get physically bigger) to breathe very shallowly. I'm getting a lot better about breathing into my abdomen, which is probably an awful lot better for the baby. It's also helping me to relax.
Another trick Dr. Dave taught me today was the Fade Technique. Let's say that BJ is on a business trip. Before, because I'm a nutjob, I would have a lot of anxiety about his flight. I would picture, like a horror movie, all the terrible things that could happen in excruciating detail. Then I'd get on FlightAware.com and I'd hold his plane in the air through the sheer force of my own will, only relaxing (a little) when he landed safely (after all, he still has to fly home). Well, from now on when I have those thoughts, I'm going to deliberately picture BJ on the plane, happy and safe, reading and drinking a Coke, maybe taking a nap, then landing safely, getting his luggage, and arriving at his hotel. For every one time I go all horror movie in my head, I'm going to imagine the happy outcome twice, in detail. Research shows that over time the horror movie will fade and it won't bother me anymore.
The third technique was the first one he taught me, back when MG was a baby and I saw him before. I had a lot of anxiety that I was going to ruin her, and that if I loved her the best way to protect her was to get as far away from her as possible because I'm such a horrible mother. Dr. Dave had me write down a list of what constitutes a "good mother." Big surprise, I was already doing everything on my list. So, I logic myself out of that, "I'm a bad mom!" thought, now, when it comes. It was hard at first, but it's gotten really easy now. Now when that voice says, "You're an awful mother!" it doesn't take any mental effort or energy at all for me to shout it down.
I do this obsessive anxious magical thinking crazy-making in several different ways, so we talked about some different ways I can apply these three techniques to some specific things I tend to worry about.
Dr. Dave told me about a longitudinal study (14 years?) that was done on normal, healthy people. They kept track of all the things they worried about. Over the course of the study, 98% of the things that they'd worried about never happened at all, and the 2% that did happen weren't as bad as the people had predicted. He said that people tend to overestimate the likelihood that something bad will happen, and at the same time they'll underestimate their own capacity to deal with it. "Oh yeah, I totally do that," I said.
So that's what I'm working on right now. We don't expect to get me to the point of having no anxiety at all - only sociopaths can claim that distinction, and I don't aspire to be one! There's a functional level of anxiety around 3 or 4 on a scale of one to ten, that's actually beneficial. It's an inverted U shape, with anxiety on the x-axis and performance or ability to function on the y-axis (see image below which I borrowed from this website). I was at an 8 before, as I mentioned. I'd say I'm down to a 6-1/2 now. We're aiming for that optimal 3 or 4.
I'm mainly writing this post for myself, as a record of what I've learned in therapy so that I can go back and re-read it over the coming weeks and months. There's an off chance that it might help someone else, too. If you're reading this, though, please know that I'm not a psychiatric professional myself, and this is written based on my own experiences and my own recollections from therapy, and that it is not meant to be advice of any kind, except maybe, "Find yourself a cognitive behavioral therapist!" if you're struggling. You don't have to suffer.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Hanging in there
Hello, incredibly neglected blog readers.
I'm still here.
I'm still having a lot of anxiety, a lot of intrusive thoughts. I've spent a lot of time crying lately.
It's so stupid because I want this baby so much (we tried for a year!), and I love my family, and I'm so, so lucky... I don't know why I'm ruining it for myself.
It is what it is. It is not in my control. I don't choose this.
I'm spending a lot of time reading about anxiety, particularly anxiety during pregnancy and postpartum. I'm spending a lot of time doing breathing exercises. I'm doing housework, because when the house is a mess, the anxiety gets worse (in the form of "I'm a terrible mother, look at this house! What a failure I am!" etc.).
It's weird that at my most-crazy, my house is cleaner than ever, isn't it? I've made my bed every morning for over three weeks - I didn't ever do that before. (Part of it is because our bedroom is downstairs now, but still.)
