Not Unless You REALLY Want To Know Me Right Now

Here we go again. I have a new psychiatrist now. Not by choice. My insurance ran out and to see Dr. Hudepohl at the hospital is almost $200 a visit and I’ve been going once a month. Fortunately, Rhode Island has some pretty amazing health resources available. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist at the Butler Residents Clinic and due to my uninsured status, it is free. Without it I would be going without therapy and without medication and I think we all know how that would turn out. I’ve only had a few visits and I haven’t made up my mind about it, but it’s different than the visits I’m used to. She doesn’t necessarily agree with a diagnosis of bipolar II but also said she wouldn’t rule it out. It’s possible it’s because the medication actually has the manic depression under control, but I still don’t feel right. It sucks because you feel on the up-and-up, start to feel more like yourself again, and then next thing you know you live in your pajamas again and are completely useless again. She thinks there’s definitely depression in some form at work, but she thinks I don’t need as much psychiatry and medication as much as I need regular therapy for anger issues. When she first told me that I thought that was so stupid and there was no way she was right. I monitored my moods and behaviors after she told me and I realized she MIGHT be right. I had told her that I’d been having issues with impulse control.

I’m not even sure how long ago I started writing this post. I’m guessing about a month. I stopped because writing about this is so emotionally exhausting for me. I think I’m struggling more and more. I don’t feel like a worthy human, a worthy mother, wife, I feel unworthy of trying to bear God’s name. I don’t want to get out of bed (but I do) but find myself not wanting to go home if I’m out by myself. Not to go anywhere. But to just be on my own. I’ve often thought of driving down to the ocean and listening, partially because the ocean holds so much peace and partially because I’m curious to see how long it would be before my husband called to see where I was. I feel like I don’t even know how to be human anymore. I’m constantly overwhelmed inside my mind and I’m often confused and scared. I feel like the alien bug from Men in Black that takes over Vince D’Onofrio’s body and keeps asking the wife for sugar water. A fake person in a human skin trying my best to pass as functional. I often want to cry, but I can’t anymore. I haven’t in months and even when I want to, I try to but it won’t come out. It’s like when you have a sneeze and you have that stupid look on your face until the feeling either goes away or you actually get it out. I haven’t been able to get it out. It’s hurting my marriage. It’s hurting my relationship with God. I haven’t been able to pray properly. I try and my mind goes elsewhere and my heart doesn’t know what it needs.  I haven’t been able to think straight. I’ve had headaches for three days straight, I haven’t been to work on time probably since I went back to work. I’m continually waiting for a reprimand from my boss and preemptively trying to come up with a way to explain that I really am trying but I guess I can try harder? Maybe that one time when I tried to get there early because I knew we were going to be super busy. I didn’t manage early but I did manage on time that day. I can’t stop spending money that we don’t have. On nothing in particular either. DVDs. Lots of DVDs. Clothes for babygirl, though to be fair she didn’t really have warm enough clothes in her size. Small furniture purchases. Lots of miscellaneous stuff from Amazon. I just want to be okay again.

The Bad Time

Here we are. The two year anniversary of the worst day of my life. Honestly, it may have even passed me by unnoticed except for the posts in remembrance of my grandfather. But since I have been reminded, today has been tough. I wonder who Atticus would have been by now. He would have been 16 months old. I’ve been trying to keep super busy at work and I’m playing loud, fun music. Now I’m sitting down to lunch and it’s quiet except for my munching. I don’t like it; at least not today.
I do think my subconscious knew what was going on. I’ve had my head up my butt all week, making big mistakes at work, which are rare for me. I’ve been scatterbrained and kind of sad all week. I’m in what I call “manic panic.” It’s not anxiety or a panic attack, but a high energy feeling like I have to rush for no reason. Like adrenaline, maybe? I’m moving too fast and causing myself problems. Maybe once today is over I’ll go back to my version of normal. I hope so because this sucks. I’m not used to being a train wreck at work. My boss bestows the honor of The Knucklehead Award when you screw up. I’ve always been able to reason my way out of being the knucklehead of the day, but I’ve earned three that I couldn’t argue with this past week. (Don’t worry, it’s all in good fun. It’s basically an informal way of saying, “yeah you screwed up today. Try to do better tomorrow.” Even my boss has earned it.)
I have an extremely casual relationship with my boss as well, so I told him that I figured out why my head has been up my butt all week. When I told him why he responded that it did sound like one of the worst days he’s ever heard of, losing a grandparent and unborn baby the same day. he followed it up with a statement I’ve heard quite a bit: “You’re looking at it the wrong way. If you hadn’t gone through that you wouldn’t have Fb. You’re probably a stronger mom because of it.” I love Fb with all of heart and would do just about anything for her, but she didn’t replace Atticus. If I could have both right now, I would. I think people that have never lost like that have a hard time wrapping their heads around that concept. They would never say it if he had been born, but because he wasn’t born, he was never real to others. He was real to me, he was real to God.
Forgive me, but I just needed a self-pity party for a little bit today. Hopefully I can snap myself back to the plastered smile and too-loud happy music again. Fake it til you make it.

