As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.
Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.
The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.
All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.
I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!
I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.
An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.
The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.
I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.
I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
03 February 2011
The Bog of Eternal Stench
So....fucking...tired...snore. What the hell? In an attempt to placate my husband I once again ventured to get Anya to sleep in her crib. After a month of puking and screaming at the idea that we expected her to slumber in her own bed and, therefore, sleeping with mommy (or daddy some nights), we had to get her back into her crib. We took Anya upstairs together and with hugs and kisses Rich left Anya and I to our goondnight routine. Anya and I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and I Love You and and one round of Wheels on the Bus. Anya laid back to snuggle and finish her milk and I returned the cuddles. When the yawning, rubbing of the eyes, and nesting into the crook of my arm started I knew it was time.
I scooped up all 24 point whatever pounds of toddler and not as gently as I would've liked placed her into her crib - yes I put the side back up earlier in the day. "I love you sweetpea," and I swept toward the door. "Mooooommy, mom mommy mommy mom no mommy mommy pleash pleash mommy...." And here we go. I stood by her crib and let her hug me while I rubbed her back. "You are a big girl and need to sleep in your bed." "NOOOOO mommy pleesh," she continued to wail. Slowly over the next hour I step by step retreated...I refused to pick her up...she's not going to get me this time. I went from hugs over the rail to aloof and not touching her slowly, but giving her kisses on her head every now and then for some comfort. Eventually the tears stopped and she just clung to whatever part of me she could reach over the rail. She sucked her thumb and I thought started drifting off on her feet. She even laid down a few times and I thought, "WIN!" But as soon as her head hit the pillow the mommy pleeshes started all over again.
I was exhausted and heart broken that I was putting her though this, but knew I needed to be the mommy and make some of the rules. I kissed her and hugged her and finally said, "Good night, Anya." As I started for the door...I knew the pitch...that wail...the alarm...that tone...I picked her up quickly and said, "Anya don't you dare....." HHhthwwwaaaaaa muuuuppptt blooooosh all over me, her and the bedroom. If I hadn't been witness to this vomit factor for over a month now only at into-your-own-bed time I would think maybe she's sick, her tummy hurts, or awww poor baby, but, no, that is not the case. My mother snickers at my disgust saying, "You did that to me until I gave you a spoon and said eat it." Whether or not my mother was truely that sinister I don't remember, but I'd try it if I thought it would work too.
Rich got the shampooer and spray and plastic bags and paper towels and helped me strip Anya and myself of milk flavored wretch. I stiffled back my dry heaves, but only due to the ferocity of my anger. I felt like a failure. How could this be happening? Why can't I a) get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, and b) be a mom and deal with the puke myself. I felt defeated and deflated and incapable and beaten; all after an evening long feud with my husband to boot. A wave of anxiety and sadness and betrayal and fear clung to my soul as Anya and I got into the tub to clean up. She wouldn't let me put her down. She screamed and shook and pleaded for me to hold her. I tried reasoning with this scared little peanut, "I can't wash us if I hold you." Rich yelled at me for scaring her, for being less than a caring mommy, for being mad and upset that I was tired, in pain, vomited on, and emotionally spent before bedtime even began. There I was holding a sniffling toddler, wreaking of puke, and the water ran cooler and cooler until...FUCK!
For a change Rich had a hot relaxing shower before his own bedtime, and as irnony has it, we needed that hot water. I had to turn the water off, still holding Anya, I stepped out of the tub, under the heat fan and wrapped a few towels around Anya to keep her warm. She had stopped sobbing and shaking but clung to me as if it were the end of the world. We stood there dripping, in the center of the bathroom and the smell of vomit baking under the heat fan. I stared off into nothingness: broken and a shamed of my lack of motherness at the moment. I remember rocking for a bit and that my feet started hurting and my back was breaking. I tried to pry Anya off of me and lean her on the sink. Success but not without rebellion from the stinking bog machine. Eventually, 30 or 45 minutes later Rich boiled some water and directed my frozen wet stink into the tub with Anya. I washed her first and handed her out of the tub while I bathed like they did the year my house was built (for those not in the know the 1800s). At least I couldn't smell the stench any more.
Rich ran another round of cleaning product on Anya's room as I sat in a towel in the dining room in silence while Anya banged a concerto on the piano and giggled at herself. After all efforts to remove said vomit from Anya's room created a smog of chemicals Rich took Anya up to our bed to fall asleep and I dried my mop of maybe cleaned hair. My arrival to my room produced a sound asleep toddler, a drained spouse and anxiety. Rich went downstairs to clean himself up and watch some TV to cleans himself of the grossness and frustration. I crawled into bed bone chilled. Hour after I hour I stared at the clock, my feet felt dead of blood. I started getting reflux and couldn't get the rot of bile from my throat. 12, 1, 2, 3 I turned up the heat 2 degrees, put on 2 pairs of socks, and downed a gallon of milk and finally fell to sleep...all the while Anya off in dreamland without a stir.
