Constant Quest for Positivity

Whew. It's been a crazy few months. Some of you may have noticed my radio silence. I imagine those who follow my blog or twitter feed are not surprised I needed a break from social media. The break has been necessary as I work hard to be the best me I can be. However I will continue to write. Here's a tidbit of my focus as of late.

Recovery, as I have mentioned before, is a process that is not always linear, often takes steps backwards, has an indeterminate length, and requires a tremendous amount of patience. Once I began to get stronger, it also required (requires) a tremendous of work from me. 

So that, in a nutshell, is where I'm at. Facing my emotions, looking into my heart.

Taking one day at a time (sometimes one moment at a time) but trying to remember to live it, not just survive it. I am getting better and have been equipped with the tools to make the final steps. As the depression wanes, it's up to me to discover happiness again.

This means not listening when the thoughts creep in that I don't know what I'm doing, wondering what the hell I was thinking to make such a major change, thinking that I am not cut out for this. It means taking each and every one of those thoughts and turning it around.

I do know what I'm doing.

This change is a step forward.

I am cut out for this.

Reframe it.

 Accentuate the positive.

Keep on the sunnyside.

There have been times when I think of it as "fake it till you make it" but it's not really faking it. It's just grabbing hold of that little thing and holding on to it with all I've got so I can get to the other side of the darkness. 

How can I make this feel okay?

What can I do to make myself smile?

To breathe?

My runs have become my meditation. I breathe in for three steps and out for two. Three strong words are picked each day and I think them as I breathe in, breathe out and start again. A mantra. 

Strength

Love

Success

Peace 

Comfort

Home

Family

Growth

Happiness.

The words change but it fuels my run and cleanses my soul.

Each and every night, I lie in bed and list the things I'm grateful for. Often they are not about at me, but the loving friends and family I have surrounding me, the amazing people I have come in contact with, the beautiful weather I've been living in. I drift off to sleep holding these thoughts in my head instead of turning over and over the things that went wrong.

Sounds cheesy. But it's working.

The last bump I had was a doozy. I was in town, on my own, and as I hung up from a difficult phone call, I could feel the anxiety closing in, my chest tightening, my eyes glistening. 

***annnnnd breeeeeathhhheeee*

in for three, out for four
in for five, out for six.

***annnnd wallllkk**

'positive positive positive'

It'll be fine. It'll work out. It is not in your control.

Focus on what is.

I ran errands. 

One. at. a. time.

Each check mark, I stopped, reminded myself that it was a step forward, and continued to the next one.

The anxiety didn't magically disappear, but I kept it at bay. Not in a masking, ignoring, I'll have a total break down way, either. (believe me, I've been there) I was aware of it constantly. I had to stop and breathe a lot that afternoon but focusing on what I could do, what I was doing, helped me get through. I made it.

The day was good.

The End

December

I had planned on asking for my wedding ring to be re-dipped and cleaned for Christmas. I don't like to admit that I'm superstitious but it was beginning to look a little dull and disheartened and my gut feeling was that it reflected how things were going. The last few years had been a hard slog to say the least. The recent move a set back instead of the step forward we had hoped. Life had been on hold for too long. We needed a fresh start. It was time to start moving again. 

I'm in the kitchen and the dreaded words are like a haze.

"I think we might need counselling."

I scoff " Counselling is a sign of last resort. Surely we should try first...Surely you think we can get past this." 

He sits on a nearby stool and stares at the floor.

My voice rises. Squeaks "Do you think we're at the last resort stage already? Do you think we need a...."

I stop myself.

He finishes.

"I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time."

It's over.

Two Steps Forward...One Leap Back

We moved. To a new city.
A new country.
My husband cut his hours. He started full-time university.
Little miss started a new nursery.
I increased my commute. By three hours a day.


Stress coming from all angles. But I was ready. Hell, this is the kind of thing I used to thrive on. Hand me a challenge, and I was in my element. Exploring the area museums and looking up library times. Finding new running routes. Navigating the area's public transportation.