Long Story. Part 4.

Mom life is hard. I told you about my treatment in Part 3, but I didn’t walk out magically cured. I’ve heard people say that once you get through the first few months, it’s a cakewalk. Yeah. Not to be a downer, but that’s not the case for me and probably many other women out there. I still have days where I feel like a horrible mom. I lost my milk supply before she was 5 months old so she’s been on formula since then, I always forget her sun hat, I feel like I don’t read to her enough, am I feeding her the right foods, I play on my phone too much near her, I didn’t know I was supposed to introduce her to sippy cups months ago. I had one day where Fb was playing on the floor in her room and I was laying on her carpet crying. The things going through my head as rivers flowed out my eyes: I hate being a mom. I am doing everything wrong. What have I done? I wish we didn’t have her. I love her so much but I ruined my life by having a kid. I’m not good enough to be a mom. I’m not mom material. This was all a mistake.
Now please don’t judge me. Yes, these are terrible things I was thinking at the time. To be fair though, I struggle more with mental illness now than at any previous point in my life. These thoughts are not a reflection of my rational self. They did go away quickly, though I do still very much struggle with the responsibilities of motherhood. Not to mention that it was before we had found the right mediciation balance for me. Even now that my medication is the closest to right as it’s been in a long time, I. Still. Struggle. Some weekends I just want to sleep in. Hubby is the greatest because he gets up with her almost every morning between 5 and 7. I have to get up for work around 7 anyway but he takes 95% of early mornings with her. I’m pretty lucky. Sometimes, though, I just want to eat my food without sharing bites. Sometimes I want to just go to Target by myself. Sometimes I wish it would be okay to leave her sleeping in the car so I can run a literal 2 minute errand. (Which obviously I won’t do, but yanking my sleeping baby out of the car so I can grab the photos I had printed when all the other errands are done is such a drag.)
I don’t even think I’ve mentioned that Fb is a really, REALLY good baby. She has a lovely disposition, is almost always a smiley little buddy. She started sleeping through the night around 5 months. Occasionally she regresses a little but it’s typically short lived and very easy to get her back down. She’s never been fussy. To all moms out there with colicky, cranky babies: I salute you and admire every minute you manage to keep yourself together. I can’t imagine what it would have been like going through all of my drama if she had been hard to deal with. You are heroes.
I think I’m finally getting it though. I’m getting better at timing errands with feedings, diaper changes, and naps. I actually go on errands! I put clothes on, brush my teeth, get the baby ready, and voluntarily leave my house!
It is still the hardest thing I have ever done. I know moms say that all the time, but it’s something you will not understand until you do it. With PPD/PPA/PP OCD, the first.... 8 months(?) were unbearable. I had to shut down so I wouldn’t cry all the time. You have to do so many things you don’t want to do and can’t do things you really want to. Bedtime is 7 and staying out later makes for an overtired nightmare baby. You have to read the same animal book over and over and over, despite the fact that she closes it, yanks it out of your hands, throws it, and then hands it back to you to start again.
A lot of parents say, “It’s hard but it’s so rewarding!” My husband even said it the other day. Personally, I’m still waiting for the rewarding stage. I know it will come, because I do feel the shift in my own outlook on parenting, but I’m not totally there yet. I would like to think that’s okay, because I do love her and I do take care of her and try to make her happy. It’s also okay to love your baby the most when they’re sleeping. I love her the most when she’s laughing her head off. It’s infectious and you can’t help but laugh back. Her nose wrinkles and all three and a half of her teeth show and her eyes scrunch up. It makes my inner cup of happiness overflow. My second favorite time with her is nap time.
The hardest part of being a parent is living with your heart outside of your chest. When she stays with Grammy and Grampy overnight I can’t help but miss her even if I’m having fun playing a drinking game at a party. I can’t help worrying about her every time I leave her with a babysitter so I can go to work. I love getting pictures of her while she’s playing with the babysitter. Usually I can last until 11:30 before I ask how the day is going. It’s hard to feel the guilt of also being relieved that I’m  away from her for a few hours. It’s so contradictory, but it’s the truth, and I know I’m not the only one. But as long as you love your baby, do your absolute best to do the things you don’t want to, and take care of yourself so that you can adequately take care of someone else, it’s okay. It’s so hard, but as a mom or dad, you’re doing great.

