I know I'm trapped inside. I can feel the yellow soak through my skin. There is no light no tunnel no door just suffocating. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't. Breathe.
Every time I feel like I've found the crack to crawl through I only find new layer of suffocation. Bitter and numbing, high to low, painful pitches: Can't you smell the dark? I can. It's suffocating.
I try to think back to a time of true happiness. I know I've felt it. I've tasted it. I've lived it. But I can't find the memory. Mechanically I can name...a few that made me warm and fuzzy. Where have they gone? I can't breathe. I can't. Breathe.
Where am I? Who am I? Why am I? This place is terrible. I want to leave. Why won't you let me leave? I hate it here. This is no place for me. How did I get here anyway? O yeah...the rabbit brought me. Silly rabbit...tricks are for kids. Remember those days when the only concern was not being tagged "it"....remember that...damn it: I'm it.
I can see her, you know, Alice, in a big big chair, rocking. Just rocking. Her knees brought into her tiny chest, she's looking off into the distance, maybe thinking about tea. Now I'm rocking. I'm rocking. I'm rocking and I can't breathe.
I need to sleep. I need some quiet. I need for it all to go away. I need for this place to leave me be and let me go. I don't belong here. Round and round and round with a pocket full of poseys: protect me from the stench of this darkness.
What do you want? What I've always wanted. But don't you have it? And I do. Then how can I help you? It's all wrong. I'm wrong. It's wrong. What is? Ever after.
Now dasher and dancer, now prancer and vixen, on comet on cupid on donner and blitzen...but Rudolph he'll take you on a magic carpet ride. Next stop Dante's kitchen. Can you smell the suffocation? No that's just an apple.
The screaming. Where is that coming from? Stop. Stop. Fallen, every one of them. Me. Falling. I can't breathe.
23 December 2009
10 December 2009
It's just frozen milk
How many times can I call out for help and be unheard. How many times do I yell that I can't take this and still I find myself buried in tears. Sometimes an hour passes and you've forgotten. Sometimes the night turns to day and you think I'm ok. Sometimes that moment you just can't shut up and hear me and help me and at least attempt to save me.
It's darker now than before. I don't know how it happened or at what moment that light disappeared, but the fog caught up and is suffocating. I was proud and strong and capable at least for a while. I was getting out of bed and dressed with a smile. I laughed on my way to work with my morning show and even stopped for coffee every now and then. I had focus and got laundry lists of tasks complete without error. I was able to put on some makeup and run errands and make small talk. I was.
Every morning I showered and dressed and fed the kitties, gave the dogs a pat, blew my little snuggle bug a kiss and loaded into the car. I can't say I enjoyed it, but I could do it without sadness. I sat at my desk, made calls, did filing, scheduled meetings, prepared reports, attended meetings, planned events, smiled and asked how my co-workers were doing. I went visiting and cooked and got some weekend cleaning done. I rearranged rooms and made beds and shaved and shampooed, I even had my hair done. I came home and grabbed my sweetness and hugged her and kissed her and fed her and played. I could do more than sit on the couch and stare at the TV and be frustrated at lifes inperfections. I had survived the dismal grey that crept over me, at least I thought I had.
When my sweet pea was around 6 months I felt I was getting a grip, holding it together, and making the best of struggles. The pain in my hips and legs and back had subsided; I could walk and run and bend down and play on the floor without excruciating pain. I felt almost normal. I was in a routine with pumping at the office and the baby was eating so much food that her need for breastmilk was decreasing naturally. I panicked, of course, and take milk supplements every time I feel that I might be failing in the milk production business, but so far still milking - nine months strong. I was excited for the holidays and even more excited to watch each milestone come to pass. I felt like I could be a mom and a good mom.
A series of unfortunate events, as only they could be called, unraveled my delicate balance, pointing out the fragility and weakness of my facade. I hadn't really realized it was a facade to be honest. I thought I was coping and doing a good job at that. It was plaster over lattice or the first ice on the lake: just a pretty surface with nothing substantial to sustain. I felt schizophrenic again from laughter to tears and back in 60 seconds. I noticed pain in my chest and shortness of breath, but this sickness is in my head. I'm agitated and distracted and self destructive and insomnia-laden.
I'm breaking now, just teetering on the edge of broken.
Mom sold our childhood home. I knew it would happen someday, I just never realized how hard it would be. I spent every weekend over there visiting with her and being home. The closer moving day came the more desperate I was to be in the house with the baby...to instill a sense of mommy's past in her, a feeling, a smell, a shadow. I knew she would never remember having been there; that house will mean nothing to her; she'll never have known what mom's room looked like or where we had family dinners and holiday gatherings. She'll never know the yard I played kickball or hide and seek in or how close all the neighbors were. She'll never know the halls her aunts ran through or the handyman specials her grandfather did, she'll look at pictures of mommy as a little girl and have no recognition. It broke my heart.
I knew the house had to go. After my dad died my mom struggled for years to hold onto it. She went to college to get a good paying job to maintain the house that we called home. The economy foiled her plans and she had to sell. I hate thinking I'll never walk through those doors again or stop in for a pee-break while visiting old friends. I'm sad just picturing our front yard, the whole neighborhood, the memories.
Adding insult to injury she moved 300 miles away to her birth place. Her mother lives in Greece, her daughters live in Philly, but she moves to Pittsburgh where her sister lives. She left her four daughters and only grand-daughter to live in a strange house in a strange neighborhood where we can't visit without a caravan of stuff and major planning. She can't come for a few hours when we need her and she never calls unless I call her. Abandonment is the feeling. Right or not, that's the emotion. I always picture the children leaving the nest, not the parents, I suppose. Maybe I'm selfish and arrogant for feeling the way I do, but I can't just turn it off. Now that she's settled into her new house, she will only stay a couple of days for Christmas instead of a week with her grand-daughter like we had thought. I'm angry and sad.
Then our mentally (and physically) sick pooch had to be laid to rest just before Thanksgiving. Syd came to us as a rescue the spring of 2008. He was an omen as our friends and family say...if you get a second dog you'll end up pregnant. Go figure that with Syd would come a mountain of challenges above my growing belly. Syd needed special help since he was a rescue. The poor pup was a year old, never knew what a treat or toy was and was starved for affection. We trained him to walk on a leash, had play dates with his favorite neighborhood pup pals, we loved him. Many trips to the vet, a day at Penn behavioral clinic and Prozac enabled him to assimilate into his new family. Every day was work, but we were rewarded with licks and leans for our love. Little did we know that a physical illness was slowly eating away at him, by the time it was diagnosed in October 2009 it was too late.
I had never had to put down a pet. I really didn't know what to expect. We knew it was time, even our vet who was working with us to find some way to help our Syd, said it was time. Erica and I snuggled with him in the comfort room, petting him and cooing our love between tears. The unknown is horrible. Even though we knew we were doing the right thing, we would never know what Syd wanted or was there anything else we could have/should have tried. He was relaxed and seemed content. For the first time in weeks his breathing was slowed to a normal flow. The zanax given at home prevented his normal anxiety, then the sedative took the rest of the edge off. Then the final injections...it was an eternity from start to finish, but was over before we knew it. Those last moments, when his body expelled the last of its air, are unspeakable. Rest in Peace my sweet pup.
Now two big events do throw a wrench in anyone's even semi-functional life, so I expected to be off kilter. I tried to cope the best I could, but apparently I was decieving myself. I was short and testy and easily enraged. The less control I had over my life made me want any sense of control even more. I drove my husband insane with the picking and perfections and standards that I unhealthily projected upon him. He tried very hard to keep house and take care of our ever evolving little girl everyday, all the while my freaking our about our finances and his drying up unemployment. My head was running circles at lightning speed. We can't survive like this. I can't survive like this. My child deserves more. I worked too hard to get a good education and good job to end up with nothing in the end and even worse for my daughter. I resented him for being unable to support his family. I resented him for failing to do more than superficially help me with my ppd and stress. I resented him for blaming me for his not feeling like a man. I resented him for making me feel worthless, incapable, and ugly. I resented him for making me feel like I couldn't be a good mom.
At least once a week, sometimes just every other week, the inevitable fight occurrs...it's just frozen milk. Most people call breaskmilk liquid gold, even more so when it is pumped by a working mom. I would tell my husband time again, I even wrote it down, what the frozen milk rules were, and inevitably every week or so he would forget. He doesn't understand what it's like to sit in a sterile office room 3 times a day with a machine and pump milk for your baby. He doesn't get the emotional and physical response from the mom when she pumps into an empty bottle that someone else will feed her baby. He doesn't get that feeding her is the only special moment I have with her, and everyday I lose 3 of those moments to a machine. He doesn't get the pain I feel everytime I have to throw out milk that he thoughtlessly or carelessly shouldn't have thawed or pre-thawed unnecessarily.
I start out with the why and end up crying the what will it take for you to get it right. I've been back at work since she was 3 months old...she is now almost 9 months old...6 months of the same information, and he can't retain it. Then he says, but it's only frozen milk. I can't stop crying. Even more so when I realize that she is nearing the end of breastfeeding. She eats so much food during the day we are down to 3, sometimes 4 (two of which are more comfort than anything), breastfeedings and that's it. It's not just frozen milk. It is precious and special.
My other favorite argument is the we're just roommates themed one. I don't know how normal couples get back to being intimate or survive the lack of sex drive due to sleep deprivation, pain or lack of self esteem, but I can't figure it out. I try and try and on the off chance that I might be in the mood and we can actually pretent to be a married couple, it's not enough for him. He blames me all the time. I have to remind him that from when I was 5 months pregnant and the hip pain started right through til the end of August when I had the injections, I can't understand how he can even throw that time in my face. It hurts me so much, and I can't fix it. Then it just makes me want it even less. I don't feel like a woman and I don't feel attracted to a man who can't help me through this. I don't know how we can survive.