I've realized that I was probably misdiagnosed last time - I think it has always been anxiety. I don't think it was ever classic postpartum depression. I could go into the reasons why, but to mentally tally them up so I could list them would be hard right now, so I won't. But I think this is the same as what happened when I was pregnant with Mary Grace. And it must just be part of how I do pregnancy. With Claire, I could focus it on her because I had ICP and there was a risk that she could die - so I had an appropriate outlet for my anxiety (not to mention 100 mg a day of Zoloft!). Now, because this pregnancy is healthy (and I'm so grateful that it is!) I don't have that appropriate channel or outlet. And as we get closer to the point at which it all went wrong with Claire (32 weeks) the anxiety gets worse. I'm waiting for the ICP shoe to drop, or the preeclampsia shoe to drop, and it's maddening.
I'm not sleeping well, or resting well during the day. I'm taking the kids out a lot less. Most afternoons we stay close to home. Thank goodness they have friends in the neighborhood, so they aren't completely bored out of their skulls. I'm going to try to take them to get new shoes this afternoon. We'll see.
The midwife and I are meeting every two weeks, now, in light of what's going on. She gave me her cell phone number today. I told her I'd try really hard not to call her at 3 am to ask stupid questions. She's so great, though, she probably wouldn't mind if I did.
This is temporary. I just have to keep breathing for the next 3 months, and then the first 6 months after the baby comes, and after that things will be fine again. I know they will. Things got fine again after Mary Grace was born, and I never thought they would. They'll be fine again by next summer, next fall at the latest. This is just a season. I'm managing it all so much better this time than I did when I had Mary Grace. I'm not being stubborn like I was then, when I refused to admit that I was struggling. I'm getting help to manage it. I'm leaning on BJ, and on my family and my friends. I'm learning new ways to cope with intrusive thoughts. I'm being proactive, and not waiting until I'm at my wit's end to react.
I'm doing everything I can.
I've only gained 5 pounds (at 26 weeks!). I'm measuring one week ahead (27 cm). My blood pressure is fine. I did the glucose tolerance test today (yuck!) and we drew a liver panel, too, to check on the ICP. I've got another blood draw tomorrow for bile salts, but for that one I need to fast, so we couldn't do them all at once. The baby, thank goodness, is healthy and strong, his or her heart rate was 140 today in spite of the massive dose of glucose. Everything would be going perfectly if I could just get out of my own head.
I'm still here.
I'm still having a lot of anxiety, a lot of intrusive thoughts. I've spent a lot of time crying lately.
It's so stupid because I want this baby so much (we tried for a year!), and I love my family, and I'm so, so lucky... I don't know why I'm ruining it for myself.
It is what it is. It is not in my control. I don't choose this.
I'm spending a lot of time reading about anxiety, particularly anxiety during pregnancy and postpartum. I'm spending a lot of time doing breathing exercises. I'm doing housework, because when the house is a mess, the anxiety gets worse (in the form of "I'm a terrible mother, look at this house! What a failure I am!" etc.).
It's weird that at my most-crazy, my house is cleaner than ever, isn't it? I've made my bed every morning for over three weeks - I didn't ever do that before. (Part of it is because our bedroom is downstairs now, but still.)
I've realized that I was probably misdiagnosed last time - I think it has always been anxiety. I don't think it was ever classic postpartum depression. I could go into the reasons why, but to mentally tally them up so I could list them would be hard right now, so I won't. But I think this is the same as what happened when I was pregnant with Mary Grace. And it must just be part of how I do pregnancy. With Claire, I could focus it on her because I had ICP and there was a risk that she could die - so I had an appropriate outlet for my anxiety (not to mention 100 mg a day of Zoloft!). Now, because this pregnancy is healthy (and I'm so grateful that it is!) I don't have that appropriate channel or outlet. And as we get closer to the point at which it all went wrong with Claire (32 weeks) the anxiety gets worse. I'm waiting for the ICP shoe to drop, or the preeclampsia shoe to drop, and it's maddening.
I'm not sleeping well, or resting well during the day. I'm taking the kids out a lot less. Most afternoons we stay close to home. Thank goodness they have friends in the neighborhood, so they aren't completely bored out of their skulls. I'm going to try to take them to get new shoes this afternoon. We'll see.