I scooped up all 24 point whatever pounds of toddler and not as gently as I would've liked placed her into her crib - yes I put the side back up earlier in the day. "I love you sweetpea," and I swept toward the door. "Mooooommy, mom mommy mommy mom no mommy mommy pleash pleash mommy...." And here we go. I stood by her crib and let her hug me while I rubbed her back. "You are a big girl and need to sleep in your bed." "NOOOOO mommy pleesh," she continued to wail. Slowly over the next hour I step by step retreated...I refused to pick her up...she's not going to get me this time. I went from hugs over the rail to aloof and not touching her slowly, but giving her kisses on her head every now and then for some comfort. Eventually the tears stopped and she just clung to whatever part of me she could reach over the rail. She sucked her thumb and I thought started drifting off on her feet. She even laid down a few times and I thought, "WIN!" But as soon as her head hit the pillow the mommy pleeshes started all over again.
I was exhausted and heart broken that I was putting her though this, but knew I needed to be the mommy and make some of the rules. I kissed her and hugged her and finally said, "Good night, Anya." As I started for the door...I knew the pitch...that wail...the alarm...that tone...I picked her up quickly and said, "Anya don't you dare....." HHhthwwwaaaaaa muuuuppptt blooooosh all over me, her and the bedroom. If I hadn't been witness to this vomit factor for over a month now only at into-your-own-bed time I would think maybe she's sick, her tummy hurts, or awww poor baby, but, no, that is not the case. My mother snickers at my disgust saying, "You did that to me until I gave you a spoon and said eat it." Whether or not my mother was truely that sinister I don't remember, but I'd try it if I thought it would work too.
Rich got the shampooer and spray and plastic bags and paper towels and helped me strip Anya and myself of milk flavored wretch. I stiffled back my dry heaves, but only due to the ferocity of my anger. I felt like a failure. How could this be happening? Why can't I a) get my daughter to sleep in her own bed, and b) be a mom and deal with the puke myself. I felt defeated and deflated and incapable and beaten; all after an evening long feud with my husband to boot. A wave of anxiety and sadness and betrayal and fear clung to my soul as Anya and I got into the tub to clean up. She wouldn't let me put her down. She screamed and shook and pleaded for me to hold her. I tried reasoning with this scared little peanut, "I can't wash us if I hold you." Rich yelled at me for scaring her, for being less than a caring mommy, for being mad and upset that I was tired, in pain, vomited on, and emotionally spent before bedtime even began. There I was holding a sniffling toddler, wreaking of puke, and the water ran cooler and cooler until...FUCK!
For a change Rich had a hot relaxing shower before his own bedtime, and as irnony has it, we needed that hot water. I had to turn the water off, still holding Anya, I stepped out of the tub, under the heat fan and wrapped a few towels around Anya to keep her warm. She had stopped sobbing and shaking but clung to me as if it were the end of the world. We stood there dripping, in the center of the bathroom and the smell of vomit baking under the heat fan. I stared off into nothingness: broken and a shamed of my lack of motherness at the moment. I remember rocking for a bit and that my feet started hurting and my back was breaking. I tried to pry Anya off of me and lean her on the sink. Success but not without rebellion from the stinking bog machine. Eventually, 30 or 45 minutes later Rich boiled some water and directed my frozen wet stink into the tub with Anya. I washed her first and handed her out of the tub while I bathed like they did the year my house was built (for those not in the know the 1800s). At least I couldn't smell the stench any more.
Rich ran another round of cleaning product on Anya's room as I sat in a towel in the dining room in silence while Anya banged a concerto on the piano and giggled at herself. After all efforts to remove said vomit from Anya's room created a smog of chemicals Rich took Anya up to our bed to fall asleep and I dried my mop of maybe cleaned hair. My arrival to my room produced a sound asleep toddler, a drained spouse and anxiety. Rich went downstairs to clean himself up and watch some TV to cleans himself of the grossness and frustration. I crawled into bed bone chilled. Hour after I hour I stared at the clock, my feet felt dead of blood. I started getting reflux and couldn't get the rot of bile from my throat. 12, 1, 2, 3 I turned up the heat 2 degrees, put on 2 pairs of socks, and downed a gallon of milk and finally fell to sleep...all the while Anya off in dreamland without a stir.
