Preaching to the Choir

Stigma.

I started writing to reduce it.

But for who?

One thing that I have learned, through this journey, is no one really gets it unless they've been through it or going through it.

I'm not sure that can ever change.

I mean really, honestly, I've spent hours thinking "why can't I just snap out of it?" and I've got the damn illness.  Of course someone who has never experienced it would think the same thing.

But that's where empathy comes in, I hear you say. That's where it's our job to explain support.

Yeah. Support. What is that for someone who doesn't truly get it?

They read the literature that says understand. Listen. Be there.

So they pay the bills. They do the housework. They listen to you say you can't. They are there. And all the while? They wonder why the hell you can't.

And frankly, it's a perfectly reasonable question.

If you've never had depression.

Admit it.

Before you had it, did you get it?

Did you understand that some days you can get dressed and put a smile on your face for the outside world but inside be crumbling?

Did you understand that some days you'd wish you'd never been born yet still laugh at something on TV?

Did you get that sometimes doing dishes was an impossibility because? Because you? Because you had no idea why?

Would you have imagined that you'd fantasize about running away all the while going through the daily routine?

Would you have imagined it possible to smile at that happy baby even though you felt nothing?

Of course not.

That's why I preach to the choir.

The choir of women who think they're alone.

You're not.

Changing the stigma to those who have never felt the crushing blow of depression is something I no longer think is possible.

I want to change it so those who feel it ask for help.

So those who think they are alone know they are not.

Depression sucks. It is debilitating, but from the inside.

We put on our masks. We know the stigma is alive. We don't tell our co-workers. We are sometimes afraid to admit it to our partners. We are even more afraid to admit it to ourselves.

But.

We are not alone.

It's dark. It's hard. It destroys things that sometimes can't be put back together.

But it is not our fault.

It is an illness.

It is silent.

It is deadly.

It is scary and unknown to those who have not felt it.

But we can persevere.

Choir.

I am sometime quiet, but

I am one of you.

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. 

Too Far Too Fast

It all started a few weeks ago…

Things were going pretty well.  I was taking things one moment and one day at a time. I wasn’t even thinking about being depressed or worried about the depression coming back.  I was well and truly surviving.  

Then, at a regular doctor’s appointment, I was asked a relatively routine question, “How are you feeling in yourself?”

“Okay,” I responded and then smiled because, for the first time in a long time, I was doing okay. Really okay. Not I don’t want to go into hospital okay or I don’t want to sound like a bad mom okay or any of the other versions of the putting on a positive front okay I’d used before. I was alright and had been for a while.  His next question, and my subsequent answer, had me on cloud nine.

“When do you think you started getting better?” I thought about it and smiled again. I’d been out of that weird depressive fog for a few months!  This was amazing. I was not well yet but I was certainly on my way and the changes were finally noticeable.

Then, after 16 weeks on a waiting list, a therapist finally called to administer one of those tests. 

Part one was full of questions rating how I’d felt about things in the last couple weeks. Result: I had my down days but actually it put me in the normal range. Brilliant.  I’ve taken various forms of this test since first seeking help and I had never before been even close to normal. In fact, if I’d been called a week or two after my referral, I have no doubt I would’ve been off the charts.

Part two: how does the depression affect your daily life. My results had the therapist asking me if I needed to be more honest with my questions in part one. Nope, I’d been honest. It was true, in the last two weeks I’d been fine.

But when the depression does hit, it is bad.  Of course it affects everything. In the past two years I have done little more than survive because it’s all I’ve been able to handle. Putting one foot in front of the other is all I could manage and, even though I’ve been feeling pretty okay the last few months, that is still all my life is about.

Survival.

Since I tested “normal,” I don’t qualify for one to one care I have been waiting for. I am on my own to make it from feeling better to actually being well again.  Before hanging up, the therapist was wonderful. She practically prescribed finding happiness and has sent me a series of CBT ‘workbooks’ so I can essentially give myself therapy.

She advised things I’ve been telling myself, that my husband has been telling me, and that various ppdchat ladies have mentioned to me before. I need to do things for myself and I need to do them without feeling guilty.  It’s gone beyond the small things.  I’ve been taking naps, making cups of tea, watching girly movies, reading books, and various other little things since my baby was a few days old. They have been sanity savers but they are not enough. They help me remember I am human and are immensely important but they fall short of what I really really need.

I need time to shut off and re-charge. I am either on mom duty, at work, or on my way from one to another all the time. 

Part of me knows that yes, of course I need time to myself. The other part reminds me that she naps and sleeps so well that I get loads of time without her. I’m at work four days a week so that’s even more time when I’m not around. Surely it’s not too much to ask for me to spend the rest of the time with her or with my husband or with all of us doing things as a family unit?

Apparently it is. I have only been ‘off duty’  from everything a handful of times in the past two years and each and every time I vow to make it a regular part of my routine. Then life gets in the way, my resolve wanes, and I’m not getting better because of it.

It’s been two weeks and, despite numerous suggestions from the #ppdarmy, I have still yet to come up with one thing that would make me happy.  I’m too busy feeling horrendously guilty that having a family doesn’t make me happy enough. I wish I could just get over myself, realise I have so much more than many other women that manage to make it work and to be happy doing it. 

Why can’t I feel happy with a f**king glass of wine in a bubble bath after a long day like a normal woman would?!?!?!? 