Long Story. Part 3.

Parenthood begins immediately. The hospital I was in does not coddle you. No “leave the baby in the nursery and get some rest.” So I held her. I didn’t put her down. I did not willingly put her in the bassinet even once. The nurses offered to take her at the point where I was falling asleep holding her because I was actually afraid to put her down. In retrospect, that was a huge red flag.

 On a side note, did you know that pneumonia is a risk from abdominal surgery like a c-section? I didn’t. So they like to make sure you use your lungs so as soon as you can feel your legs again, they’ve got you up and walking. I got a reprieve since I had been awake for 24 hours. Like I said, though, I couldn’t put her down, so the nurses borrowed her for a few hours. I think I woke up around 7 am and they had me using one of those breathing thingies that you blow into until you cough. Except coughing was THE WORST with my brand new 8 inch incision. They said if I didn’t do it then I had to walk to make me breathe faster. So I did. I wasn’t allowed to carry her through the hallway though, and since I wouldn’t put her in the bassinet (that I could push through the hallway), I made hubby hold her while I walked to the juice fridge and back. 

Anywho, the purpose of this three-part (maybe 4, we’ll see how it goes) story is about how being a parent is harder than I ever imagined. So baby girl lost 12 ounces while we were in the hospital, which when you only started at 5 pounds 12 ounces is pretty significant. They refused to discharge her until she started steadily gaining. We were there for 6 days, which I think helped me tremendously. I don’t know how they expect women to breastfeed successfully when they’re discharged before their milk comes in after the colostrum. I didn’t get the hang of it until the day we left, with a full team of nurses and a lactation consultant right there to help out for every single feeding. Without that kind of help, I can see why women give up. The mom guilt is real though. I was staunch in my belief that she would never have a sip of formula in her life before she was born. Then I was trying to feed her and she was losing weight, the inside of her little mouth felt so dry, and I wasn’t giving her enough yet. She’d been alive for 3 or 4 days and I already felt like I was failing as a mom. I also feel like her latch was never quite right, which contributed to later issues. 

My milk came in after half a day of supplementing with formula and in a few days she gained the 4 ounces she needed for us to go home. Going home is terrifying! I’ve been checked on every hour for the past 6 days and now I need to go home and take care of a baby like I know what I’m doing?! Who’s going to tell me when to take the percs and the Tylenol? Who am I going to ask to show me a proper swaddle for the fiftieth time in a row? Who is going to tell me everything will be okay?! We do it though, obviously, because insurance doesn’t cover living in a hospital for fun. We bring our baby home. 

We’re greeted by a ten pound lasagna as soon as we arrive because our neighbors are awesome. I plunked on the couch, held my baby, ate some lasagna, and hubby took her so I could sleep. The cat woke me up when she walked on my incision. But that’s neither here nor there. For some reason it doesn’t occur to us that babies should have bedtimes. I mean, she slept constantly anyway, but developing the routine is supposed to start early. Oops. Because I held her. I would doze off holding her, wake up, keep holding her. It’s 10 pm, 11 pm. Still huddled on the couch clutching my precious tiny human. I didn’t eat or drink unless hubby brought me food or water/seltzer. I only got up to pee and that was only if I felt like I was going to burst. I might have showered a few times. I know I went outside at least twice because there are pictures. But I wouldn’t do anything because I never. Put. Her down. Hubby went fully back to work after five or six weeks. He works for himself so I was lucky enough to have him as long as he could stand not working, though he did work here and there during the first few weeks. I still huddled on the couch, never letting go of baby girl unless I had to pee or thought I would faint from hunger. This went on for 12 weeks. 