The midwife and I are meeting every two weeks, now, in light of what's going on. She gave me her cell phone number today. I told her I'd try really hard not to call her at 3 am to ask stupid questions. She's so great, though, she probably wouldn't mind if I did.
This is temporary. I just have to keep breathing for the next 3 months, and then the first 6 months after the baby comes, and after that things will be fine again. I know they will. Things got fine again after Mary Grace was born, and I never thought they would. They'll be fine again by next summer, next fall at the latest. This is just a season. I'm managing it all so much better this time than I did when I had Mary Grace. I'm not being stubborn like I was then, when I refused to admit that I was struggling. I'm getting help to manage it. I'm leaning on BJ, and on my family and my friends. I'm learning new ways to cope with intrusive thoughts. I'm being proactive, and not waiting until I'm at my wit's end to react.
I'm doing everything I can.
I've only gained 5 pounds (at 26 weeks!). I'm measuring one week ahead (27 cm). My blood pressure is fine. I did the glucose tolerance test today (yuck!) and we drew a liver panel, too, to check on the ICP. I've got another blood draw tomorrow for bile salts, but for that one I need to fast, so we couldn't do them all at once. The baby, thank goodness, is healthy and strong, his or her heart rate was 140 today in spite of the massive dose of glucose. Everything would be going perfectly if I could just get out of my own head.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
I'm Being Very Brave
I was concerned about Mary Grace's class this year (OMG, someone run and tell the school right now!) because there are 16 boys and 8 girls (oh, you thought I was going to say something controversial? Neener neener!!). Only one girl moved on to the 4 day pre-k class with her from her previous class, and I was afraid that she would have a hard time making friends.
Hah! Have I even met my kid?
Within 10 seconds of getting out the first day, she told me all about her new friend Brooke and how cool Brooke is and what a good friend she is and how much she loves her and Mommy can we please have a playdate please Mommy please please please?
Well, considering that we've had a very medical couple of weeks - with dentists and eye doctors and every other kind of appointment - it's no surprise that today was the first time our schedules aligned and they were able to play.
Brooke's mom has two older daughters who are in school, and said that it would be no problem to just pick Mary Grace up when she picked Brooke up, take them out for a playdate, and bring MG back later. Then she very graciously offered to take Claire too!
So, I let someone I barely know, who I've talked to a few times in the school parking lot, pick up my children and take them from school in the midst of dealing with a pretty serious anxiety thing.
I know!
So what if I'm obsessively checked my phone every 30 seconds? I'm doing ok. The kids won't know I've checked my phone a thousand times. They're probably having a blast. BJ and I went out for lunch, and I made a joke about cruising the parking lot at school to make sure that Brooke's mom had everyone, but I was mostly joking. Mostly. I didn't do it, anyway. I've been at work all morning, actually accomplishing things and able to complete thoughts and not worrying too horribly much about the fact that it's pouring outside and no one in this college town knows how to drive. Brooke's mom drives a tank. They're fine.
They're fine.
They are fine.
This is how I do things, how I deal with things. I acknowledge them, I face them head on, and I barrel right through them. I am not the sort of person who hides from fear. Not me.
Along a similar vein, I've been facing my fear of water. I signed the girls up for semi-private swimming lessons with Karen's son Cameron and a teacher who is a high school student (BREATHE, Amy!). We went for the first time last Sunday.
I probably didn't blog about the time I went with BJ to the lessons we did over the summer. For eight of the nine lessons, I made him take them alone. I went to one. They made me sit behind an 8 foot spiky fence, which meant that if something happened I would've had to go over the fence, through the fence, or (most likely) around the fence, into the building, through the locker room, along the long side of the big pool, all the way to the baby pool, through the gate, and only then would I have been able to get to them. It was not a good set up for me. Not even a little. It was a 20 minute class. I made it about 5 minutes before I burst into tears.
I have this thing about water...
So we show up for swimming on Sunday, and the kids are stoked and I'm feeling very much like I'm going to throw up, but I'm ok, until the high school aged teacher says, "The water over here is really cold, so we're going to the other pool, by the diving boards."