Sunday morning is now mine to do with what I wish and step one is to make it out for a run. Once a week isn’t really enough for training and it will actually be much more difficult to get back in shape this way but for now it’s not supposed to be about that, it’s supposed to be to give me a break.

I have also set aside one night a week for ‘writing as therapy.’ I tried to write on Thursday but after 1600 words of skirting the issue of selfcare, I realised I wasn’t actually ready to share how hard it is for me to do something nice for myself without feeling incredibly guilty.

I went to bed feeling low and even worse the next day. This morning I woke up with a sore throat so missed out on my weekly run. Mentally, I’ve sunk again. I feel as though I’ve failed on week one of caring about me.

I KNOW I won’t get better until I start realising I matter. Taking time out for me will actually make me a better wife and mother and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. But even now, as I write this, I’m trying to type as fast as I can so I don’t miss out on quality time with my husband. I am in a mental tug of war as part of me knows if I don’t get this out, I could very well relapse and the other part of me thinks if I spend one more minute wallowing, I might lose him forever.

I’ve got two big hurdles that have become abundantly clear since I started getting better enough to think straight. I need to find to find happiness and I need to restore a relationship that is in tatters after two years of surviving with PPD.  In my eagerness to call myself well, I tried to tackle both at once this week and I’m suffering as a result. Seeing life in a normal light again makes me all the more aware of how damaging depression really is.  I want to be better. I do not want to walk the lonely road from the beginning again. I know I have to go back to baby steps but I am petrified baby steps just won’t be enough.

Tossing my Security Blanket

A few weeks ago, I packed a small carry-on for the three of us and we went on a short, unplanned trip to visit relatives. Since then, life has been a whirlwind of emotions, busy schedules, big changes, usual life stresses, and a few ‘not so usual’ stresses thrown in there too.  Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, my husband and I have just stepped around that carry-on, leaving it where it had dropped the day we got home. It didn’t get fully unpacked until last night. Other than cluttering up a relatively compact living space, it was relatively inconsequential. 

There is, however, one very significant item that stayed unused in that bag.

The baby monitor.

Otherwise known as my security blanket.

 When I brought my baby home I was sure she was going to die if I didn’t stay up all night watching her breathe.  I was thankful for her little floppy windpipe, rattling with each little breath.  It saved me from having to lean over her in the middle of the night to make sure she was okay.

When she was napping, I carried the monitor from room to room, petrified I might miss her crying and leave her on her own for a moment too long. I learned what the flicker of the monitor lights meant so if I had to, I could judge between idle chat and a cry of distress without hearing the slightest peep. I spent every waking moment watching her and connecting each movement, each reaction, with the sounds she made.  By the time she began to spend nights in her own room, I knew every normal shuffle and shift. I didn’t need to get up and check on her unless a new sound came out of the speaker.

So as a small part of her independence began, she had no idea that I never slept soundly, afraid I might miss something if I drifted off too deeply. The monitor was permanently turned up to eleven so I wouldn’t miss a sound.  It took me over a year before I could confidently take a shower as she napped without having to periodically open the shower door to watch the monitor’s lights flicker.

My little lady was over a year old when I somehow managed to drop my security blanket the monitor into the glass of water on my bedside table.  It was just the perfect dimensions – small enough to fit in but large enough so wrapping my fingers around it was nearly impossible. It bobbed up and down as I desperately tried to fish it out.  When I finally did rescue it, it wouldn’t turn on. I took it as a sign that perhaps I should let go and realize she’d be fine in another room without something amplifying and broadcasting her every sound to me.  I didn’t sleep at all that night, laying there and listening for a muffled cry that I might miss or a cough that hadn’t been detected.  I tried the monitor again the following night and it worked so on it went.

My daughter was almost 18 months when we travelled to Canada. I felt pathetic for having to ask if I could borrow one.  It seemed even more ridiculous that I might get an adapter and add yet another thing to our stuffed luggage just to quell this ongoing irrational anxiety. I was fed up with feeling like a slave to this stupid little speaker anyway.  My daughter is strong, has a set of lungs on her, and knows how to call for us from another room. I managed the week without it and vowed to unplug the monitor when we returned home.

I couldn’t do it.

 The thought of it made me physically sick.  Pathetic as I knew it was, I continued to turn the monitor on when she wasn’t in the room with me. (Yes, sometimes even when she was playing in her room on her own)

When I come up against any of my triggers (homesickness, money worries, and grief are my big three), more often than not it manifests itself as anxiety. This translates into a horrendous sense of foreboding and a feeling of almost certainty that tremendous harm or even death is lurking just around the corner for my little girl.  My desire to keep her in my clutches at all times contradicts my biggest desire of keeping her confident and independent so I do everything in my power to remind myself that it’s the depression talking and she will be okay.  

Sometimes the ppd demons win. When they do, I give my daughter extra cuddles, which she usually tries to squirm away from to get back to playing. That’s okay with me. It’s kind of the way I want it. 

I’ve had a tough few weeks and anxiety has reared its ugly head on more than one occasion.

In the midst of it all, the monitor stayed packed away, I’ve managed to sleep at night....and I’ve been there each and every time my little girl has cried out for me as well.

It’s all about the baby steps, and frankly this is practically a leap in my book.

Good night my baby.  I’ll hear you if you need me.