Monthly Archives: November 2010

Just Talking Tuesday: Wrangling the Guilt Monster Postpartum built

“I’m a bad mom because I have Postpartum.”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that since I started reaching out to other new moms struggling with Postpartum, I swear I would be richer than Donald Trump.

Thing is, we are NOT bad moms because we have Postpartum.

Postpartum is not like a breakfast cereal. It’s not like we woke up one day, went to the cabinet and chose the Postpartum Flakes with Insomnia nuggets sprinkled with a bit of Anxiety for good measure.

HELL NO.

It chose us.

That bastard came trouncing into our homes, jumped into our beds with glee and announced it had no immediate plans for departure, grinning all the while, daring us to do something about it’s very presence.

Some may spring into action immediately. Others wait to see if it will disappear on it’s own. Still others wait to see if things will get worse before seeking out help.

We may hold our babies closer. We may push them away. We may yell. We may crawl into bed with Postpartum and cuddle close.

Rest assured though that Postpartum mamas are NOT BAD MOMS.

In fact, Postpartum Mamas are some of the most ferociously protective and strong mothers on the face of this planet.

Before our children are one, we have fought to protect them, to keep them safe. We beat ourselves up for yelling at them at 1 week, 1 month, 3 months, 6 months, whenever it was we lost our minds and could not tolerate another second of motherhood because we were literally unable to do so. We defend our relationship with them, redefine our relationship with them – our bond with them, however fragile or deconstructed has truly been born of fire and forged iron strong. We may not see it that first year. In fact, it may be the second, third, or fourth year before we realize just how strong our bond is with our Postpartum child.

More than anything, the lingering monster with which we wrangle on a daily basis is the Guilt Monster. He’s a slippery little devil.

We wrestle with him when our children cry. We wrestle with him when we leave our children, when our children misbehave and we discipline them. We wonder if our Postpartum affected our ability to parent. Are we bad parents because we had Postpartum? Are we harming our children because we can’t “snap out of it”? Guilt asks these questions. Guilt makes us second guess every decision. Guilt is the last monster to leave the nest. Frankly, guilt stays around in some aspect or another as long as we are parents. What changes is how we cope with the questions guilt attempts to force in our direction.

Spill your confessions here. Has Guilt sabotaged your recovery? Your parenting? Your relationship with others? Your job? Your decision to stay home as a parent?

Let’s get to just talkin!

Whatever Wednesday: In which I rant about: NYPD, Allegheny County Jail System, and the TSA

I love Wednesdays. Why? Because I get to write about something other than Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders. I love writing my regular blog posts. But Wednesday is a breath of fresh air – kind of like a rest stop on a road trip, if you will.

Today, I’m taking on some rather touchy topics. I need to get it out of my system. I may just curse. Consider yourself warned.

If you’re still fragile, you may want to skip this post all together. The Alleghany County and Amazon stories may be triggering for some.

New York City Police Department

Image by scoutnurse via Flickr

First, the NYPD. Sure, the boys in blue up there in New York City are charged with keeping the city safe. And yes, like any other human organization, they fuck up from time to time. Okay, so maybe a lot. But this most recent situation? SO very inappropriate. A definite abuse of power. NYPD of the 34th Precinct recently arrested and charged 7 chess players with “failure to Comply With Directions of Police Officers, Urban Park Rangers, Parks Enforcement Patrol Officers, or Other Department Employees, or Park Signs.”

Really, NYPD?

According to recent NYPD crime statistics, murder and injury via gunfire is up by 13.2% over last year. In Manhattan alone, where the 34th Precinct is located, murder is up by 12.2%.

But what the NYPD would have you believe is that a few men, sitting at chess tables behind a fence, closed off from the remainder of the park, drinking tea and eating muffins, are more dangerous than a thug with a gun.

Here’s a crazy idea, New York: MOVE THE TABLES.

But I suppose that would cost too much money. Or is it that it would decrease income for the city? If the tables are left where they are, people will come to play. You will arrest them, earning a measly $50 off of each offender. But is the cost really worth it?

The arrested chess players have no current plans to return to their tables. Why? Because they’re not criminals.

 

This next rant may prove triggering for some. It’s about Allegheny County’s Jail System. Scroll down if you want to read about the TSA instead.

 

Recently, Amy Lynn Gillespie, a woman in Allegheny County became pregnant.

So what?