All my life I have been the peacemaker, the mender, the caretaker. I took care of my father while he was sick and dying. I have done what I could to rescue or help my sisters when they needed it. I have always been the go to, even for my mother. I have supported my husband in his wishes to be a muscian and music teacher and to deal with his own mental issues. Now, now I need help. I'm the one who is drowning. And I don't have anywhere to turn. Everyone just wants to look out for themselves. Do I blame them, not really, who cares about someone elses problems when you have enough of your own to deal with.
I'm in the dark. I'm not anywhere I want or hoped to be. I am failing my child, and I'm failing as a wife, and I don't feel human any more. I'm tired of people giving me a few short words of enouragement and expecting that to fix everything. For the first time in my life nothing seems worth it. Christmas, which should be one of the happiest since it's our first with the baby, seems like a drole meaningless bother. Family doesn't want to be family, money is painfully non-existent, and I keep getting told the baby won't remember anyways, so really what's the point.
I miss the family I grew up with. I miss the sparkle and surprise of the holidays with warm conversation and memories to be made. I miss when stupid grudges didn't exist and everyone laughed together. I miss my dad. I miss my grandparents. I miss cousins putting on plays for the grownups and being friends as well as relatives. I miss everyone being together even if it was just for the holiday. I miss a time when I was happy.
I have the beautiful, sweet, smart little princess, who I could watch and listen to all day. Yet, I'm afraid to be alone with her because I don't think I can handle it. I get frustrated and angry and lose patience because I can't cope with myself. I need sleep, I need alone time, I need the dark. She needs me to be awake and alert and focused on her, she needs the light and the love and the knowledge to grow into a wise, loving human being. I get so few hours a day to spend nurturing and loving her, and they are frought with stress and sadness. It's not fair to her. I watch her dad read her stories and play with her and she just giggles and wriggles around. I feel like she doesn't enjoy those things when I try and do them with her. She senses my emotions. I don't want to scar her with any of my pain. I want to be her mom, but my vision of mom and reality's vision of mom are two different things. I've begun to hate my life. Even my one shining star isn't breaking into this darkness.
I suppose I'm just delusional for a world that doesn't exist. Everyone is dealing with a bad economy and stress so I need to get over it. I suppose I'm my own problem. I need to wake up and just do what I gotta do. Well that just isn't working anymore. I don't even want to go home. I don't know where I want to go. Nowhere feels safe. It's horrible these palpatations and I can't catch my breath. I can't stop and I can't feel normal.
It's darker now than before. I don't know how it happened or at what moment that light disappeared, but the fog caught up and is suffocating. I was proud and strong and capable at least for a while. I was getting out of bed and dressed with a smile. I laughed on my way to work with my morning show and even stopped for coffee every now and then. I had focus and got laundry lists of tasks complete without error. I was able to put on some makeup and run errands and make small talk. I was.
Every morning I showered and dressed and fed the kitties, gave the dogs a pat, blew my little snuggle bug a kiss and loaded into the car. I can't say I enjoyed it, but I could do it without sadness. I sat at my desk, made calls, did filing, scheduled meetings, prepared reports, attended meetings, planned events, smiled and asked how my co-workers were doing. I went visiting and cooked and got some weekend cleaning done. I rearranged rooms and made beds and shaved and shampooed, I even had my hair done. I came home and grabbed my sweetness and hugged her and kissed her and fed her and played. I could do more than sit on the couch and stare at the TV and be frustrated at lifes inperfections. I had survived the dismal grey that crept over me, at least I thought I had.
When my sweet pea was around 6 months I felt I was getting a grip, holding it together, and making the best of struggles. The pain in my hips and legs and back had subsided; I could walk and run and bend down and play on the floor without excruciating pain. I felt almost normal. I was in a routine with pumping at the office and the baby was eating so much food that her need for breastmilk was decreasing naturally. I panicked, of course, and take milk supplements every time I feel that I might be failing in the milk production business, but so far still milking - nine months strong. I was excited for the holidays and even more excited to watch each milestone come to pass. I felt like I could be a mom and a good mom.
A series of unfortunate events, as only they could be called, unraveled my delicate balance, pointing out the fragility and weakness of my facade. I hadn't really realized it was a facade to be honest. I thought I was coping and doing a good job at that. It was plaster over lattice or the first ice on the lake: just a pretty surface with nothing substantial to sustain. I felt schizophrenic again from laughter to tears and back in 60 seconds. I noticed pain in my chest and shortness of breath, but this sickness is in my head. I'm agitated and distracted and self destructive and insomnia-laden.
I'm breaking now, just teetering on the edge of broken.
Mom sold our childhood home. I knew it would happen someday, I just never realized how hard it would be. I spent every weekend over there visiting with her and being home. The closer moving day came the more desperate I was to be in the house with the baby...to instill a sense of mommy's past in her, a feeling, a smell, a shadow. I knew she would never remember having been there; that house will mean nothing to her; she'll never have known what mom's room looked like or where we had family dinners and holiday gatherings. She'll never know the yard I played kickball or hide and seek in or how close all the neighbors were. She'll never know the halls her aunts ran through or the handyman specials her grandfather did, she'll look at pictures of mommy as a little girl and have no recognition. It broke my heart.
I knew the house had to go. After my dad died my mom struggled for years to hold onto it. She went to college to get a good paying job to maintain the house that we called home. The economy foiled her plans and she had to sell. I hate thinking I'll never walk through those doors again or stop in for a pee-break while visiting old friends. I'm sad just picturing our front yard, the whole neighborhood, the memories.
Adding insult to injury she moved 300 miles away to her birth place. Her mother lives in Greece, her daughters live in Philly, but she moves to Pittsburgh where her sister lives. She left her four daughters and only grand-daughter to live in a strange house in a strange neighborhood where we can't visit without a caravan of stuff and major planning. She can't come for a few hours when we need her and she never calls unless I call her. Abandonment is the feeling. Right or not, that's the emotion. I always picture the children leaving the nest, not the parents, I suppose. Maybe I'm selfish and arrogant for feeling the way I do, but I can't just turn it off. Now that she's settled into her new house, she will only stay a couple of days for Christmas instead of a week with her grand-daughter like we had thought. I'm angry and sad.
Then our mentally (and physically) sick pooch had to be laid to rest just before Thanksgiving. Syd came to us as a rescue the spring of 2008. He was an omen as our friends and family say...if you get a second dog you'll end up pregnant. Go figure that with Syd would come a mountain of challenges above my growing belly. Syd needed special help since he was a rescue. The poor pup was a year old, never knew what a treat or toy was and was starved for affection. We trained him to walk on a leash, had play dates with his favorite neighborhood pup pals, we loved him. Many trips to the vet, a day at Penn behavioral clinic and Prozac enabled him to assimilate into his new family. Every day was work, but we were rewarded with licks and leans for our love. Little did we know that a physical illness was slowly eating away at him, by the time it was diagnosed in October 2009 it was too late.
I had never had to put down a pet. I really didn't know what to expect. We knew it was time, even our vet who was working with us to find some way to help our Syd, said it was time. Erica and I snuggled with him in the comfort room, petting him and cooing our love between tears. The unknown is horrible. Even though we knew we were doing the right thing, we would never know what Syd wanted or was there anything else we could have/should have tried. He was relaxed and seemed content. For the first time in weeks his breathing was slowed to a normal flow. The zanax given at home prevented his normal anxiety, then the sedative took the rest of the edge off. Then the final injections...it was an eternity from start to finish, but was over before we knew it. Those last moments, when his body expelled the last of its air, are unspeakable. Rest in Peace my sweet pup.
Now two big events do throw a wrench in anyone's even semi-functional life, so I expected to be off kilter. I tried to cope the best I could, but apparently I was decieving myself. I was short and testy and easily enraged. The less control I had over my life made me want any sense of control even more. I drove my husband insane with the picking and perfections and standards that I unhealthily projected upon him. He tried very hard to keep house and take care of our ever evolving little girl everyday, all the while my freaking our about our finances and his drying up unemployment. My head was running circles at lightning speed. We can't survive like this. I can't survive like this. My child deserves more. I worked too hard to get a good education and good job to end up with nothing in the end and even worse for my daughter. I resented him for being unable to support his family. I resented him for failing to do more than superficially help me with my ppd and stress. I resented him for blaming me for his not feeling like a man. I resented him for making me feel worthless, incapable, and ugly. I resented him for making me feel like I couldn't be a good mom.
At least once a week, sometimes just every other week, the inevitable fight occurrs...it's just frozen milk. Most people call breaskmilk liquid gold, even more so when it is pumped by a working mom. I would tell my husband time again, I even wrote it down, what the frozen milk rules were, and inevitably every week or so he would forget. He doesn't understand what it's like to sit in a sterile office room 3 times a day with a machine and pump milk for your baby. He doesn't get the emotional and physical response from the mom when she pumps into an empty bottle that someone else will feed her baby. He doesn't get that feeding her is the only special moment I have with her, and everyday I lose 3 of those moments to a machine. He doesn't get the pain I feel everytime I have to throw out milk that he thoughtlessly or carelessly shouldn't have thawed or pre-thawed unnecessarily.
I start out with the why and end up crying the what will it take for you to get it right. I've been back at work since she was 3 months old...she is now almost 9 months old...6 months of the same information, and he can't retain it. Then he says, but it's only frozen milk. I can't stop crying. Even more so when I realize that she is nearing the end of breastfeeding. She eats so much food during the day we are down to 3, sometimes 4 (two of which are more comfort than anything), breastfeedings and that's it. It's not just frozen milk. It is precious and special.