I multitask with the best of them. I learn new cities quickly. Taking the train to work felt like coming home again. I could do this.

I made running part of my commute. I read books on the train. I budgeted on Saturdays. Slept in on Sundays. My husband did mornings. I did the evenings. It's been busy but we were adjusting.

And then I wasn't.

I've started running because I'm supposed to...not because I want to.
That's if I manage a run at all.

I worry that leaving before my daughter wakes up and getting home after her dinner will scar her for life.

I worry that I will miss the train.
That we will run out of money.
That my daughter will get sick.
That my husband will die.

Worry worry worry worry worry worry worry.

The anxiety is back.

I play the "is it normal" game.

Is it normal to wish for bedtime when it is only 10am?
Is it normal to want to go back to sleep but be too restless to stay in bed?
Is it normal to want to not want to eat?
To want to eat everything?
To want it all to stop?
To be scared of what would happen if it did?

The dark thoughts are returning.

I am a bad mother because I can't provide.
I am a bad mother because I spend all my time working to provide.
I am a bad mother because I didn't enjoy hide and seek today.
I am a bad mother because we played hide and seek instead of practising phonics.

The intrusive thoughts have creeped back in.

I wanted my last post to be one of hope. To show all of you who are battling that there is light at the end of the tunnel. To let all of you who love me know that I was okay. To tell all of you who have shied away that I was me again.

All of that is true. I did get better. But this illness has affected who I am. How I deal. I still try to tackle life head on but this illness doesn't always let me.

With depression comes self doubt. I wonder if I'm making it all up. Whether it's worse in my head than it really needs to be. Whether I just need to work a little harder to pull through.

It isn't that easy. With depression, it will never work that way.

I didn't want to call the doctor, afraid of taxing a system when I was so new to the area. I didn't want to admit I needed help because it felt like admitting defeat. I didn't want to waste their time if I was just having trouble acclimating to change.

These thoughts sound silly when I'm well.

Yet I listened and didn't call.

I met our health visitor on Friday.

It took her five minutes to see what I had been trying so hard to hide.

I saw the look in her eyes and it brought me back to those early days with miss. I cried and said I didn't want to be back at the beginning. That I'm scared that this isn't over.

"You aren't at the beginning. You just need some help getting over some big hurdles. We can give you that help. Let us."

I made the call. I see the doctor this week. My health visitor is visiting again as well.

The depression is trying to tell me I'm at the bottom of that deep dark hole again. I know I'm not.

It is dark but I will get out.

I am well, just not fully healed.

Two steps forward, one leap back....that's still progress.

I Have Survived

with thanks and apologies to Gloria Gaynor 


"At first I was detached
I was sleep deprived
I felt I had no instincts
on how to keep little miss alive
I spent never-ending nights
replaying everything that I'd done wrong..."

It wasn't so much an a-ha moment as glimpses here and there. I found myself reading blogs and #PPDChat, nodding my head in agreement as I remembered how I used to feel that way.  

"...I tried my best to cover up
that sad look upon my face
I wished I could snap out of it
I was sure there was a way
If only I tried hard enough 
I could make PPD just go away..."

I started planning where to get my warrior tattoo. I began thinking about writing this post.

"...I couldn't leave. Just walk out the door.
All the crowds I used to love
Were something I couldn't handle anymore
I was scared she'd skip a nap and couldn't bear for miss to cry
If she did, my mask would crumble
And I was sure she or I would die..."

I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. I look over my shoulder, wondering if relapse is lurking in the shadows. But if I'm worried about relapse, then it's time I acknowledged the truth, which, as silly as it seems, is scary.

"...I used all the strength I had
and still I fell apart
I was incredibly impatient
for the good parts of motherhood to start
It's taken two long years of fighting
trying to take things day by day
Still sometimes I cry
But now there are days I also feel so damned alive
I am still me
Yet somehow new
This illness made me stronger
For all the hell it put me through..."