Well, she was jailed for becoming pregnant. Turns out she had been arrested for shoplifting and later for prostitution. As a condition of her work-release probation, she was told not to get pregnant. I do not know if remaining celibate was also part of her probation order.

When she did become pregnant? Allegheny County threw her in jail.

She developed bacterial pneumonia and despite several requests to receive medical attention, she was denied care.

By the time she finally received care, it was too late.

Both she and her 18 week fetus died due to the negligence of Allegheny County Jail System.

What the efff.

Regardless of Amy’s crimes, her unborn infant did not deserve to pay the price. She did not deserve to die in jail. She should never have been jailed in the first place. I’m absolutely disgusted that this happened in my country.

Amy’s mother is suing Allegheny County for the death of her daughter. The hospital at which she received care is not named in the suit. If Amy had been seen sooner, she (and her little one) would still be with us.

Something is not right when a citizen cannot shoplift but a government agency can categorically justify withholding medical attention to a pregnant woman.

 

Speaking of pregnant women and children, the TSA is all over them these days. All over everyone, actually.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock the past couple of weeks, you know all about the controversy regarding Scanners, Pat-downs, and TSA Agents. Scanners are believed to infuse an unhealthy amount of radiation into your body. So a pat-down is preferable to walking into an x-ray machine for most, especially frequent fliers and cancer survivors. But the pat-down has become much more aggressive with TSA workers now allowed to use the front of their hand instead of the backs. Videos have surfaced of toddlers, children, being torturously patted down by TSA Agents who seem oblivious to the plight of the little one.

Here’s the thing, TSA. I have talked with my kids about good touch v. bad touch. So now, if I choose to fly with my kids, I need to have the TSA Pat-down touch talk with them too. I’m grateful I don’t fly often or I would be even more upset. My husband and I had talked about the possibility of flying the whole family to next year’s PSI Conference. If things continue the way they are going these days, I won’t let my kids anywhere near an airport anytime soon.

How would I explain the TSA pat-down to my kids?

I imagine it would go something like this:

Me: So, we’re going to get on a plane and fly in a few days. But first we have to go through security.

Kid: What’s that?

Me: Well, there were some bad people who did some really bad things to our country with planes before you were born. So now we have to all bend over and let the government sniff our arses before we get on a plane.

Kid: Realllly?

Me: Well, no, but it might be easier to just do that instead.

Kid: So what DO They do?

Me: They feel all over your body including in your private spot.

Kid: Whaaaaaaa? Why?

Me: A bad person tried to sneak a bomb on a plane in his underwear.

Kid: Well that’s just stupid. What if it had exploded in his underwear? Wouldn’t that have hurt?

Me: Yes, honey, it would have. But he was caught and now the TSA gets to touch everyone in their private spot and all over.

Kid: Well that’s just stupid. I don’t want to blow up a plane.

Me: I know, honey. Neither do I. But the TSA thinks you do until proven otherwise.

 

Thanks, TSA, for forcing parents everywhere to have to talk with their kids about terrorists, bombs, and how to handle genital groping before they’re even old enough to go to school. You totally rock my world.

 

This year, I am thankful our forefathers are not here to see the mess we seem to have made of our country. Pretty damned sure they wouldn’t be happy about the current state of affairs. We’ve gone from bold and brazen to scared and huddling masses. Shame on us for getting here.

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Just Talking Tuesday 11.23.10: Husbands, Wives & Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders, Oh My

"Argue" by jk+too @flickr

“I wish my husband understood that I’m not just trying to get out of Motherhood.”

“How can I admit to struggling when he seems so happy? I’d hate to rain on his parade.”

“He doesn’t believe in mental illness. Neither does his family. So I fake it.”

“I can’t take medication. He won’t let me.”

“My wife won’t admit she is struggling. What can I do?”

“Everything I do is wrong. I’m scared I’ll lose my wife and my child.”

“She’s awesome with the baby. Me? I suck. I’m failing at fatherhood.”

“I’m the Dad. I have to be the rock. I can’t be depressed.”

“I drink/do drugs to hide/numb just how bad I’m feeling from her.”