My other favorite argument is the we're just roommates themed one. I don't know how normal couples get back to being intimate or survive the lack of sex drive due to sleep deprivation, pain or lack of self esteem, but I can't figure it out. I try and try and on the off chance that I might be in the mood and we can actually pretent to be a married couple, it's not enough for him. He blames me all the time. I have to remind him that from when I was 5 months pregnant and the hip pain started right through til the end of August when I had the injections, I can't understand how he can even throw that time in my face. It hurts me so much, and I can't fix it. Then it just makes me want it even less. I don't feel like a woman and I don't feel attracted to a man who can't help me through this. I don't know how we can survive.
All my life I have been the peacemaker, the mender, the caretaker. I took care of my father while he was sick and dying. I have done what I could to rescue or help my sisters when they needed it. I have always been the go to, even for my mother. I have supported my husband in his wishes to be a muscian and music teacher and to deal with his own mental issues. Now, now I need help. I'm the one who is drowning. And I don't have anywhere to turn. Everyone just wants to look out for themselves. Do I blame them, not really, who cares about someone elses problems when you have enough of your own to deal with.
I'm in the dark. I'm not anywhere I want or hoped to be. I am failing my child, and I'm failing as a wife, and I don't feel human any more. I'm tired of people giving me a few short words of enouragement and expecting that to fix everything. For the first time in my life nothing seems worth it. Christmas, which should be one of the happiest since it's our first with the baby, seems like a drole meaningless bother. Family doesn't want to be family, money is painfully non-existent, and I keep getting told the baby won't remember anyways, so really what's the point.
I miss the family I grew up with. I miss the sparkle and surprise of the holidays with warm conversation and memories to be made. I miss when stupid grudges didn't exist and everyone laughed together. I miss my dad. I miss my grandparents. I miss cousins putting on plays for the grownups and being friends as well as relatives. I miss everyone being together even if it was just for the holiday. I miss a time when I was happy.
I have the beautiful, sweet, smart little princess, who I could watch and listen to all day. Yet, I'm afraid to be alone with her because I don't think I can handle it. I get frustrated and angry and lose patience because I can't cope with myself. I need sleep, I need alone time, I need the dark. She needs me to be awake and alert and focused on her, she needs the light and the love and the knowledge to grow into a wise, loving human being. I get so few hours a day to spend nurturing and loving her, and they are frought with stress and sadness. It's not fair to her. I watch her dad read her stories and play with her and she just giggles and wriggles around. I feel like she doesn't enjoy those things when I try and do them with her. She senses my emotions. I don't want to scar her with any of my pain. I want to be her mom, but my vision of mom and reality's vision of mom are two different things. I've begun to hate my life. Even my one shining star isn't breaking into this darkness.
I suppose I'm just delusional for a world that doesn't exist. Everyone is dealing with a bad economy and stress so I need to get over it. I suppose I'm my own problem. I need to wake up and just do what I gotta do. Well that just isn't working anymore. I don't even want to go home. I don't know where I want to go. Nowhere feels safe. It's horrible these palpatations and I can't catch my breath. I can't stop and I can't feel normal.
28 October 2009
The Bottom
July 4th weekend - my last days of any semblance of functioning. The baby and I ran away from home to visit family in Pitt. So needed, so perfect, so ahhhhh. I was a little scared to go away for the weekend without my husband. Nights were really difficult for me to deal with the baby: if I couldn't get her back to sleep quickly...3...2...1 meltdown for mom. I would yell, "why?!" and "what do you want from me" and inevitably start to cry about the baby hating me. I began to understand how shaking baby syndrome could really happen, and that was terrifying. Getting up at 5am to feed the baby and get ready for work made going to bed before 8 a reality, and still not enough. I never really slept between the pain and feedings. If my husband wasn't there to rock the baby back to sleep for me I don't know how I would have reacted.
For 3 days I didn't think about work or my home, the dogs or my obligations. I visited and enjoyed my baby, truely enjoyed my darling, for the first time in a couple months. She slept well...surprisingly...and we snuggled and played and neither of us had a meltdown the entire weekend. I felt empowered and capable. There's a lot to be said for the baby feeding off of the mother's emotions.
I didn't want to go back home. I was scared of pulling up to the house and running lost in my own levels of hell. Most of all I didn't want to think about going into the office for 5 days for 8 hours each. I knew I couldn't survive like this. I have a high threshold for pain - think drilled teeth without novacaine - and this pain was off the charts. There was no way to distinguish if the physical pain or mental pain superceeded the other or whether they merely fed one another. In either case, my world took on a sinister darkness that no one seemed to comprehend: not my husband, not my family, not my friends, not my employer; I had only felt so alone once before in my life, and that was the day my father died. What good was crying in group or at the therapist doing? What good were doctors if the tests they ran took too much time to diagnose and fix my physical ails? What good was I as a mother if I couldn't function for my daughter?
My return to the office full time also coincided with another arrow - my mother announcing that her unemployment was running out, she still couldn't find a job, would be selling our home of 32 years, and moving to Pittsburgh.
Flatline.
Now to be fair I should have been happy for my mother. She would be moving back to her childhood world, be close to her sister and the rest of her family, and afford to live more comfortably. In my mind, however, that did not translate. I couldn't accept that she would leave her first and only grandchild. I couldn't accept that the comfort of my childhood home would vanish with a signature. I felt betrayed. I lost my father. Then my family drifted apart. Now my mother was abandoning me. Yeah...the melodrama of my fractured mind began to play out a Wes Craven script. There was no way to comfort me. My mind taunted me with broken visions. I could barely breathe.
I grew up in a very greek, tight-knit family. The family was all-important, and nothing came above or interferred. We saw all our cousins weekly. All the holidays were scenes from A Big Fat Greek Wedding. And it was a sin to deviate from the family. As a teen I fought against this way of life, always criticizing my father's ways as being un-American. I believed that family would always be there, but the world outside the family was fleeting and I needed to chase those ideals or get left behind. They were so different, so freeing, so not the family. When my father passed I could never take back all that I lost with him because of my hellion days. When my father passed the family didn't survive the shock. And perhaps we felt some shame for taking it for granted. The family never recovered.
Now that I am a mother I want the family for my little girl. I want traditions and family every week and for her to know all her cousins as friends. I want her to celebrate both her Greek and her German heritages. With my mother moving and selling our family home my mind told me that the family had died. I know, rationally, that it is my duty to maintain those family relationships for my daughter. It is my responsibility to give her the family. What I pine over is an old symbol, not a family's funeral. But I can't get my mind to stay in that rational place...it runs away with horrible, hateful, fearful thoughts.
My firey temper just let itself loose. I hated everyone for not understanding. I had daily, sometimes hourly, panic attacks. No one, not even my husband, could break through my distress. But I had to continue each day like I was trying, like I cared, like I was positive. I failed all of the above: rage, condesending, spiteful, resentful fury overwhelmed my battered emotions. I lost myself and was on a path to self destruction.
My milk production began to suffer. I made mistakes regularly. I was forgetting even simple tasks both at home and at work. I felt myself fall into my head and let the abyss guide me.
For 3 days I didn't think about work or my home, the dogs or my obligations. I visited and enjoyed my baby, truely enjoyed my darling, for the first time in a couple months. She slept well...surprisingly...and we snuggled and played and neither of us had a meltdown the entire weekend. I felt empowered and capable. There's a lot to be said for the baby feeding off of the mother's emotions.
I didn't want to go back home. I was scared of pulling up to the house and running lost in my own levels of hell. Most of all I didn't want to think about going into the office for 5 days for 8 hours each. I knew I couldn't survive like this. I have a high threshold for pain - think drilled teeth without novacaine - and this pain was off the charts. There was no way to distinguish if the physical pain or mental pain superceeded the other or whether they merely fed one another. In either case, my world took on a sinister darkness that no one seemed to comprehend: not my husband, not my family, not my friends, not my employer; I had only felt so alone once before in my life, and that was the day my father died. What good was crying in group or at the therapist doing? What good were doctors if the tests they ran took too much time to diagnose and fix my physical ails? What good was I as a mother if I couldn't function for my daughter?
My return to the office full time also coincided with another arrow - my mother announcing that her unemployment was running out, she still couldn't find a job, would be selling our home of 32 years, and moving to Pittsburgh.
Flatline.
Now to be fair I should have been happy for my mother. She would be moving back to her childhood world, be close to her sister and the rest of her family, and afford to live more comfortably. In my mind, however, that did not translate. I couldn't accept that she would leave her first and only grandchild. I couldn't accept that the comfort of my childhood home would vanish with a signature. I felt betrayed. I lost my father. Then my family drifted apart. Now my mother was abandoning me. Yeah...the melodrama of my fractured mind began to play out a Wes Craven script. There was no way to comfort me. My mind taunted me with broken visions. I could barely breathe.
I grew up in a very greek, tight-knit family. The family was all-important, and nothing came above or interferred. We saw all our cousins weekly. All the holidays were scenes from A Big Fat Greek Wedding. And it was a sin to deviate from the family. As a teen I fought against this way of life, always criticizing my father's ways as being un-American. I believed that family would always be there, but the world outside the family was fleeting and I needed to chase those ideals or get left behind. They were so different, so freeing, so not the family. When my father passed I could never take back all that I lost with him because of my hellion days. When my father passed the family didn't survive the shock. And perhaps we felt some shame for taking it for granted. The family never recovered.
Now that I am a mother I want the family for my little girl. I want traditions and family every week and for her to know all her cousins as friends. I want her to celebrate both her Greek and her German heritages. With my mother moving and selling our family home my mind told me that the family had died. I know, rationally, that it is my duty to maintain those family relationships for my daughter. It is my responsibility to give her the family. What I pine over is an old symbol, not a family's funeral. But I can't get my mind to stay in that rational place...it runs away with horrible, hateful, fearful thoughts.