The diving well is 17 feet deep.
I died.
The teacher took the kids, and I told Karen and BJ that I had to go to the bathroom, and I went back into the locker room to hyperventilate a little. But I got myself together and I went back out there and put on a happy face, and I cheered on my kids who were so proud of themselves. And wouldn't you know, they learned more in that 45 minute lesson than they had in 2 weeks of daily 20 minute lessons this summer. I only had to white-knuckle the bench a few times. I didn't throw up.
The therapist I saw last week told me to hire a housekeeper, have people bring in meals, and go to bed for the next 6 - 9 months. I'm not going back to her. I can't go to bed for 1/2 to 3/4 of a year. I need to face this thing. I need to stare my deepest, ugliest monsters in the face and then beat the shit out of them. I don't know any other way of being, and I know that I wouldn't be me if I ran and hid under the covers.
Because I AM very brave, even if I have to chant, "They're fine, they're fine, they're fine," to myself for the next hour.
Hah! Have I even met my kid?
Within 10 seconds of getting out the first day, she told me all about her new friend Brooke and how cool Brooke is and what a good friend she is and how much she loves her and Mommy can we please have a playdate please Mommy please please please?
Well, considering that we've had a very medical couple of weeks - with dentists and eye doctors and every other kind of appointment - it's no surprise that today was the first time our schedules aligned and they were able to play.
Brooke's mom has two older daughters who are in school, and said that it would be no problem to just pick Mary Grace up when she picked Brooke up, take them out for a playdate, and bring MG back later. Then she very graciously offered to take Claire too!
So, I let someone I barely know, who I've talked to a few times in the school parking lot, pick up my children and take them from school in the midst of dealing with a pretty serious anxiety thing.
I know!
So what if I'm obsessively checked my phone every 30 seconds? I'm doing ok. The kids won't know I've checked my phone a thousand times. They're probably having a blast. BJ and I went out for lunch, and I made a joke about cruising the parking lot at school to make sure that Brooke's mom had everyone, but I was mostly joking. Mostly. I didn't do it, anyway. I've been at work all morning, actually accomplishing things and able to complete thoughts and not worrying too horribly much about the fact that it's pouring outside and no one in this college town knows how to drive. Brooke's mom drives a tank. They're fine.
They're fine.
They are fine.
This is how I do things, how I deal with things. I acknowledge them, I face them head on, and I barrel right through them. I am not the sort of person who hides from fear. Not me.
Along a similar vein, I've been facing my fear of water. I signed the girls up for semi-private swimming lessons with Karen's son Cameron and a teacher who is a high school student (BREATHE, Amy!). We went for the first time last Sunday.
I probably didn't blog about the time I went with BJ to the lessons we did over the summer. For eight of the nine lessons, I made him take them alone. I went to one. They made me sit behind an 8 foot spiky fence, which meant that if something happened I would've had to go over the fence, through the fence, or (most likely) around the fence, into the building, through the locker room, along the long side of the big pool, all the way to the baby pool, through the gate, and only then would I have been able to get to them. It was not a good set up for me. Not even a little. It was a 20 minute class. I made it about 5 minutes before I burst into tears.
I have this thing about water...
So we show up for swimming on Sunday, and the kids are stoked and I'm feeling very much like I'm going to throw up, but I'm ok, until the high school aged teacher says, "The water over here is really cold, so we're going to the other pool, by the diving boards."
The diving well is 17 feet deep.
I died.
The teacher took the kids, and I told Karen and BJ that I had to go to the bathroom, and I went back into the locker room to hyperventilate a little. But I got myself together and I went back out there and put on a happy face, and I cheered on my kids who were so proud of themselves. And wouldn't you know, they learned more in that 45 minute lesson than they had in 2 weeks of daily 20 minute lessons this summer. I only had to white-knuckle the bench a few times. I didn't throw up.
The therapist I saw last week told me to hire a housekeeper, have people bring in meals, and go to bed for the next 6 - 9 months. I'm not going back to her. I can't go to bed for 1/2 to 3/4 of a year. I need to face this thing. I need to stare my deepest, ugliest monsters in the face and then beat the shit out of them. I don't know any other way of being, and I know that I wouldn't be me if I ran and hid under the covers.