There are a lot of big changes on the horizon for me right now. There have been days when the insomnia returns, the bad eating habits creep in, the anxiety sky rockets. I use the tools I've learned to work through the bad moment but wonder if the triggers will get the best of me. But right now? It's time for me to say it. And Savour it.


"...and I know that I
I have survived
Thanks to all the ones who showed me love
I am here and feel alive
I remember how to live
And I've got tons of love to give.
I have survived
I have survived."

Dear friends and family, in real life, and in blog and twitter land, I couldn't have made it through this journey without you. I believe a lot of my recovery came down to time, and there were times when it seemed like it would never end. You helped me take it day by day, and when I couldn't, you helped me through the darkness. I can't say it enough. I love you and thank you all.  xx

So We Meet Again: Reconnecting after Postpartum Depression

It’s January and my husband and I have had yet another argument. They have been coming fast in furious for several months and this has been one for the books. One that starts with snide comments from both parties, escalating to insults and accusations. One with an intermission where he swears under his breath as he picks up his phone, I stomp out of the room and cry.  One where by the end we hugging each other, apologizing for our hurtful words, emotionally and physically exhausted, feeling absolutely no relief from airing our grievances. We have figured out the problem.

We just have no idea how to fix it. 

Postpartum depression has been hell. It has messed with my husband’s world as much as it has mine.  As he put it, the day we came home with our newborn baby, I returned with a stranger. He returned with two.

Imagine it. 

You find someone to spend your life with. It isn’t always perfect, you don’t always see eye to eye, but you get each other. You decide to have a baby together. You go into it knowing it’s going to be hard work but you are ready because you’ll be doing it together.

But this mom is not your partner in crime. She looks the same, but only if you look past the slouched posture, the empty eyes, the plastic smile.  She almost sounds the same, but her intonation has been replaced with emotionless monotone. You look hard to find her in there but she just isn’t the person you entered into this with.

You discover it’s an illness and feel almost relieved. There’s a reason for this change and there is a way to recover. So you do everything in your power to make sure she can concentrate on getting better.

She can’t bring herself to cook more than ramen noodles and cup a soup…

So you do the meal planning, the grocery shopping, and the cooking.

Thinking about money practically cripples her with panic…

So you take over the budget and paying the bills.

She is too anxious to even think about leaving the house…

So you decline friends’ invitations and stay at home with her.

She needs to live moment by moment…

So you accept it and do the required planning ahead.

She needs to work through how she is feeling.

You listen to as much as you can handle before you tell her you’ll give her the space and time it takes, but that she must tell someone else.

You are heartbroken, angry, and confused. You are scared and frustrated but you can’t tell the one person you usually turn to. So you seal your feelings off and continue to work.

You continue to do.

You keep busy.

You move forward.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, she seems like herself again. Each day, a little more of her comes back. She makes jokes that make you laugh and her smiles reach her eyes.

She plans the weekend away without begging you to make the final decisions.

She gets pissed off when you plan something without consulting her. Then gets even more furious when you do it again. She wants to know about the things that you’d grown accustomed to doing alone because, for so long, she wasn’t healthy enough to handle it.

She is hurt that you come home and busy yourself on the computer, the phone, or the TV. She wonders why you are so insular.

This is about the point when the big one started. He lost it and shouted. “Because you have been shut off for more than two years.”

He wasn’t wrong. I fought back the urge to apologise and he stopped me as I began to utter “I’m sorry.” We both know it’s PPD that made me detached and anxious.

But it still sucked. For both of us. We did what we could to get through it. We weathered the storm in the best way we knew how. 

Now that I’m feeling again, I don’t want him to live as though he is on his own. Now that he sees me reaching out, he is unsure how to let down his guard.

I am finally finding the old me again but he isn’t the old him anymore. He’s been through this battle too. Only he’s been through it wide awake, without the fog of depression to fade his memories or cloud his days.

We both want to get back to being as close as we used to be but it has been tremendously hard work.

We are not there yet.

It cuts me to the core to write that.