My firey temper just let itself loose. I hated everyone for not understanding. I had daily, sometimes hourly, panic attacks. No one, not even my husband, could break through my distress. But I had to continue each day like I was trying, like I cared, like I was positive. I failed all of the above: rage, condesending, spiteful, resentful fury overwhelmed my battered emotions. I lost myself and was on a path to self destruction.
My milk production began to suffer. I made mistakes regularly. I was forgetting even simple tasks both at home and at work. I felt myself fall into my head and let the abyss guide me.
27 October 2009
Stalled
I...just...can't....do....it. I'm at the part where I try to talk about those early days back to the office for full days, and I just can't make myself do it. I still hurt and wince thinking about it. Here I am months later, thinking I have a grip on this thing, and the fog is lifting, and I stop.
The reality is that June was a blur. I was allowed to work 2 days from home and 3 days in the office from 7-3. Cake right? Right? Ummmm...right?
Every morning I snuggled close to my little angel. The sun came in through the shades and I fed her once more before dragging myself out of bed: dragging my painful body into an upright position. I hobbled down the steps and into the shower, took a handful of motrin and pepcid, packed my breakfast and lunch, drug myself back up the stairs, stared at her for a few more minutes then stummbled back down the stairs and out the door. Getting into the car was a chore, let alone the half hour drive sending pains throughout my lower half.
I was usually the first person into the office. I turned on my laptop, set up my pump in the privacy room and started my day. Usually I cried sitting at my desk for a bit - at least until the next early bird arrived - by then I would have to staple the smile across my face and pray I didn't have to get out of my chair too often that day. I mostly found myself struggling to concetrate on my work. I would take care of some emails and meetings, then suddenly be fighting back tears. I would yelp every time I had to stand up to go pump or deliver mail or go to a meeting, getting up and moving became an impossibility.
Those weeks in June came and went in less than a blink of an eye. Those lovely days at home I relished the extra hour of sleep and the personal feeding times. I was able to spend time actually working since I could limit my movements, thus limiting my pain, and I could steal special moments with my little girl. Then came the moment that 5 full days days a week in the office slapped me like an anvil. I paniced. There was no way. I couldn't stay home and I couldn't go to work: my world was being swallowed by an abyss.
I had found a local ppd group months earlier, but didn't want to think I couldn't do this on my own. I mean what choice did I really have. But my sisters and husband couldn't handle me any more and stopped putting it to me gently. The damage to my family became visible and almost irreconcilable. Even if just to keep the peace I had to make myself go. I went. I cried. I learned I wasn't the only one who had these feelings and lived in this fog and tried each day to wade though the darkness that consumed.
Now I found that teeny tiny bit of motivation to seek more help. I called a local doc and she ran a load of tests. She sent me to a spine doc who ran more tests. He sent me to a rheumatologist who ran more tests. Each one put another piece into the puzzle: SI joint dysfunction, bursitis, planters facitis, fibromyalgia, exhaustion, depression.
Before all the results were in I needed some help from anywhere. I couldn't afford to go on disability, so I reached out to see if I could get some support at work, perhaps I could continue with at least one day a week from home. I approached HR first since I thought that was the logical place to start. I don't know where everything went wrong, but very quickly my motivation and steps in the right direction were swallowed by the beast of working motherhood. My doctor's note wasn't accepted by HR and my boss was getting frustrated with my inability to function. I was told to consider myself lucky that I still had a job in this environment. I was scared and so beaten by the ppd that I couldn't fight back. Now I know I could have done more: persued additional medical support; spoken to an attorney even; but I felt like a child put in a time out. I couldn't open my mouth. I was afraid I would lose my job. I was terrified. And had no where left to turn.
I sobbed each afternoon on my way home. I sobbed each night falling asleep. I sobbed each morning on my drive in. And I sobbed all day at my desk, in the privacy room, and in the ladies room. I couldn't stop the tears. The tears spilled for the physical hurts, the mental hurts, all the pain the universe find assaulted me. I hated my life in every way...except for my beautiful angel...my only reason to live.
The reality is that June was a blur. I was allowed to work 2 days from home and 3 days in the office from 7-3. Cake right? Right? Ummmm...right?
Every morning I snuggled close to my little angel. The sun came in through the shades and I fed her once more before dragging myself out of bed: dragging my painful body into an upright position. I hobbled down the steps and into the shower, took a handful of motrin and pepcid, packed my breakfast and lunch, drug myself back up the stairs, stared at her for a few more minutes then stummbled back down the stairs and out the door. Getting into the car was a chore, let alone the half hour drive sending pains throughout my lower half.
I was usually the first person into the office. I turned on my laptop, set up my pump in the privacy room and started my day. Usually I cried sitting at my desk for a bit - at least until the next early bird arrived - by then I would have to staple the smile across my face and pray I didn't have to get out of my chair too often that day. I mostly found myself struggling to concetrate on my work. I would take care of some emails and meetings, then suddenly be fighting back tears. I would yelp every time I had to stand up to go pump or deliver mail or go to a meeting, getting up and moving became an impossibility.
Those weeks in June came and went in less than a blink of an eye. Those lovely days at home I relished the extra hour of sleep and the personal feeding times. I was able to spend time actually working since I could limit my movements, thus limiting my pain, and I could steal special moments with my little girl. Then came the moment that 5 full days days a week in the office slapped me like an anvil. I paniced. There was no way. I couldn't stay home and I couldn't go to work: my world was being swallowed by an abyss.
I had found a local ppd group months earlier, but didn't want to think I couldn't do this on my own. I mean what choice did I really have. But my sisters and husband couldn't handle me any more and stopped putting it to me gently. The damage to my family became visible and almost irreconcilable. Even if just to keep the peace I had to make myself go. I went. I cried. I learned I wasn't the only one who had these feelings and lived in this fog and tried each day to wade though the darkness that consumed.
Now I found that teeny tiny bit of motivation to seek more help. I called a local doc and she ran a load of tests. She sent me to a spine doc who ran more tests. He sent me to a rheumatologist who ran more tests. Each one put another piece into the puzzle: SI joint dysfunction, bursitis, planters facitis, fibromyalgia, exhaustion, depression.
Before all the results were in I needed some help from anywhere. I couldn't afford to go on disability, so I reached out to see if I could get some support at work, perhaps I could continue with at least one day a week from home. I approached HR first since I thought that was the logical place to start. I don't know where everything went wrong, but very quickly my motivation and steps in the right direction were swallowed by the beast of working motherhood. My doctor's note wasn't accepted by HR and my boss was getting frustrated with my inability to function. I was told to consider myself lucky that I still had a job in this environment. I was scared and so beaten by the ppd that I couldn't fight back. Now I know I could have done more: persued additional medical support; spoken to an attorney even; but I felt like a child put in a time out. I couldn't open my mouth. I was afraid I would lose my job. I was terrified. And had no where left to turn.
I sobbed each afternoon on my way home. I sobbed each night falling asleep. I sobbed each morning on my drive in. And I sobbed all day at my desk, in the privacy room, and in the ladies room. I couldn't stop the tears. The tears spilled for the physical hurts, the mental hurts, all the pain the universe find assaulted me. I hated my life in every way...except for my beautiful angel...my only reason to live.
08 October 2009
Time is the enemy
Three weeks left of maternity leave, why have we done this to ourselves? It's the moments like this that I long for the 1950s Leave it to Beaver world. Life seemed so simple then, and mom got to stay home and bake and raise her family. Then again, I know. I know that's not how it really works: that world is fantacized and romanticized. I can comfort myself that at least these last three weeks I get to work from home save one day a week where I can pop into the office for 4 hours and take care of office type things.
PJs, slippers, cup of dacaf coffee...beep...laptop booting up. The baby is napping in the bassinet and I figure I have about 2 hours before she wakes and wants fed and play time. Thousands of emails...I went through most of these via blackberry so the number doesn't scare me as it should. I spend the next two hours deleting and filing and forwarding and send out question emails about if something had already been taken care of. Not too bad. I'm happy that my little angel is stirring so I get a break from the real world for a few minutes.
The first day was ok. No real phone calls or meetings or disasters to clean up. I can do this. HR made me promise that I would set aside specific time to work so that my FMLA can stay properly documented...so off with the blackberry and shut down the laptop. Sigh. Now snuggles and nap for mommy.
Day two made a few calls, spoke to my boss and tried to get my brain to think w o r k again: a harder task than I imagined. It seems that all my muti-tasking skills and elephant's memory have vanished. I catch myself making...gasp...mistakes. It's only day 2...I can't beat myself up, and I really don't have the strength even if I wanted to. I'm too tired. My precious angel still thinks 2 hour feedings are the bomb and the pain in my body is raging. I'm grateful that I have this slow return...I can't take a full day in the office even if I tried.
And then day 3 arrives. I need to trek to the office to handle supply orders and fedex and see what piles are cluttering my desk from the temp. Shower. O sweet shower. The water rushes over me and I feel able and strong. I don't want to ever leave this beautiful shower...ahhhh. Now the fun part...presentable office clothes...umm...not. I don't fit into any of my pants. I pull on a pair of post maternity jeans 4 sizes larger than before the mommy me and one of my maternity tops - good thing empire waist is still all the rage. It's only 4 hours and our office is more casual than anything.
Little beauty is awake and begging for food. I'm anxious to feed her because I'll be away for more hours than I have so far. I want to hold her and nuzzle so that sweet smell can get me through the coming hours apart. I can't put her down. Hubby is encouraging me to head out so that I can get home fast, but I can't. I just can't. Here comes the wave. As I start to cry so does the baby: now I really can't leave. Hubby takes the baby from my arms, gives me a kiss, and sends me out the door.