Every single one of these statements are real things parents who have reached out to me have expressed. These statements are extremely telling. What do they tell, you ask? They tell just how much communication has broken down within the relationship. The breakdown may have occurred before baby. Or it may be a new thing. Until now, everything within their relationship may have been picture perfect. They were the perfect couple. Never had to work hard at their relationship. They may have been “THAT” couple. But now that everything is dashed to hell, smashed to pieces by an innocent new life, their relationship struggles to stay afloat. Everything they thought they knew about each other is also up in the air. They wait with bated breath for it all to crash back down, hopefully back into the right place.

We did just that six years ago.

Things are still falling back into place.

We met at work. Yes, we were like Pam & Jim. We met the weekend after Thanksgiving in 2000 after our Supervisors relocated us to adjoining cubicles. Our first date? A flirtatious invite to a non-existent steak dinner as I bragged to him about my evening. I dashed like a mad woman to the grocery store to turn this imaginary meal into a reality. We’ve been inseparable ever since. In 2002, we got married.

In 2003, we got pregnant.

In 2004, we officially became parents and I went off the deep end.

Suddenly he couldn’t do anything right. I knew everything, he knew nothing. I snapped at him because, well, I could. He got frustrated. We stopped talking. If he did talk or get upset about something, it was automatically my fault. My self-esteem took a nose-dive. I did not think I was verbally abusive, irritable, angry, or crazy. Turns out I was. This continued well into my second pregnancy.

Then our second daughter was born. She spent time in the NICU. I was hospitalized 56 days postpartum after a near-psychotic break. Think we weren’t communicating before? Now we really weren’t on the same page. He had been medicating with marijuana along with the same anti-depressant I ended up on after my hospitalization. We yelled. We screamed, we fought, I cried, I begged him to tell me he wasn’t okay about all of this – that he was hurting too. He lied and said he was fine because that’s what he thought he was supposed to do – he was the man. The rock. He was supposed to be okay.

Turns out he wasn’t okay after all.

After the birth of our third child, I was involved in a car accident at just 3 months postpartum. I went to jail. Why? Because my husband had been spending money on marijuana instead of on important things like vehicle registration and car insurance. Again, failure to communicate.

He’ll be 3 years into recovery this coming March. So will I. Wait – did you say  – I did. I’m no longer a co-dependent. I’m no longer enabling his habit. Believe me, you didn’t want to be in this house the day after my accident. It was not pretty.

Our fallout from PMAD’s and Paternal Postnatal Depression took nearly four years to explode. It’s taken close to seven years to claw our way back to where we are now – a place very closely resembling normal and healthy. Even here though we have our issues. I suspect we always will. To assume perfection is to ignore the flaws in front of you. Flaws are not always a bad thing. Sometimes they are just what we need to learn and move forward.

We have mistakes in our past. We have learned from them. Moved on. Trusting in God and His enduring support as we grow to trust in Him for everything. Our journey has been full of hell. But it’s also been obviously filled with grace and tenacity. On our part and on God’s part.

There are times within the past almost seven years at which I could have walked away and no one would have faulted me. I chose to stay and fight. Certainly not the easiest path but definitely the right path – especially as I sit here in the glow of a Christmas tree, a fireplace, and my husband beside me.

For us, our brush with Perinatal Mood & Anxiety Disorders ripped the band-aids off situations we may not have otherwise faced head-on. We were thrust headlong into trauma, grief, mental illness, and forced to decide how to move forward. I am thankful we clung to each other and made the decision to move forward together. I know many other couples who are not as fortunate for whatever reason. Each situation, each person, each Perinatal Mood & Anxiety Disorder is different. Therefore, the results will be assuredly different as well.

What challenges have you faced as part of your PMAD? Has your husband axed certain avenues of treatment? Has that affected your recovery? Your marriage? Did your PMAD ultimately lead to divorce? Or is your marriage stronger as a result of coming through the fiery storm that is a PMAD?

Let’s get to just talking about Husbands, Wives, and Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders. Oh My.

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Postpartum Voice of the Week: Please Don’t Take My Sunshine Away: My PPD Experience

Earlier this week, a fellow member of Twitter messaged a group of us to say she had recently written her story as part of her recovery. She wanted to share it but did not know where to start. I responded and offered her space at my blog. Later that morning, I had her story in my email. Then my week happened. Pediatric appointment with my 4 year old, my 6 year old coming home from school two days in a row and then insomnia hit. I finally got to reading her story and immediately wanted to publish it. I did not want to wait until Thursday. I love the way she breaks down lyrics from “Please don’t take my sunshine away” and writes her story. The story unfolds and unfurls as you feel her frustration, her desperate need to heal. I found myself nodding my head and cheering along with her once life begins to return.