In my heart of hearts I know it’s a testament to the strength of our relationship that has got us through this hell and not a sign of weakness that we have pieces to pick up. We have fun together and even managed it some in the midst of my depression. But in the moments when we run out of things to say to each other, the hurt comes flooding in. 

In those hard moments I remind myself how much we have been through and that healing takes time.

I know that impatience won’t speed up this process but will only cause heartache while we are working through it. I do my best to remember that we love each other, even if PPD did its damndest to rip us apart.

We are trying and we will get there.

In order to survive this illness, we had to live as individuals but we will be that strong team again.

One a Day

“Take one of these a day.”

Two years and two weeks ago my doctor said this as he handed me a blister pack of anti-depressants.

I had told my health visitor how I was feeling a few weeks prior, but despite follow up visits from her and initial sessions with a PND counsellor, I was feeling much much worse. 

The session with my doctor was much longer than a standard visit, as he listened to every fear, thought, and feeling that came tumbling out of my mouth.  I had the misconceived notion that going on anti-depressants would mean I would have to stop breastfeeding. Despite not really enjoying it, I felt like it was one of the only things I was doing right so was reluctant to give it up. He answered my questions and disproved my concerns. The medication he was prescribing had been around a long time so was tried and tested. I left his office informed and determined.

I couldn’t start taking a full dose all at once. In order to minimize the side effects, I had to gradually build up to the level my doctor had prescribed.  Then, once I reached that…nothing happened. We upped the dose again. I hadn’t wanted to turn to drugs in the first place and, with every passing day of feeling not even a tiny bit better, I wondered if I had made the wrong choice. I wondered if I was on the right medication. I wondered if medication was even going to help at all. I wondered if I just needed to snap out of it.

After several weeks on the proper level, I started to see improvement. It was a life altering relief.

There weren’t many peaks and there were numerous valleys, but I slowly began to get better. I was functioning in my daily life and exploring the many other aspects that come with battling postnatal depression. I’d been on them for over a year so even began wondering if the anti-d’s were redundant at that point.  I convinced myself that the only reason I was still taking them was because I had been too busy lazy to discuss with my doctor the option of cutting down.

We went away for a long weekend to celebrate a family wedding. It was brilliant. I wasn’t anxious like I had been at previous outings so was able to relax and have fun for the first time in a long time.

I was having so much fun, I forgot my medication.

For 24 hours. 

That night I ended up with a headache that would put a migraine to shame. 

For the next week, I struggled, teetering on the brink of relapse.  All from missing one measly day of pills. 

I made sure to take my pills everyday but resented it. I felt like a failure. Surely I should have been fine.  The “if only” game played in a loop in my head.

(Of only I’d reached out for help sooner.  If only I’d worked harder at CBT, if only I’d payed for more therapy, if only I remembered self care) 

Despite understanding that PND is an illness, I still felt like I should have been able to beat it without having to resort to pills. When I first reached out for help, I had known that I needed to, but in hindsight I wondered if I had just tried a little harder, or been just a little more prepared, I could have ensured that it had never gotten bad enough to need anti-depressants in the first place.

I worked at trying to forgive myself, to no avail. The #ppdarmy, full of love and guidance, gave me the virtual slap in the face I needed and reminded me, once again that

I DID NOT CAUSE THIS.  THIS IS NOT MY FAULT. IT IS NOT BECAUSE OF SOMETHING I DID OR BECAUSE OF SOMETHING I SHOULD HAVE DONE.

I had an “Aha moment” and suddenly my fight changed.  I stopped beating myself up. I stopped trying to make my body something it wasn’t or twist my brain to think in a way it didn’t. I accepted what the illness was putting me through, looked for ways to make it through the dark days, and took medication to help my body survive.

Somewhere along the way, recovery happened. The light at the end of the tunnel appeared.

Several weeks ago, I sat in my doctor’s office setting out a plan of action for cutting down my meds. To say I was nervous to start is an understatement. I hadn’t been eating well and insomnia had crept back in. Perhaps now wasn’t the time. My doctor smiled when I outlined all the upcoming life challenges that lie ahead for my husband and I. “How you’re feeling, Sandy.is quite a normal reaction to stress like that.” 