The car ride is awful. I didn't realize the pain would be worse driving. My trip was only 30 minutes since I waited until after rush hour, but the searing pain makes it impossible to get out of the car when I arrive. It takes me about 20 minutes to gather my laptop bag and pump and purse and make my way into the building and up the elevator, collapsing at my desk.
I forgot how quiet the office can be. It amazes me that with an office of 30 people there are never more than 10 on any given day. I can hear the air conditioner buzzing and realize that it is quieter here than at home. Almost a nice break. I sit at my desk and stare at the booting computer screen. I wonder if my sweet pea fell asleep when I left? How will she do feeding from the bottle while I'm gone? Will she miss me? Will she do anything new while I'm away? I feel the tears coming back, shake my head, and get some water from the kitchen.
Everyone says hello as they pass me and ask about the baby. I smile and show some pictures, and fight back my leaky eyes. The pain in my back, hips and legs is unbearable now. I didn't comprehend how much less movement I had at home nor did I expect that getting in and out of my desk chair would bring me to my knees each time. I hurredly managed to order paper, kitchen and general office supplies, say hello to everyone and left. I made it three hours and figured I can work the last hour from home.
I sobbed the entire way home and didn't put the baby down until dawn the next morning.
PJs, slippers, cup of dacaf coffee...beep...laptop booting up. The baby is napping in the bassinet and I figure I have about 2 hours before she wakes and wants fed and play time. Thousands of emails...I went through most of these via blackberry so the number doesn't scare me as it should. I spend the next two hours deleting and filing and forwarding and send out question emails about if something had already been taken care of. Not too bad. I'm happy that my little angel is stirring so I get a break from the real world for a few minutes.
The first day was ok. No real phone calls or meetings or disasters to clean up. I can do this. HR made me promise that I would set aside specific time to work so that my FMLA can stay properly documented...so off with the blackberry and shut down the laptop. Sigh. Now snuggles and nap for mommy.
Day two made a few calls, spoke to my boss and tried to get my brain to think w o r k again: a harder task than I imagined. It seems that all my muti-tasking skills and elephant's memory have vanished. I catch myself making...gasp...mistakes. It's only day 2...I can't beat myself up, and I really don't have the strength even if I wanted to. I'm too tired. My precious angel still thinks 2 hour feedings are the bomb and the pain in my body is raging. I'm grateful that I have this slow return...I can't take a full day in the office even if I tried.
And then day 3 arrives. I need to trek to the office to handle supply orders and fedex and see what piles are cluttering my desk from the temp. Shower. O sweet shower. The water rushes over me and I feel able and strong. I don't want to ever leave this beautiful shower...ahhhh. Now the fun part...presentable office clothes...umm...not. I don't fit into any of my pants. I pull on a pair of post maternity jeans 4 sizes larger than before the mommy me and one of my maternity tops - good thing empire waist is still all the rage. It's only 4 hours and our office is more casual than anything.
Little beauty is awake and begging for food. I'm anxious to feed her because I'll be away for more hours than I have so far. I want to hold her and nuzzle so that sweet smell can get me through the coming hours apart. I can't put her down. Hubby is encouraging me to head out so that I can get home fast, but I can't. I just can't. Here comes the wave. As I start to cry so does the baby: now I really can't leave. Hubby takes the baby from my arms, gives me a kiss, and sends me out the door.
The car ride is awful. I didn't realize the pain would be worse driving. My trip was only 30 minutes since I waited until after rush hour, but the searing pain makes it impossible to get out of the car when I arrive. It takes me about 20 minutes to gather my laptop bag and pump and purse and make my way into the building and up the elevator, collapsing at my desk.
I forgot how quiet the office can be. It amazes me that with an office of 30 people there are never more than 10 on any given day. I can hear the air conditioner buzzing and realize that it is quieter here than at home. Almost a nice break. I sit at my desk and stare at the booting computer screen. I wonder if my sweet pea fell asleep when I left? How will she do feeding from the bottle while I'm gone? Will she miss me? Will she do anything new while I'm away? I feel the tears coming back, shake my head, and get some water from the kitchen.
Everyone says hello as they pass me and ask about the baby. I smile and show some pictures, and fight back my leaky eyes. The pain in my back, hips and legs is unbearable now. I didn't comprehend how much less movement I had at home nor did I expect that getting in and out of my desk chair would bring me to my knees each time. I hurredly managed to order paper, kitchen and general office supplies, say hello to everyone and left. I made it three hours and figured I can work the last hour from home.
I sobbed the entire way home and didn't put the baby down until dawn the next morning.
24 September 2009
Tick Tock
Every night before sleep comes I'm haunted by a vision. Grey cement and stone, a dangling overhead bulb flickering, water drip, drip, drop, drip, clink from the corner where a pot and a sink of stink, flies and dirt huddle, then the scratch marks on the wall. These marks aren't the days gone in solitary confinment but the count down to my return to the labor force, my daily droll away from my new family - I'm trapped and alone and no one can hear me, nor do they care...this is life...right.
It's late, the baby has been asleep on my lap for hours, and my eyes compulsorily blink through my TV hipnosis. If I go to bed then I'm one day closer to work, if I stay awake I am one less night of sleep. Slowly I haul myself up the steps with my bundle, and wade through the darkness to our bed. If I keep the lights off maybe I can trick myself into sleeping, and if I can't, well let the shadows play tricks - I don't have the energy to fiddle with a light switch let alone hallucinate it's morning already and sob from more hours of loss. My bundle signs and settles more comfortably by my side and I stare at the ceiling.
At some point I slept for 5 minutes or an hour...who knows. Time is stealthy these days and nights. The baby is stretching and murmuring it's time for a snack. I fumble for the boppy, sit cross legged, head bowed and eyes closed while she nurses. I'm not sure how long, but I know I've nodded off and she is asleep again. We recline, she sighs, I stare.
It's late, the baby has been asleep on my lap for hours, and my eyes compulsorily blink through my TV hipnosis. If I go to bed then I'm one day closer to work, if I stay awake I am one less night of sleep. Slowly I haul myself up the steps with my bundle, and wade through the darkness to our bed. If I keep the lights off maybe I can trick myself into sleeping, and if I can't, well let the shadows play tricks - I don't have the energy to fiddle with a light switch let alone hallucinate it's morning already and sob from more hours of loss. My bundle signs and settles more comfortably by my side and I stare at the ceiling.
At some point I slept for 5 minutes or an hour...who knows. Time is stealthy these days and nights. The baby is stretching and murmuring it's time for a snack. I fumble for the boppy, sit cross legged, head bowed and eyes closed while she nurses. I'm not sure how long, but I know I've nodded off and she is asleep again. We recline, she sighs, I stare.
21 September 2009
Panic in the Dark
8 weeks have come and gone. I can't believe how much she has already grown. From 6 pounds to 9 pounds in the blink of an eye. She's finally out of her newborn clothes in her 0-3. So cute to have her in adorable dresses and not just onezies, and o how many pictures can a doating new mom take? Thousands!
8 weeks have come and gone. O crap! I only have 4 more weeks, one more month, I'm one third of the way through my maternity...and the income is gone...no more pay - we're eating through the income tax return now and still managing, but...for how much longer is anyone's guess. I haven't really paid much attention to the bills and our finances, and that was always my job. The accounts seem high enough, but once nothing else comes in...we're in trouble. But I only have 4 more weeks home with my precious baby.
8 weeks and you would think I'd be ready for some adult interaction, some decent clothes, and a day out of the house. No way! You can't make me leave her. I don't want to go anywhere without her by my side. Actually I just don't want to go anywhere. I'm so comfortable at home on the couch, in bed, sitting at the table. Beside I hurt too much...how am I going to make the drive and sit all day. O this is not good...I can feel it...the wave of panic and tears. Good thing I'm alone and no one sees me clutching my little one like it was our last moments on Earth and me sobbing and rocking just imagining that first day away.
8 weeks, time to load my next batch of pictures onto the computer. While I'm at it I'll check my work email: clean out the junk mail, and forward any misdirected issues...it's been 8 weeks and I bet...yep...hundreds of emails in my inbox. Most are easy to delete...stupid junk mail. A few need to be sent to someone because I'm not working on anything I don't "have" to. And the rest get filed as FYIs. Whew...not as scary as it could have been...eveyone knows I'm on maternity, and I'm grateful that they don't pester me and take time from my angel. And then..."I'm not sure who I need to send this to, however, the current temp working for you has accepted a full time position elsewhere, and her last day will be a week from this Friday. Please let me know if I can send someone else in her place." What?!
8 weeks. I'm NOT going back early. No way. But wait...I need some income and I have a brilliant idea. I call HR and then send an email to my boss. I will work from home part time for the last three weeks of my maternity in exchange for the ability to work from home 2 days a week through the month of June. YAY. I can ease my way back into work, and maybe get excited to go back, and then I get to be home 2 days a week. Nice. I can do this. Really I can. Rich has a temp job so I'll work from home on the days he needs to work his temp...the perfect situation.
8 weeks and I only have 2 weeks left of total, 100% baby time left. We need the money, and I need to refocus again. I don't think I put the baby down for 2 weeks. I just held her and cried.
8 weeks have come and gone. O crap! I only have 4 more weeks, one more month, I'm one third of the way through my maternity...and the income is gone...no more pay - we're eating through the income tax return now and still managing, but...for how much longer is anyone's guess. I haven't really paid much attention to the bills and our finances, and that was always my job. The accounts seem high enough, but once nothing else comes in...we're in trouble. But I only have 4 more weeks home with my precious baby.