If these words touch you as much as they have touched me and you would like to reach out to her, please leave a message in the comments. I’ll make sure she gets them.

She has asked to remain anonymous for this post and I am respecting this request.

Without further ado, I will step aside and let you read her words.

Update: The author of this post has left a comment and I have verified her desire to share her identity. Her name is Sarah. If you want to reach her, you can do so by sending her mail here: sem55(@)georgetown(dot)edu

She left the following in the comments:

I am the author of this story… what a difference a few months makes. When I wrote this I felt stronger, but still ashamed. My name is Sarah and I have PPD and I AM a great Mom! Thank you to all of the courageous women out there who have reached out to me to share their strength. I only hope I can return a fraction of the support I have received to someone who stumbles upon my story. Thank you Lauren for the opportunity to share, and for all you do for moms!

Thank YOU, Sarah, for revealing yourself. And Kudos to you for taking such a huge step in owning your experience. It’s a HUGE step.

And now, here are SARAH’S words.

 

You are my sunshine

The second you become a mother you are transformed. Your purpose, your dreams and your complete identity change. My son has taught me how to live, love and grow in ways I could have never understood before. His very being keeps me going and give me purpose. It is a love like no other.

My only sunshine

After nearly three years of trying to get pregnant, including an ectopic pregnancy, surgery and infertility, in June of 2009 I successfully conceived. I didn’t allow myself to get too excited or attached while I went for weekly blood draws and ultrasounds to monitor my early pregnancy. As the first trimester passed and we saw our tiny bean grow into a perfectly formed tiny baby, the hope in me stirred and I began letting myself feel joy. Anxiety continued, however, as I underwent frequent fetal echocardiograms to evaluate the baby for a heart condition he was at risk of developing. The second trimester came and went and his heart remained perfect; we were in the clear. At 32 weeks, I started having contractions, thus followed two hospital visits for pre-term labor. At home, I remained on bedrest, and luckily made it to the 37th week. My labor was quick and my beautiful baby boy A .N. was born perfect and healthy at 6 lb 1 oz. I felt the biggest relief in my life when I saw my newborn baby. This joy dissolved quickly when the OB began the repairs. I began feeling very funny. I was trying to communicate how weird I was feeling when I found I was unable to speak. Ringing in my ears drowned out the sounds and I began to slip into unconsciousness. This is it, I thought. My baby was born healthy, but the price I am paying for it is to die in childbirth. The next thing I knew I was waking up on the Mother-Baby Unit. The nurses there cheerfully told me I had experienced lidocaine toxicity and my baby was with my husband in the nursery. I ached to see his face and hold his perfect body. When they returned, I instantly felt a jolt of joy and energy as I acquainted myself with my new family.

Two days later we were discharged and sent home as a new family of three. Our families had camped out at our house but we sent them home to have the space and room to figure out what we were doing. The next few days were quiet, but things did not feel right with the baby. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with him. My milk came in late and A became dehydrated and difficult to arouse. After that crisis resolved, we received a concerned call from the pediatrician. The results from A’s metabolic screen were positive for a rare but potentially fatal disease. They cautioned us that there are many cases of false positives, but I went into panic mode. We stayed on alert night and day to watch him breathe at all times. We had to wait for a week for the news that it was an error, A was fine.