04 January 2011
Me
I suppose a "Happy New Year" is in order to you and yours. Two days back from the quickest moving two weeks of vacation ever, and enter 2011. Let's just start in shall we? I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. I think they are silly really. I can make resolutions any moment of any day, and, frankly, will hold on to them better this way. Who wants to start their new year off fucking up all ready. The running joke seems to be how soon until you break your promises into the new year? REALLY? Why.
If I make a promise I mean it. I will try so hard I screw myself up following through. Over the years this has led me to make less promises for sure. I have also learned that setting myself up for failure damages any sense of self-worth or confidence I achieved. Every year I wish for a better year than the last, and hope that I survive the trials and tribulations I will face. I also vow to try and win the lottery.
What will this year bring? I would like to teach belly dance in more studios. I would like to advance my Arbonne business. I would like to be financially stable again. All of these hopes hinge on my taking personal action to achieve them. But don't mistake these for resolutions. These are on going personal dreams. There is no failure to be had here. I will be me and work towards making my dreams a reality, but I will not destroy myself in the process.
I tried hard not to fill my FaceBook wall the first few days of the new year with negative comments about going back to work and not being on vacation anymore and O the misery. I knew that coming back to the office was going to suck. And I still harbor anger towards my paycheck writer for his inexcusable behavior regarding my time off. But this I must face and do so with the least amount of self-fullfilling depression possible. To my credit I've woken up before my alarm, although have stayed in bed for the cursory snooze anyway; I've packed my breakfast and lunch; I came home and actually played with and gave Anya a bath before I plopped on the couch exhausted; I went to bed at 8, but watched TV until 9:30...woohooo late night; totally fucked up my famously yummy split pea soup and had to throw it out - my bad; O and I put on makeup two days in a row for work - eveyyone said I look fab and did I change my hair - doh! I'm still looking forward to the day I cash in my winning lottery ticket.
So here I am. 2011. Anya turns 2 this year. What the Fuck! Yeah - did I tell you I vowed to have a trucker mouth this year? I pulled my combat boots out of the closet too. I look back at my blog with it's swiss cheese style and find it so painful still. I always feel one step out of the midst...sometimes It catches up to me and I can't breath for a bit, but I keep running and have freedom for a time. I almost want another child, but don't feel that it would be fair to do so in our financial rings of hell...not to mention my vodka therapy and I would love to start smoking again. I put Manson in the CD player and blackened my eye makeup. I feel tough as nails and miss my youth suddenly. I had so much fun being reckless and carefree and me. ...One thing I do resolve this year is to be me.
If I make a promise I mean it. I will try so hard I screw myself up following through. Over the years this has led me to make less promises for sure. I have also learned that setting myself up for failure damages any sense of self-worth or confidence I achieved. Every year I wish for a better year than the last, and hope that I survive the trials and tribulations I will face. I also vow to try and win the lottery.
What will this year bring? I would like to teach belly dance in more studios. I would like to advance my Arbonne business. I would like to be financially stable again. All of these hopes hinge on my taking personal action to achieve them. But don't mistake these for resolutions. These are on going personal dreams. There is no failure to be had here. I will be me and work towards making my dreams a reality, but I will not destroy myself in the process.
I tried hard not to fill my FaceBook wall the first few days of the new year with negative comments about going back to work and not being on vacation anymore and O the misery. I knew that coming back to the office was going to suck. And I still harbor anger towards my paycheck writer for his inexcusable behavior regarding my time off. But this I must face and do so with the least amount of self-fullfilling depression possible. To my credit I've woken up before my alarm, although have stayed in bed for the cursory snooze anyway; I've packed my breakfast and lunch; I came home and actually played with and gave Anya a bath before I plopped on the couch exhausted; I went to bed at 8, but watched TV until 9:30...woohooo late night; totally fucked up my famously yummy split pea soup and had to throw it out - my bad; O and I put on makeup two days in a row for work - eveyyone said I look fab and did I change my hair - doh! I'm still looking forward to the day I cash in my winning lottery ticket.
So here I am. 2011. Anya turns 2 this year. What the Fuck! Yeah - did I tell you I vowed to have a trucker mouth this year? I pulled my combat boots out of the closet too. I look back at my blog with it's swiss cheese style and find it so painful still. I always feel one step out of the midst...sometimes It catches up to me and I can't breath for a bit, but I keep running and have freedom for a time. I almost want another child, but don't feel that it would be fair to do so in our financial rings of hell...not to mention my vodka therapy and I would love to start smoking again. I put Manson in the CD player and blackened my eye makeup. I feel tough as nails and miss my youth suddenly. I had so much fun being reckless and carefree and me. ...One thing I do resolve this year is to be me.
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.
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