At my 12-week post-surgery checkup, my doctor was showing me pictures of his awesome vacation. Amazing hotels, watching hurricane Harvey go by, champagne, wine, this crazy sushi place that serves you 21 courses of whatever the chef wants. I tried my best to act like I cared about any of it. I was trying to keep up with the banter, smile and laugh in all the right places. I was evidently not convincing. He told me that based on previous visits he had concerns about me and wanted me to go for a psychiatric evaluation just in case this was (dun dun dun!) postpartum depression. I didn’t think it was necessary and he said, “of course you don’t!” He then picked up the phone, dialed a number, handed me the receiver and told me to give my intake information and make my appointment. “Don’t try to cancel it. They’ll tell me and I’ll just make you reschedule!” If all doctors were like Dr. M1, the world would be a much better place.

I had no idea what I was walking into, mostly because when it was explained to me I wasn’t listening because I didn’t care. The first appointment I went to was a simple psychological evaluation. They determine whether or not you need treatment. There is the option of no treatment, outpatient therapy, partial hospitalization, and full hospitalization. I was sure my evaluation would result in me being sent home after wasting their time. Outpatient therapy being recommended at worst. I was very surprised when they not only recommended the partial hospitalization (called the Day Program), but didn’t even put me on the waiting list and had me attend the remainder of the sessions that same day. Yikes.

I guess the Day Program is not something available country-wide. Women and Infants hospital is the only location I know of and people are sent to the program from hours away. Maybe farther, I don’t know. I have heard about a similar program being developed in New York and I sincerely hope that’s true because this program was essential to my (ongoing) recovery. 

This is how it works: You are expected to arrive every day for 9 am. You get to bring your baby. There is group therapy that is held in segments like classes. For example, from 9-9:30 we discuss the goal(s) we set from the night before, whether or not we accomplished them, and if not, how we can accomplish them in the future. The goals are usually simple. Show up the next day, or be wearing different clothes, or make sure I take a shower, or go for a run. Then 9:30-10:30 could be learning about self-care, what it means, why it’s important. Then the next is about how to maintain healthy relationships, etc. It changed every day, but the basics were always discussing how to cope with life. There was obviously a lunch break (with meals provided because most of us couldn’t manage to eat if food wasn’t put in front of us) and more sessions until 2 and then we’re dismissed for the day. If you don’t show up, they call you and ask where you are and why you’re not there. I had to take a day out to bring Fb for a checkup, but I let them know ahead of time. There is a nursery with lovely staff to keep an eye on your baby if you need a break. 

At some point during the day you’re pulled from the group for your individual therapy session. I loved these. It made me feel validated. If medication is involved at all, it’s followed up with a psychiatrist. Through these sessions I was told that I was presenting postpartum depression, anxiety, and OCD. I was also diagnosed with Bipolar II after a few months with Dr. H. I’ve always struggled with these things, but being a new mom made it completely unmanageable. I couldn’t put Fb down, I wouldn’t eat, I didn’t shower, it was a miracle if I brushed my teeth. I would stare at her to make sure she was breathing and I couldn’t sleep because I was SURE she would be dead when I woke up. There were no what-ifs. It was when, in my mind. Then the intrusive thoughts were just unbearable. If you’re not familiar, intrusive thoughts are those weird moments where you think something horrible and follow up with, “why did I just think that?!” I had them about smacking her little head on our coffee table, putting her in the refrigerator, accidentally stepping on her (since we mostly just change her diapers on a pad on the floor). I couldn’t just brush them away and say it was weird. I would watch them in my mind over and over again thinking about what a terrible person I am, a horrible mother, an awful wife, the worst daughter. It’s not that I actually wanted to do these things, it was just a moment where the image passed through my head. Intrusive thoughts are usually related to OCD. I’ve had them my whole life but post-baby they were exponentially worse in so many ways. 

So they have you following this routine for as long as they feel you need it. Typically it’s 2 weeks. Some are there longer, some are there less. I went for 2 and a half weeks. I feel like being accountable to someone and having to leave the house every day did wonders for my mental health by themselves. When they discharge you, they have you come for a follow-up to make sure you’re going to the outpatient therapist they helped establish for you. They also continue your psychiatric visits until baby is about a year old when they transfer you to a non-hospital psychiatrist. Fb is 11 months old and we have FINALLY found a drug regimen that works, that I can afford, and that doesn’t have crazy side effects. 