Because I AM very brave, even if I have to chant, "They're fine, they're fine, they're fine," to myself for the next hour.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Down
It's back. I've been trying to deny it for weeks, now, but the more I try to deny it, the worse it gets.
I'm such an overachiever that I get postpartum depression before I give birth! (They're calling it "Perinatal Anxiety and Mood Disorder" now). I had it when I was pregnant with Mary Grace - back then I was so convinced that I was going to die in childbirth that I wrote BJ a very maudlin letter and gave it to his best friend, just in case. I spent days crying. I gave myself high blood pressure, worrying, and got put on bedrest. She was born in August of 2005 (and I lived!) and I didn't get help until April of 2006.
I'm stubborn like that. And stupid.
I got pregnant with Claire in July of 2006 - about 20 minutes after the Zoloft started working. I stayed on meds until my third trimester, then went off of it abruptly after I read a scary news story about the effects of antidepressants on fetuses and newborns (stupid!), then went back on it immediately after Claire's birth.
I can't remember when I decided to go off of it, or why, but I've been off for a long time.
Five weeks ago I talked to my midwife about the possibility that it might be coming back. This time I'm not afraid that I'm going to die, though. I already know I can survive pregnancy and birth - I've done it twice. I'd even go as far as to say that I'm really good at birth! No, my very adaptable brain has found something new to torment me - something I'm not sure I could survive. I'm having extremely intrusive and graphic thoughts - anxiety - about something hideous happening to one of my kids.
The best/worst example is from several weeks ago - we headed up to Grammaland after school and I got them Happy Meals to eat on the way up. I became obsessed with the idea that one of them would choke. I could see myself, in my mind's eye, pulling up at my mom's, finding Claire's blue, lifeless body strapped into her car seat, trying and failing to revive her. Screaming. Having to tell BJ... This scene played over and over and over in my head, until my adrenaline was coursing and I was sweating and basically completely freaking out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the images or the story playing over and over in my head. So, I flipped the rear view mirror down and watched them more than I watched the road (stupid!), until they were done eating. No one choked. It took me the entire 90 minute drive to get myself together, though.
That's when I realized that I might have a real problem.
I told my midwife, five weeks ago, that I was struggling, but I wanted to wait and see if it got better when school started. It didn't. So at my last appointment I decided to go back on Zoloft. I started the dose too high (at 25 mg) and had some weird side effects (have you ever experienced three conflicting emotions at once? It was weird, I didn't like it. I felt very out of control). I was also having trouble sleeping, which is DEFINITELY not going to help. Since I backed off to 12.5 mg I've been much better, I feel more calm and patient, more in control. I'm going to stay at 12.5 for a week and see how it goes before I try 25 again.
I was on 100 mg before.
It's hard for me to write this here - knowing that most of the people who read this blog know me in real life. It's hard for me to admit that I'm struggling, that my house isn't as clean as it used to be, that my thoughts are all over the place, that I spend hours every day imagining all the ways that my kids could die and I can't stop it. What kind of a mother does that?
But I am writing this because it is not my fault. This is NOT a character flaw. I am writing this because someone else might be struggling, and might find these words, and might need to know that it's not her fault either. I am writing this because I need you to be patient with me for a while - I may not post often, or I may forget important things, or I may be selfish. It's certain that my house will be a wreck for the foreseeable future, so try not to judge if you come over. I have to hover over my kids more than usual to stop myself feeling like I'm going to find them dead somewhere, so I don't have the time to clean (while they're outside playing, for example) that I used to have. I'm focusing on resting and taking care of myself and my family, so the other things I take care of might fall by the wayside for a while, and I'm sorry, but this is the best I can do.
I'm proud of myself for not denying it for the better part of a year, this time, before getting help. I'm proud of myself for leaning on my family and friends more than I'm truly comfortable doing, because I know it's healthier than trying to do it all myself. I'm proud of myself for admitting that I'm not perfect, and doing what it takes to get better, even though it's hard.