8 weeks and you would think I'd be ready for some adult interaction, some decent clothes, and a day out of the house. No way! You can't make me leave her. I don't want to go anywhere without her by my side. Actually I just don't want to go anywhere. I'm so comfortable at home on the couch, in bed, sitting at the table. Beside I hurt too much...how am I going to make the drive and sit all day. O this is not good...I can feel it...the wave of panic and tears. Good thing I'm alone and no one sees me clutching my little one like it was our last moments on Earth and me sobbing and rocking just imagining that first day away.
8 weeks, time to load my next batch of pictures onto the computer. While I'm at it I'll check my work email: clean out the junk mail, and forward any misdirected issues...it's been 8 weeks and I bet...yep...hundreds of emails in my inbox. Most are easy to delete...stupid junk mail. A few need to be sent to someone because I'm not working on anything I don't "have" to. And the rest get filed as FYIs. Whew...not as scary as it could have been...eveyone knows I'm on maternity, and I'm grateful that they don't pester me and take time from my angel. And then..."I'm not sure who I need to send this to, however, the current temp working for you has accepted a full time position elsewhere, and her last day will be a week from this Friday. Please let me know if I can send someone else in her place." What?!
8 weeks. I'm NOT going back early. No way. But wait...I need some income and I have a brilliant idea. I call HR and then send an email to my boss. I will work from home part time for the last three weeks of my maternity in exchange for the ability to work from home 2 days a week through the month of June. YAY. I can ease my way back into work, and maybe get excited to go back, and then I get to be home 2 days a week. Nice. I can do this. Really I can. Rich has a temp job so I'll work from home on the days he needs to work his temp...the perfect situation.
8 weeks and I only have 2 weeks left of total, 100% baby time left. We need the money, and I need to refocus again. I don't think I put the baby down for 2 weeks. I just held her and cried.
10 September 2009
How'd I get here
Today my little princess is six months old. I really don't know how we got here. I feel like I've lost years of time let alone a mere 6 months. Everyone says that time flies once you have children; you're so busy you can't keep up with yourself and every second of this new little life you are responsible to nurture and love. These past six months are more like a murky fog than anything else.
I still feel it - that pain in my chest - all day when I'm at work. My alarm goes off and I hit snooze for a half hour. I can't put my little angel back in bed yet; I want to cuddle a few more minutes. I don't want to miss her chest rise and fall; I don't want to miss her eye lids flutter during her dreams. She smells so sweet, so comforting: I just can't do it. I take a deep breath and fight back the droplet on my cheek and place her gently back in the co-sleeper. I remind myself that this is the life we've created, and I need to make sure she has a roof over her head and food in her tummy; it's my job to go to work to give her a good life. We are lucky that daddy can care for her during the day. But all day...I stare out the window, attempting to maintain an upward curve in my lips so that the staff around me doesn't ask what's wrong or how are you today.
They don't understand. Well some do. Those lucky ones who get to work from home at least a few days a week. They give me that knowing look and head back to their desk. The others just write me off any more. They think I just don't want to work. Maybe that's part of it, but not because "I don't want to," but because I can't accept this modern world where the mommy has to be away from her baby just to make ends meet. What happened to our society. I used to scoff at the "family values" discussions, and now...now I understand.
Those weeks leading up to my return to work were the most painful.
I still feel it - that pain in my chest - all day when I'm at work. My alarm goes off and I hit snooze for a half hour. I can't put my little angel back in bed yet; I want to cuddle a few more minutes. I don't want to miss her chest rise and fall; I don't want to miss her eye lids flutter during her dreams. She smells so sweet, so comforting: I just can't do it. I take a deep breath and fight back the droplet on my cheek and place her gently back in the co-sleeper. I remind myself that this is the life we've created, and I need to make sure she has a roof over her head and food in her tummy; it's my job to go to work to give her a good life. We are lucky that daddy can care for her during the day. But all day...I stare out the window, attempting to maintain an upward curve in my lips so that the staff around me doesn't ask what's wrong or how are you today.
They don't understand. Well some do. Those lucky ones who get to work from home at least a few days a week. They give me that knowing look and head back to their desk. The others just write me off any more. They think I just don't want to work. Maybe that's part of it, but not because "I don't want to," but because I can't accept this modern world where the mommy has to be away from her baby just to make ends meet. What happened to our society. I used to scoff at the "family values" discussions, and now...now I understand.
Those weeks leading up to my return to work were the most painful.
It's only pressure
I want to know whose brilliant idea it was to assume that people are so dumb as to believe being told "it won't hurt, it's only a little pressure" works! Pressure my ass!!
Insert lidocaine...owwi...insert torture device needle...Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow! The tears came running down my face...hubby heard me scream in the waiting room. It took me a good 10 minutes or so before I let them start the other side. The best way to describe the pain is that it feels like back labor...it was the exact same pain that made me succumb to getting the epidural during labor.
I think I cried for a half hour or more and just couldn't get a grip. THe docs and nurses all treated me like a 4 year old and said I did a good job and I should be proud of myself for going through with both sides. A nurse put an ice back on my lower back and monitored my blood pressure for another 20 minutes or so and sent me home.
Through the rest of the day and night it hurt...it hurt awful. I kept waiting for the pain-free moment to come, but I tossed and turned and moaned and just couldn't get comfy. By morning I hadn't realized that I actually slept 4 hours in a row...thank you little sweets for giving mommy a nice span between feedings...and o my...the pain...it's mostly gone. Yippee! It actually worked. It really worked. I'm...I'm...free!
BY Friday mid-day I felt like I was on speed. I had so much energy I just ran around getting stuff done, multi tasking like pre-mama, and generally smiling. Yes, smiling. My household didn't know what to do with itself. I played with the pups on the floor, I played with the baby on the floor, I ran up and down the steps, I slept like a baby at night.
Insert lidocaine...owwi...insert torture device needle...Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow! The tears came running down my face...hubby heard me scream in the waiting room. It took me a good 10 minutes or so before I let them start the other side. The best way to describe the pain is that it feels like back labor...it was the exact same pain that made me succumb to getting the epidural during labor.
I think I cried for a half hour or more and just couldn't get a grip. THe docs and nurses all treated me like a 4 year old and said I did a good job and I should be proud of myself for going through with both sides. A nurse put an ice back on my lower back and monitored my blood pressure for another 20 minutes or so and sent me home.
Through the rest of the day and night it hurt...it hurt awful. I kept waiting for the pain-free moment to come, but I tossed and turned and moaned and just couldn't get comfy. By morning I hadn't realized that I actually slept 4 hours in a row...thank you little sweets for giving mommy a nice span between feedings...and o my...the pain...it's mostly gone. Yippee! It actually worked. It really worked. I'm...I'm...free!
BY Friday mid-day I felt like I was on speed. I had so much energy I just ran around getting stuff done, multi tasking like pre-mama, and generally smiling. Yes, smiling. My household didn't know what to do with itself. I played with the pups on the floor, I played with the baby on the floor, I ran up and down the steps, I slept like a baby at night.
27 August 2009
Beginning of the end
Time for some warp drive.
Today I had to face the needle, actually two. The day might as well have been nurse ratchet coming at me with a 2 foot needle and maniacal laughter - yes I reverted back to infancy.
I slept OK last night, tried to at least after going to bed 3 hours later than I should have. All day I was having mini panic attacks about going for the Sacroiliac Joint Injections. I was a moron and got online and searched out the procedure and read other's comments and had reached a level of mania that I couldn't turn off. I was talking myself out of the procedure every passing minute. By the time I had gotten home from work all I could do was say I don't think I can do this. I forced myself to my PPD group, hoping to find the needed encouragement to balance my racing mind. Group went well, and was a better distraction than anything else.
I woke up normal time - 5am - and fed bubay. She was so happy to get to snuggle with mommy for a change and go back to sleep - the blessing of working home is that I don't have to get up to get ready...just roll out of bed and log in so I had an extra 2 hours of slumber. I was able to relax and fall back asleep and woke up rested. I logged into my work and started my day. I was busy enough to keep me away from my anxiety, so much so that I almost forgot that I had a 2 hour fast coming up quickly so I needed to down some Gatorade and Honey Nut Cheerios 10 minutes before my fast was to begin.
Here comes the panic...
I kissed bubay and grabbed my xrays and MRI envelope, put a spare gatorade in my purse and some butter mints for the given pass out, and loaded into the car. I don't remeber speaking much, and hubby knew now was no time for a lecture. He did reassure me every so often that I'll be ok and it will all be over soon. Damn...stopped traffic on 422...I hate construction. At least I could bitch about something other than those shots for a few minutes.
The closer we got to the doctors office the louder my heart sounded and the faster my breath escaped. Damn it. It won't hurt...just a sting...they numb it...I can do it. Rich can hold my hand. We arrived at the procedure suite on time, and then we waited...an hour. One excruciating hour. I didn't open my mouth except to bitch about the pain of the wait. I couldn't make up my mind whether it was better to hurry and get it over with or prolong the inevitable for a few more minutes of hysteria. Neither was an option I wanted.
Finally there the waiting room was empty and even the receptionist left her desk for lunch. They called me in and I grabbed Rich's hand and walked towards the door. "O, no dear, I'm sorry, he ca't come with you." "WHAT?!" "I'm sorry, but the procedure is done under floroscopy and no one can be in there." "Well you give me a twilight or something don't you?" "No, I don't know what gave you that idea." "I'm not doing this. I can't do this. No. No. No. No. Uh huh. I can't." "It's up to you, dear." "No it's not up to me...I have to do this, but I can't."
I was paralyzed. I couldn't move through the door, but I couldn't run away from it either. Then I started to cry and gave in to the nurses pull.
I sat on the table and started mumbling and shaking and trying to get a hold of myself. The doc comes and introduces herself and says that I can take a bit it'll be ok. And if I need to stop they will stop. Then she goes, "why didn't you take your valium?" "What valium...I'm breastfeeding." "Oooooooo". Suddenly all the staff started to swarm around me in comfort instead of exasperation.