I stopped seeing my therapist when I went back to work after 16 weeks. I initially went back three days a week and I felt so guilty for loving being away from the baby. I was sort of regular me again, doing my thing, being awesome at my job. Previously I had been some level of workaholic and I’ve always been a perfectionist so being back in my element was such a relief. I’m not in my element as a mom. How do I take a shower when I can hear her crying? How am I supposed to make food for me when she cries if I put her down? Like I said, she’s 11 months old and I am still struggling with this. My husband reminds me of what we said in therapy, if I can’t take care of me how can I take care of my baby? She’ll be ok if she cries for 3 minutes while I make a sandwich and grab a glass of water.

Not everything works for everyone.

Seriously, I should make that my tag line. I feel like it's something people forget too often and try to push what they think on other people too forcefully. Even if they mean well, it's rude and annoying. Voice your opinion if it's appropriate, then shut your face until further information is solicited. Can you tell I'm not exactly a people-person? I do have a little pal that makes it somewhat easier to deal with other humans. 

His name is Zoloft! Yaaay!

Now, as far as I can tell I've been dealing with anxiety since I was very young (my earliest anxiety-related memories start when I was five-ish,) and began displaying signs of depression shortly after entering high school. I had my first panic attack at 15 while I was at work and my mom took my to the emergency room. I've had a prescription for Atavan since then to take as needed. I'm currently 26, and have been taking Zoloft for 9 months. 

Why am I telling you this? Goodness gracious, don't feel sorry for me or act like I'm undergoing this massive personal battle that I'm fighting bravely. To me, it's just my life. Everyone has their trials and this is mine, and it's currently under control. But I like to talk about it for the awareness factor. 

It's going to be 2016 in a hot minute and mental illness still holds such a huge stigma. Somehow, many people still see taking antidepressants as relying on a crutch or somehow think it makes them "not themselves." I felt that way for a long time. But would you hear a diabetic talking about their insulin and think they were just being a baby? To me a diabetic taking insulin, or (insert whatever ailment and treatment you desire here) is just common sense. People with depression and anxiety most often have some type of chemical imbalance going on inside their brains and they need a little help to fix it. 

Zoloft has literally changed my life. My husband always says, "It's like you fight getting glasses when your vision is going, but when you let go and finally go and get a pair, you can't believe you waited so long to see so clearly." It's very much the same for me. Every day was a struggle to function. That mountain of dishes in the sink was enough to reduce me to tears on a regular basis. These days I feel new. I feel capable and functional. My dishes are always done. No mountain in the sink, no tears. My laundry is always done! I never need "a day" to do laundry, because it's always just one load. One here, one there. Sometimes it all sits on my floor of my bedroom for two weeks but that's because I'm still a little lazy and at least it's clean! 

I still get off days. We all do. Where the familiar "why bother getting out of bed" feeling creeps back and threatens to derail me for the day. But it's easier to power through, knowing it won't last forever. 

It was a project though. Like I said, not everything works for everyone and I know because it took some experimenting to find what worked for me. I started at the prompting of my husband, whom I had to convince to try to live better through chemistry several months prior. Jon used Celexa (citalopram) and it was a perfect fit. When I tried the lowest dose of the same drug, it sent me to a weird, dark place where I could listen to the two halves of my brain argue the pros and cons of doing some terrible thing like driving off of a bridge. Fortunately I came through that part unscathed. After a particularly difficult night and some poor choices I called my doctor to see if I needed to wean off of it or if I could just stop. Fortunately I managed to stay safe during that process and once I was clear of its effects, we tried again. Several members of my family have used Zoloft at some point or another and evidently, because our genetic and chemical makeup is similar it was more likely to work for me as it did for them. 

The first two months were okay. I felt slightly better, but not new. I spoke to my doctor again and he suggested that we go up a dose and see how that went. That was 6 months ago, and I finally feel human. Most days at least. 

The keys are 1) you need to be ready to make a change. If you aren't ready, then nothing will help. 2) Trust the people that are around you and that care about you. If your own spouse (who is normally very gentle with their words) says you're insufferable, it's possible that you're not holding up as well as you think. 3) Trust yourself. If you have doubts that it's working, refer to key number two, and ask yourself if you feel like anything has changed, like your ability to handle stress or your tolerance for annoying people. 

Remember: not everything works for everyone, but something out there will work for you. In the meantime, keep your head up and talk about me when you go to your next therapy session. ;)

National hotline for prevention of suicide: 1-800-273-TALK