I don't live with this because I'm weak - I survive it because I'm strong.
I'm such an overachiever that I get postpartum depression before I give birth! (They're calling it "Perinatal Anxiety and Mood Disorder" now). I had it when I was pregnant with Mary Grace - back then I was so convinced that I was going to die in childbirth that I wrote BJ a very maudlin letter and gave it to his best friend, just in case. I spent days crying. I gave myself high blood pressure, worrying, and got put on bedrest. She was born in August of 2005 (and I lived!) and I didn't get help until April of 2006.
I'm stubborn like that. And stupid.
I got pregnant with Claire in July of 2006 - about 20 minutes after the Zoloft started working. I stayed on meds until my third trimester, then went off of it abruptly after I read a scary news story about the effects of antidepressants on fetuses and newborns (stupid!), then went back on it immediately after Claire's birth.
I can't remember when I decided to go off of it, or why, but I've been off for a long time.
Five weeks ago I talked to my midwife about the possibility that it might be coming back. This time I'm not afraid that I'm going to die, though. I already know I can survive pregnancy and birth - I've done it twice. I'd even go as far as to say that I'm really good at birth! No, my very adaptable brain has found something new to torment me - something I'm not sure I could survive. I'm having extremely intrusive and graphic thoughts - anxiety - about something hideous happening to one of my kids.
The best/worst example is from several weeks ago - we headed up to Grammaland after school and I got them Happy Meals to eat on the way up. I became obsessed with the idea that one of them would choke. I could see myself, in my mind's eye, pulling up at my mom's, finding Claire's blue, lifeless body strapped into her car seat, trying and failing to revive her. Screaming. Having to tell BJ... This scene played over and over and over in my head, until my adrenaline was coursing and I was sweating and basically completely freaking out. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the images or the story playing over and over in my head. So, I flipped the rear view mirror down and watched them more than I watched the road (stupid!), until they were done eating. No one choked. It took me the entire 90 minute drive to get myself together, though.
That's when I realized that I might have a real problem.
I told my midwife, five weeks ago, that I was struggling, but I wanted to wait and see if it got better when school started. It didn't. So at my last appointment I decided to go back on Zoloft. I started the dose too high (at 25 mg) and had some weird side effects (have you ever experienced three conflicting emotions at once? It was weird, I didn't like it. I felt very out of control). I was also having trouble sleeping, which is DEFINITELY not going to help. Since I backed off to 12.5 mg I've been much better, I feel more calm and patient, more in control. I'm going to stay at 12.5 for a week and see how it goes before I try 25 again.
I was on 100 mg before.
It's hard for me to write this here - knowing that most of the people who read this blog know me in real life. It's hard for me to admit that I'm struggling, that my house isn't as clean as it used to be, that my thoughts are all over the place, that I spend hours every day imagining all the ways that my kids could die and I can't stop it. What kind of a mother does that?
But I am writing this because it is not my fault. This is NOT a character flaw. I am writing this because someone else might be struggling, and might find these words, and might need to know that it's not her fault either. I am writing this because I need you to be patient with me for a while - I may not post often, or I may forget important things, or I may be selfish. It's certain that my house will be a wreck for the foreseeable future, so try not to judge if you come over. I have to hover over my kids more than usual to stop myself feeling like I'm going to find them dead somewhere, so I don't have the time to clean (while they're outside playing, for example) that I used to have. I'm focusing on resting and taking care of myself and my family, so the other things I take care of might fall by the wayside for a while, and I'm sorry, but this is the best I can do.
I'm proud of myself for not denying it for the better part of a year, this time, before getting help. I'm proud of myself for leaning on my family and friends more than I'm truly comfortable doing, because I know it's healthier than trying to do it all myself. I'm proud of myself for admitting that I'm not perfect, and doing what it takes to get better, even though it's hard.