Today I had to face the needle, actually two. The day might as well have been nurse ratchet coming at me with a 2 foot needle and maniacal laughter - yes I reverted back to infancy.
I slept OK last night, tried to at least after going to bed 3 hours later than I should have. All day I was having mini panic attacks about going for the Sacroiliac Joint Injections. I was a moron and got online and searched out the procedure and read other's comments and had reached a level of mania that I couldn't turn off. I was talking myself out of the procedure every passing minute. By the time I had gotten home from work all I could do was say I don't think I can do this. I forced myself to my PPD group, hoping to find the needed encouragement to balance my racing mind. Group went well, and was a better distraction than anything else.
I woke up normal time - 5am - and fed bubay. She was so happy to get to snuggle with mommy for a change and go back to sleep - the blessing of working home is that I don't have to get up to get ready...just roll out of bed and log in so I had an extra 2 hours of slumber. I was able to relax and fall back asleep and woke up rested. I logged into my work and started my day. I was busy enough to keep me away from my anxiety, so much so that I almost forgot that I had a 2 hour fast coming up quickly so I needed to down some Gatorade and Honey Nut Cheerios 10 minutes before my fast was to begin.
Here comes the panic...
I kissed bubay and grabbed my xrays and MRI envelope, put a spare gatorade in my purse and some butter mints for the given pass out, and loaded into the car. I don't remeber speaking much, and hubby knew now was no time for a lecture. He did reassure me every so often that I'll be ok and it will all be over soon. Damn...stopped traffic on 422...I hate construction. At least I could bitch about something other than those shots for a few minutes.
The closer we got to the doctors office the louder my heart sounded and the faster my breath escaped. Damn it. It won't hurt...just a sting...they numb it...I can do it. Rich can hold my hand. We arrived at the procedure suite on time, and then we waited...an hour. One excruciating hour. I didn't open my mouth except to bitch about the pain of the wait. I couldn't make up my mind whether it was better to hurry and get it over with or prolong the inevitable for a few more minutes of hysteria. Neither was an option I wanted.
Finally there the waiting room was empty and even the receptionist left her desk for lunch. They called me in and I grabbed Rich's hand and walked towards the door. "O, no dear, I'm sorry, he ca't come with you." "WHAT?!" "I'm sorry, but the procedure is done under floroscopy and no one can be in there." "Well you give me a twilight or something don't you?" "No, I don't know what gave you that idea." "I'm not doing this. I can't do this. No. No. No. No. Uh huh. I can't." "It's up to you, dear." "No it's not up to me...I have to do this, but I can't."
I was paralyzed. I couldn't move through the door, but I couldn't run away from it either. Then I started to cry and gave in to the nurses pull.
I sat on the table and started mumbling and shaking and trying to get a hold of myself. The doc comes and introduces herself and says that I can take a bit it'll be ok. And if I need to stop they will stop. Then she goes, "why didn't you take your valium?" "What valium...I'm breastfeeding." "Oooooooo". Suddenly all the staff started to swarm around me in comfort instead of exasperation.
13 August 2009
Crippling pain
My frustration and irritation grew. I begn sniping and sulking. I couldn't move or enjoy my bundle of joy (and I was set that she hated her mother anyways) and a return to the office was peaking over the horizon...I was perched atop the roller coaster...and I don't like roller coasters.
I tried the theory that movement would loosen me up. I suggested to myself that I needed to move more instead of just snuggling my wee one. I had grown quite fond of staying in bed or on the couch talking and nuzzling my quickly growing angel. I didn't want to do much more than that no matter what else I should be doing, including grocery shopping and household chores. But I needed to move merely to remind myself that I could do it.
I wouldn't take the baby out of the house with me, especially if I was alone. I couldn't grasp how I could manage the shopping and the baby. What if she started screaming? What if I had a spazm and couldn't carry her? I had to plan my trips out around my husband or mother's availability and in between feedings...no small task I can assure you. If my husband was delayed or my mother could not come over I was instantly caught between rage and fearful tears, paralyzing any rational thought left in my brain. I yelled and screamed or cried uncontrolably at everyone else's inablity to understand I needed to go to the grocery store at that second and how could they be late or have forgotten.
Instead of grabbing the little one and taking her to her first shopping trip I would hold her and sulk and feel betrayed and let down and o so many emotions that I still haven't come to define yet. What I hadn't realized was that the pain in my body was working in conjunction with my declining mental state and I was crippling myself both mentally and physically. And instead of those around me comprehending my downward spiral they became equally frustrated with the missing me. My husband would get pissy and walk away and even disappear for several hours "doing something"; my sisters tried to come and help out, but there was only so much they could do other than suggest I get to a doctor. My mom was already becoming self absorbed in her own drama -- no job and losing the house soon...which later on will become my icing.
Each day I counted down to my return to the office. I started panicing because I didn't want to leave my precious. For the first time in my life I wanted to be at home. I could barely walk, I didn't want to leave the house, and I was starting to cry...all the time.
I tried the theory that movement would loosen me up. I suggested to myself that I needed to move more instead of just snuggling my wee one. I had grown quite fond of staying in bed or on the couch talking and nuzzling my quickly growing angel. I didn't want to do much more than that no matter what else I should be doing, including grocery shopping and household chores. But I needed to move merely to remind myself that I could do it.
I wouldn't take the baby out of the house with me, especially if I was alone. I couldn't grasp how I could manage the shopping and the baby. What if she started screaming? What if I had a spazm and couldn't carry her? I had to plan my trips out around my husband or mother's availability and in between feedings...no small task I can assure you. If my husband was delayed or my mother could not come over I was instantly caught between rage and fearful tears, paralyzing any rational thought left in my brain. I yelled and screamed or cried uncontrolably at everyone else's inablity to understand I needed to go to the grocery store at that second and how could they be late or have forgotten.
Instead of grabbing the little one and taking her to her first shopping trip I would hold her and sulk and feel betrayed and let down and o so many emotions that I still haven't come to define yet. What I hadn't realized was that the pain in my body was working in conjunction with my declining mental state and I was crippling myself both mentally and physically. And instead of those around me comprehending my downward spiral they became equally frustrated with the missing me. My husband would get pissy and walk away and even disappear for several hours "doing something"; my sisters tried to come and help out, but there was only so much they could do other than suggest I get to a doctor. My mom was already becoming self absorbed in her own drama -- no job and losing the house soon...which later on will become my icing.
Each day I counted down to my return to the office. I started panicing because I didn't want to leave my precious. For the first time in my life I wanted to be at home. I could barely walk, I didn't want to leave the house, and I was starting to cry...all the time.
10 August 2009
Alien being
Here I am with a beautiful daughter, a wonderful husband, and an invasion of the body snatchers. I no longer looked like me, and now I was physically incapable of moving like me. Where did the dancer-me go...my hips refused to shake, my legs couldn't move one in front of the other, and my feet needed to be surgically removed from the pain. I stopped trying to figure out if the tears came from emotions or physical hurt.
I started explaining to those around me that I wasn't well - in a not so obvious manner. I slowly hinted at unfathomable feelings and stresses and tried to explain my physical inadequacies to my husband and family - even some of my friends. Some responded positively with recovery is slow, and you'll feel back to normal soon. Others patted my shoulder and said poor dear. And then there were a few who impolitely snorted.
Everday I woke up with my little lovely and smiled. I maneauvered myself with boppy on lap and baby latched and kept my eyes closed imagining blue oceans and warm breezes instead of searing flashes of pain and saddness. As long as she was happy and content I could hold on to my vision. But as all babies thrive there are good and bad days.
Those days and nights of crying and fussing with spitting up and red faced screaming were getting more difficult. My husband would offer to take her and rock her back to sleep, but I was insistent that I could be a good mom and settle her down. Sometimes I succeeded and was rewarded with baby snoring and contented sighs. Then I would collapse exhausted and worn, praying all the while that she would rest long enough for me to recover. Other times I would put my head down and hand over the squalling bundle in defeat. I swore she hated me already.
Getting out of bed at night to change her diapers or retrieve her from the bassinet became more difficult each night. We developed a routine of hubby getting her changed and handing her to me for feeding. I was lucky and blessed. When I couldn't get her back into the bassinet she would sleep in the crook of my arm. Even with the amazing help, inevitably the water I drank to keep hydrated while nursing had to release, and the trek down the hall, down the stairs and through the house to the one and only bathroom became a chore. Sometimes I would barely make it to the bathroom in time. Some trips I would have to crawl down the stairs because I couldn't put any pressure on my feet. I startde letting my husband sleep thru the changing and feedings since I had to move anyway to get to the bathroom. In my head it was senseless to wake him up if I had to get out of bed anyway. That was foolish.
My exhaustion was building.
I started explaining to those around me that I wasn't well - in a not so obvious manner. I slowly hinted at unfathomable feelings and stresses and tried to explain my physical inadequacies to my husband and family - even some of my friends. Some responded positively with recovery is slow, and you'll feel back to normal soon. Others patted my shoulder and said poor dear. And then there were a few who impolitely snorted.
Everday I woke up with my little lovely and smiled. I maneauvered myself with boppy on lap and baby latched and kept my eyes closed imagining blue oceans and warm breezes instead of searing flashes of pain and saddness. As long as she was happy and content I could hold on to my vision. But as all babies thrive there are good and bad days.
Those days and nights of crying and fussing with spitting up and red faced screaming were getting more difficult. My husband would offer to take her and rock her back to sleep, but I was insistent that I could be a good mom and settle her down. Sometimes I succeeded and was rewarded with baby snoring and contented sighs. Then I would collapse exhausted and worn, praying all the while that she would rest long enough for me to recover. Other times I would put my head down and hand over the squalling bundle in defeat. I swore she hated me already.