You make me happy when skies are grey

The weeks after were full of relief, bliss and love. I managed through the marathon feedings and fell more in love with my son each day. Parenting seemed to come naturally to my husband. I finally had everything I dreamed of. Then at 11 weeks, A did a remarkable thing, he slept through the night. Usually a cause for celebration, this milestone marked the beginning of my downfall. I felt as though this gift I had dreamed of for so long was somehow a mirage and could be taken from me at any moment. The lines between fear and reality became blurred. First I stopped being able to sleep, feeling the need to rest my hand on the baby’s chest feeling it’s reassuring rise and fall. I started having the most disturbing images in my head. These horrifying images tortured me relentlessly. I felt constantly nervous and on edge. I felt so agitated I couldn’t keep my body still, when I lay in bed to rest my legs wouldn’t stop moving. I had the most intense feeling that sometime terrible was about to happen to A. Something that I had to stop. Soon I was having stomach problems, not being able to keep anything down and then being unable to force myself to eat. I started going days straight without sleeping. I stopped eating solid foods, losing over 20 lbs. in a month. I became weak and fragile. I began having the images coupled with horrifying phrases in my head. All involved seeing my baby harmed. I started having urges to do things like bang my head on the shower wall to stop them. These urges were like the most intense itch you know you should not scratch. I felt if I didn’t give in to them, I would jump out of my skin or
explode. During the day, I was having panic attacks where I would feel as though I was dying; my arms would go numb, my heart would race, I would become sick to my stomach and feel paralyzed. At night, with the baby and my husband tucked safely in bed, I began having urges to disappear. I wondered how fast I could pack everything up and drive off before they awoke. I thought if I disappeared, my baby would be able to grow and thrive and would be better off without me. My husband did not understand at all what was going on and became very angry at me. We began constantly fighting. I had to ask him to stay home from work or leave work numerous times because I didn’t feel safe alone with the baby. June came and his birthday and father’s day came and went and I found myself unable to get out of bed. I wondered if I was dying or losing my mind. I didn’t want to live anymore. I pictured milestones in A’s life without me present. I became obsessed with planning A’s birthday party because I had the distinct feeling that I wouldn’t be around by then. The day came when I couldn’t take another second. That was when I reached out to my Mom.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you

I always wanted to get better. For A, for our family. But help seemed so hard to find. Living in X, I had isolated myself. I didn’t want anyone to know what a bad mother I was so I tried to stop visitors and kept phone calls brief. I had been refusing to take the medications I needed because they were not compatible with nursing. Having to suddenly wean my baby was like a final blow of failure to me. After my urgent phone call to my Mom, she left work in the middle of the day without packing a thing, got on 95 and talked to me on the phone until she arrived 3 hours later. She took me to the midwife, who sent me to the ER to be admitted. Because I told them I had no imminent plans to kill myself, they wouldn’t admit me. They gave me sleeping pills and the address of an urgent care psych center. It turns out the place was a partial-hospitalization program, which my insurance did not cover and would require me
to be away from A during the day. I felt helpless and desperate. I didn’t have any hope of anyone being able to help me. I was taking the medication, but it didn’t seem to be doing
anything for me. Things escalated at home with my husband and I really feared hurting myself, so I packed our stuff and we left for Y.

After my Mom and my sister helped me get settled in Y with A, things started to turn around. I moved in with my sister who was a huge support to me. There was family and friends around me constantly. I had the help I needed to care for A while taking care of myself. I sought help at a local center devoted to post partum mood disorders and began to see a psychiatrist and therapist regularly. I was given a name for what I was going through: Post-Partum OCD. I joined a local support group that meets monthly and I met the most amazing and inspiring women who really get it and have been there. Their strength was contagious. I starting believing that I could get better. The thoughts in my head became more fleeting. I felt more connected with my son. I still had some panic attacks where I felt myself regressing. Dark thoughts would again invade my brain. Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t getting better at all and there was no point to struggling through this. But I learned to reach out to those who cared about me when I felt this way. During my darkest days the phrase “this will not end well” would repeat itself in my head, this mantra was now replaced by “this too shall pass.”

Please don’t take my sunshine away

Time, therapy and medication have given me my life back. My recovery has been full of ups and downs, good and bad days. I am still working on mending relationships. But as the Autumn came, I felt my old self emerge. I will never be the person I was before I had a child, but I am a stronger, wiser woman. I have found I am strong enough to make it on my own, but that the support of others is essential. I am learning to enjoy the moments without obsessing about what will come next. I am learning to let go of complete control and let my son explore and experience with my guidance. It’s a new way of living, and it’s very freeing. I am able to enjoy every day with A. He amazes me on a daily basis. I don’t know what challenges or heartaches I might face in the future, but now I am healthy and strong enough to face them head-on. And if I’m not, I will still be ok because of the support system I have. And in February, I will be at my son’s first birthday party, celebrating his year of thriving and mine of survival.

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Prematurity Awareness Day: Remembering to Breathe

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPz3YaIJkjQ&fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0]

2 AM and she calls me ’cause I’m still awake

~Anna Nalick, Breathe~

I couldn’t sleep. It was time to pump again. If I did not pump, I stood to lose the precious supply of breastmilk I struggled to establish. Every three hours I hooked myself up to a yellow hospital grade Medela pump. The plastic horns were cold. Hard. Definitely not the warm natural manner in which I expected to be providing milk to my new baby girl. Never-mind she was in Atlanta about an hour away.