I don't live with this because I'm weak - I survive it because I'm strong.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
How Not To Say "I Was Wrong"
 | |
| Nope, I don't see any compassion here. |
It is clear that she does not understand the difference between situational depression and clinical depression. It is clear that she has never suffered from clinical depression herself, nor has she any first hand experience with clinical depression in a loved one. It is further clear from her own website that she has no medical or psychiatric training whatsoever.
I have interacted with this woman in e-mail all day. I have urged her to educate herself, and she has repeatedly stated that in her opinion, there is no such thing as chemically-based depression, postpartum or otherwise. Nevermind that basically everyone in the medical field agrees that depression is caused by a chemical imbalance. Pat Brown thinks that if you've had a baby and you're depressed, it's all your own fault.
It is clear from my 12 hours of dealing with her that she profoundly lacks empathy and compassion. This just proves it (you have to click through - it's appalling, and I can't figure out how to post it here). She even bragged about that lovely little Facebook status update on Twitter!
You have to be a pretty sick, twisted bitch to bully pregnant women and new mothers - especially new mothers who are suffering from PPD. You have to have a heart made of ice to think that it's ok to trivialize the struggles of this vulnerable population, to discourage them from seeking help, to blame the victim. As I said in my initial letter to her - women suffering from PPD judge themselves enough, we don't need the judgment of people like her. She's just kicking women when they're down. That's reprehensible. Who does that?
I'm pretty sure that Cruella de Brown kicks kittens and skins puppies in her spare time. She probably also stops by the hospital to pinch all the newborns until they cry, too.
She's a professional bullshitter. That is all. She is not a doctor. She is not a psychiatrist. She is not an expert. The jury is still out on whether or not she is even human. Certainly I have never met a human being who lacked compassion so profoundly (but I live in the midwest, where people are generally nice and make sense). She goes on Nancy Grace and other shows like that and speculates - with no regard at all for the facts of any case that she's talking about. Why should we listen to her opinion when it comes to PPD? Answer: We shouldn't. And AOL News should be ashamed of themselves for listening to her in the first place.
Maybe she DOES have a mental illness. However, just like the mothers who harm their children, her mental illness does NOT excuse her behavior.
Here are the facts - postpartum depression is a debilitating mood disorder which has several possible causes. Some of those causes are hormonal (estrogen, progesterone, thyroid, oxytocin, and a host of other chemicals at work in the brain and body during and after pregnancy can cause disruption). Some of the causes are situational (sleep deprivation, lack of support, etc.)... (train of thought derailment... please stand by)
You know, I took a class in college that talked about personality and how it develops, and we talked about all the different theories - nature, nurture, evolutionary, biological, etc. and each day in class, the professor would repeat that this or that factor was "necessary, but not sufficient," meaning that it played a part in the story, but it wasn't the whole story. That phrase stuck with me. Whenever anyone has a black and white opinion about something, especially something as complicated as personality or disease or disorder, I always hear that prof's voice in my head, saying, "It is necessary, but it is not sufficient....."
Anyway, back to the facts... PPD IS treatable. The most effective treatment regimen combines therapy and medication. Many depression meds (including Zoloft, which saved me) are approved for use while breastfeeding, so don't let nursing stop you from seeking help if you need it. Depression isn't just "sadness." (Mine manifested itself in the form of anger, frustration, crippling anxiety, intrusive thoughts about harm coming to the baby {or doing the baby harm}, and a deep desire to get as far away from my family as possible before I "screwed them up." I knew, in some deep part of my brain that was still "me" that it didn't make any sense, but I couldn't stop myself from having those feelings and thoughts - even though I wanted so desperately to be happy and normal.)
If you even think for a moment that you might be experiencing something abnormal, please talk to your doctor right away. There are lots of shades of gray with PPD. You might have a mild case that can be "cured" with a little extra sleep and support, or maybe improvements in diet and exercise. You might need medication and therapy. You might need even more intervention. Some women, like Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com, are hospitalized, temporarily, until things are under control.
Please don't listen to the Pat Browns of the world who would shame you and blame you for feeling the way you do. Pat Brown does NOT know what she's talking about. Listen to all of us who have been there, and who have come out on the other side of it. It is not your fault. It is not your fault. It is not your fault.
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