Getting out of bed at night to change her diapers or retrieve her from the bassinet became more difficult each night. We developed a routine of hubby getting her changed and handing her to me for feeding. I was lucky and blessed. When I couldn't get her back into the bassinet she would sleep in the crook of my arm. Even with the amazing help, inevitably the water I drank to keep hydrated while nursing had to release, and the trek down the hall, down the stairs and through the house to the one and only bathroom became a chore. Sometimes I would barely make it to the bathroom in time. Some trips I would have to crawl down the stairs because I couldn't put any pressure on my feet. I startde letting my husband sleep thru the changing and feedings since I had to move anyway to get to the bathroom. In my head it was senseless to wake him up if I had to get out of bed anyway. That was foolish.
My exhaustion was building.
Terror in the mirror
I stood in front of the mirror in disbelief. I looked up and down and all around, but no me. My hair, freshly washed and coiffed, looked dull and nappy; my comfy clothes did more to hurt my lack of shape than hide its imperfetions; my skin looked ruddy and my face seemed mis-shapen. I turned away and left the room, fighting back the water rush from my eyes.
Ugly doesn't tip the iceberg when it came to how I felt about my reflection. I know as a mom I might change my clothing a bit even my hairstyle, but never had I expected to not look like me. The disgust at my reflection started a domino effect on my already declining mental state. I avoided any mirrors opting for my imaginary self-vision to get me outside an get the mail. I refused to have pics taken of me with the baby because I didn't want my little angel to look at them someday and think how terrible her mother looked. I didn't want to see friends or go anywhere I didn't have a good reason to leave the house. I didn't want my husband to have to look at me let alone touch me.
Adding insult to injury I began noticing that the pain my body had during my pregnancy was not only not going away, but seemed to be getting worse. Some moments I couldn't even get up to walk to the bathroom, and mostly I didn't want to move for fear of the pain.
Ugly doesn't tip the iceberg when it came to how I felt about my reflection. I know as a mom I might change my clothing a bit even my hairstyle, but never had I expected to not look like me. The disgust at my reflection started a domino effect on my already declining mental state. I avoided any mirrors opting for my imaginary self-vision to get me outside an get the mail. I refused to have pics taken of me with the baby because I didn't want my little angel to look at them someday and think how terrible her mother looked. I didn't want to see friends or go anywhere I didn't have a good reason to leave the house. I didn't want my husband to have to look at me let alone touch me.
Adding insult to injury I began noticing that the pain my body had during my pregnancy was not only not going away, but seemed to be getting worse. Some moments I couldn't even get up to walk to the bathroom, and mostly I didn't want to move for fear of the pain.
06 August 2009
WT...Who?
Having spent the better part of 6 weeks alternating 2 sets of PJs and a sleep bra, I avoided the mirror naturally. Who wants to look at their bloated self in total disarray when there is nothing to be done in the interim anyhow. The shiny grey-white roots were already a beacon in the bathroom mirror, which cannot be avoided. Yet now reality comes knocking and I can no longer allow my daughter to think her mother is a troll who smells bad and looks like a character from "Where the Wild Things Are".
I decide that since I still couldn't fit into regular clothes between my enromous knockers and lack of waistline that Victoria Secret sweats were the safest bet for daily wear. I already resigned myself to the fact that I would be wearing at least my maternity tops and xtra large yoga plants for the better part of the coming year, and I was fine with that considering how complimentary they are to my middle.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that the baby would sleep long enough for me to humanize my outter self. Hubby encouraged me to get moving, and into the shower I went...razor, shampoo, conditioner, hair treatment, aromatherapy body wash...ahhh the warm water...I never want to get out. Conscious of the time limitations I didn't allow too much of the luxury. Dried off with towel on my head I rushed upstairs to face my eyebrows...ACK...where did that unibrow come from?! I tweezed and waxed and finally felt like I had a face again even though the red splotches rose in protest of my mini makeover.
Clean tee shirt and trendy sweats I looked in the chevalier mirror. WTF?
I decide that since I still couldn't fit into regular clothes between my enromous knockers and lack of waistline that Victoria Secret sweats were the safest bet for daily wear. I already resigned myself to the fact that I would be wearing at least my maternity tops and xtra large yoga plants for the better part of the coming year, and I was fine with that considering how complimentary they are to my middle.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that the baby would sleep long enough for me to humanize my outter self. Hubby encouraged me to get moving, and into the shower I went...razor, shampoo, conditioner, hair treatment, aromatherapy body wash...ahhh the warm water...I never want to get out. Conscious of the time limitations I didn't allow too much of the luxury. Dried off with towel on my head I rushed upstairs to face my eyebrows...ACK...where did that unibrow come from?! I tweezed and waxed and finally felt like I had a face again even though the red splotches rose in protest of my mini makeover.
Clean tee shirt and trendy sweats I looked in the chevalier mirror. WTF?
05 August 2009
I don't recognize you
After my doc appointment I began to contemplate the meaning of the questions I was asked and the reality of how I answered them. Eh...what's the big deal. I was still on maternity leave and wasn't too worried that my baby blues would disapate over time. And then...only 6 weeks left until I returned to work. What! How the heck did six weeks go by already and only 6 more weeks is no where near enough. The panic flashed.
My mom started coming over a few days a week to watch the baby so hubby could do some chores and I could go to sleep. It was nice having a laid off spouse to add extra help during this transition. And even nicer to have my mom come over and encourage me to rest. I tried napping. Sometimes I managed 2 hours, but usually only a half hour between the time I fell asleep and when the baby was ready for her next meal with the boobs. This cycle of 2 hours sleeps around the clock were taking their toll. The mood swings bungied from out of nowhere.
My reality no longer felt like reality. The fog of the first week home never left, but I was too busy and too tired to notice. I had to start putting on clothes when I woke up. Talk about every ounce of energy being zapped out by a menial task like showering and putting on sweat pants. The day time naps were helpful, and even made me feel like I could start to function again.
But getting dressed ad showering brought me a new horror...my reflection.
My mom started coming over a few days a week to watch the baby so hubby could do some chores and I could go to sleep. It was nice having a laid off spouse to add extra help during this transition. And even nicer to have my mom come over and encourage me to rest. I tried napping. Sometimes I managed 2 hours, but usually only a half hour between the time I fell asleep and when the baby was ready for her next meal with the boobs. This cycle of 2 hours sleeps around the clock were taking their toll. The mood swings bungied from out of nowhere.
My reality no longer felt like reality. The fog of the first week home never left, but I was too busy and too tired to notice. I had to start putting on clothes when I woke up. Talk about every ounce of energy being zapped out by a menial task like showering and putting on sweat pants. The day time naps were helpful, and even made me feel like I could start to function again.
But getting dressed ad showering brought me a new horror...my reflection.
Who's Reflection is that?
It's become increasingly evident that I no longer exist, or at least my idea of me is lost in this inky world. Let me begin from this stranger's beginning about 6 weeks post partum...
I was so excited to go to the doctors and thank him for bringing my baby into this world and for being more supportive during that disorienting time than I expected. How many male docs do you expect to accept a doula in the birthing room and offer a bedside manner even in a potential emergency?! Well, I was one of the lucky ones and was eager to say thank you.
First thing first...paperwork. The sheets in front of me asked questions from the physical to the mental and my overall experience and changes and caring for my new baby...I expected this post partum fill in, but was surprised that I could outsmart the questions. Exhausted: yes; moody: sometimes; crying: um...no; sleep: never. I thought about each question carefully, knowing that certain ones were red flags. I wanted to make sure I was honest, but didn't need to be too honest. I wasn't sure that there was anything that concerning at the moment.
What I knew about PPD ranged from the Lifetime movies about mothers hurting or even killing their helpless children accidentally in a PPD psychosis and the feud between Brook Shields and Tom Cruise. I knew it was a real illness brought on by the hormones and life changes and the stress of being a parent. I knew that I had some blues and fears, and that they should be buzz feelings, but didn't realize that was the darkness creeping into my reflection.
My 6 week check up went smoothly right down to losing those 20 pounds I had gained during pregnancy. I couldn't believe it, but my body still seemed like it had an extra 60 pounds and was shaped funny...no worries it's only been six weeks, and everything else looks and healed wonderfully. Thanks, and see you next year.
I was so excited to go to the doctors and thank him for bringing my baby into this world and for being more supportive during that disorienting time than I expected. How many male docs do you expect to accept a doula in the birthing room and offer a bedside manner even in a potential emergency?! Well, I was one of the lucky ones and was eager to say thank you.
First thing first...paperwork. The sheets in front of me asked questions from the physical to the mental and my overall experience and changes and caring for my new baby...I expected this post partum fill in, but was surprised that I could outsmart the questions. Exhausted: yes; moody: sometimes; crying: um...no; sleep: never. I thought about each question carefully, knowing that certain ones were red flags. I wanted to make sure I was honest, but didn't need to be too honest. I wasn't sure that there was anything that concerning at the moment.
What I knew about PPD ranged from the Lifetime movies about mothers hurting or even killing their helpless children accidentally in a PPD psychosis and the feud between Brook Shields and Tom Cruise. I knew it was a real illness brought on by the hormones and life changes and the stress of being a parent. I knew that I had some blues and fears, and that they should be buzz feelings, but didn't realize that was the darkness creeping into my reflection.
My 6 week check up went smoothly right down to losing those 20 pounds I had gained during pregnancy. I couldn't believe it, but my body still seemed like it had an extra 60 pounds and was shaped funny...no worries it's only been six weeks, and everything else looks and healed wonderfully. Thanks, and see you next year.
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