Well I’ll be. Normal.

I think it’s pretty poignant to realize I had to accept that I needed the anti-depressants before being able to even contemplate living without them. There is the possibility that I’ll hit a point where I can’t decrease any further and I’ll have to continue to take them. I know that, if that happens, it’s because my body isn’t making something it needs, not because I failed or because I am weak. I know now that I am strong, whether I take a daily pill or not.

I’m six weeks into cutting down and my first week of one a day is almost up.  I’ve been paying extra close attention to my sleep patterns and emotions, feeling nervous when I cry or yell or don't feel hungry, still scared of going backwards. I’ve made sure to focus on self-care.

I’ve had a few wobbly moments but the journey is good so far. 

The Time I can Never Get Back

We sold the crib, the travel cot, and the stroller today. It triggered something I thought I had addressed and accepted but clearly I still needed to grieve.

I have never been one to go goo-ey and coo-ey when a newborn is in the room.

There has only been one who, once I got over the fear that I might break her, I couldn’t get enough of holding, engaging with, smiling at, watching her during tummy time, or dozing away in her pack and play.  I cheered as I watched her hit her milestones and cried tears of joy the first time she waved to me. I still love to watch videos of her, whether it’s when she was so tiny she’s nothing more than a puffalump on her mother’s knee or when she’s singing her own version of a Christmas carol. This girl has made my heart light up since the very first time I laid eyes on her. Including those newborn days I was luckily enough to share with her.

This little girl is my beautiful, hilarious, spunky little niece. I love her to bits.

I did not get this with my daughter.

When the midwives caught my baby girl and handed her over, I was overcome with emotion and in awe of the miracle of life.  I loved her from the very beginning.

But I still felt nothing.

_______________________________

“Make the most of every moment, cherish it, and enjoy it, as they’re only this age once and it will be done before you know it,” a stranger said as I was standing in the baby section of a department store, just barely holding myself together. I knew nothing about how to be a mom. I was convinced that I would kill my baby by shear incompetence if not from some subconscious action in an attempt to stop the dark thoughts from flooding through my head. I was hating motherhood, sure I had made a drastic mistake, and absolutely overwhelmed by the fact that I had no other greater responsibility than to make sure I didn’t fuck this baby up, and worried that I might have already done so.

I blinked back tears and focused on the various maternity tights I found myself in front of as the woman continued talking.

“The first two years are the most important….” I switched off.  It was all I could do not to just hand her my baby girl and walk away.  Surely she knew better than I did.  Based on the streams of “You’re so lucky”, “You must be in heaven”,  “Life must seem so wonderful with her around”, “You must be enjoying your time together” I’d been hearing, everyone seemed to know how to do this better than me.  I couldn’t understand if everyone else enjoyed it, why couldn’t I?  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t adjust to the new role like everyone around me had?

So I waited for it to get better. I played the “fake it till you make it” role to the extreme, parenting by the book, hoping that one day I’d get up and I’d do something just because it felt right.  I didn’t feel one iota of mother’s instinct.  If I hadn’t had the Baby Whisperer, I would have been in ruins.

____________________________

Those two years have been and gone.  I learned that I had an illness and it wasn’t down to bad mothering. I got help. I took medication. I attended appointments. I wrote. I got better. I continue to heal.  I enjoy my daughter’s company sometimes. (Do normal moms enjoy their kids’ company all the time?)

But the fact remains that my daughter isn’t a baby and never will be again.  I will never ever get that time back.  I hate that I will never hold my little baby girl in my arms and not want to put her down. I won’t know what it feels like to stare at her face for hours and enjoy every minute of it.  My chest never filled with pride the first time she rolled over or sat on her own. The only hope I have is that someday I will look at the millions of pictures we have of her baby days and I will cry the tears of joy I should have when those moments happened. 

I missed my baby. 

That will forever break my heart.