I sat on the couch, in the dark, hooked up to a whirring machine via tubes. 70+ miles away, my daughter was doing the same thing, hooked up to machines, whirring and straining to keep her alive.

‘Cause you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe… just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe

~Anna Nalick, Breathe~

She was a little over 4 weeks early, my second daughter. A late-term preemie but a preemie none the less.

We had no idea she had a cleft palate. Or a recessed jaw. Or a compromised airway. Or a floppy tongue.

No idea she would be in an ambulance less than 24 hours after birth heading toward a NICU in the nearest large city.

No idea we were about to get a crash course in medically fragile infant care.

No idea of the plan to take our lives and turn everything completely upside down.

The plan was to have a baby. Go to the hospital, give birth to a healthy baby, nurse, go home.

Our plan failed. I failed. I wailed. I cleaned. I screamed. I cried. I wanted to leave her at the hospital. She was not mine. The hospital had made a mistake. They could keep her. I could not do this. I couldn’t. I just… I…. I was delusional. In shock. Processing but yet…. not.

Detached. Clinging to a series of routines. Clean, brush, wash, change, pump, meds, yell, scream, argue, repeat.

Stuck at home.

What I wouldn’t have given to have had her stay inside for a few more weeks.

To have known before we had her of the issues we would face.

But we did not.

I do not know if knowing would have changed a damn thing. I think it would have sometimes. But then I realize I cannot change what has been. Only what will be.

There’s a light at each end of this tunnel,
You shout ’cause you’re just as far in as you’ll ever be out
And these mistakes you’ve made, you’ll just make them again
If you only try turning around.

~Anna Nalick, Breathe~

The day we were to learn how to place an NG tube, I sprained my ankle as I got up from pumping on the couch. My husband freaked out along with me. Then I instructed him to bring me an ankle brace and ace bandage, bag up some ibuprofen and tylenol, and grab an ice pack. There was a grown up hospital across from Children’s. If things got worse, I would go, I promised. I never went. The nurses asked why I was limping. When I told them, they chided me. I did not care. I had limped around since arrival. 42 hours of labor wracked my body. I had the shakes, fever, signs of trauma. I kept going. I burned and re-tore. I should have slowed down. Rested. But I could not. My daughter needed me so I threw myself gleefully under the bus, a Cindy Crawford Pepsi ad smile glued to my face.

Why?

Because this is what a Mother does. Right? Right?

Everyone told us just get through the first year. The first year is the worst.

What they didn’t mention was the follow up appointments. The speech therapy. The potential for behavioral disorders. Allergies. Orthodontia. Additional surgeries. Ear Tubes. Feeding Tubes. Depression. Developmental delays. Hell.

They also did not mention the joy we would feel when our daughter, at four years old, finally blew out candles on her birthday cake all by herself. I cried.

Or the joy when she finally started talking and could TELL us in her voice instead of with her hands how much she loved us.

Or how much joy would spread across her face as she blew up a balloon after surgery #6 which created a pharyngeal flap to close off excess nasal emission of air previously preventing her from blowing up a balloon.

Or her giggles when she first blew bubbles.

Or how big we would grin as we listened to her teach her 2 year old brother talk.

How good it would feel to as she finally made progress.

How good it would feel to understand 80-95% of her speech instead of 25-50% of her speech.

How good it felt as we both recovered from depression and felt the sun’s warmth on our faces and in our hearts.

How grateful we would eventually be to God for carrying us through such a huge storm.

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to

~Anna Nalick, Breathe~

When I became pregnant with her brother, I began to blog here. Not so much for others at first, but for me. I needed the support. I needed to vent. I needed to know I was not alone. Writing became a solace for me.

I know I am not alone.

You are not alone.

We are together.

There are thousands of us scattered across the world, just as scared as the next one. But we are not alone. We are not alone.

But you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable,
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
and breathe, just breathe
woah breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe.

~Anna Nalick, Breathe~

Today I breathe. In. Out. Just as before.

But everything around me, in me,  has changed.

I have changed. For the better, I think.

Today I am stronger. I am braver. I am not stuck in that moment. I move forward. Not because I have to but because I want to do so. Because I choose to do so.

I am far from perfect. Far from June Cleaver.

I am me. Unapologetically me and unapologetically me as a mom. I do not worry about what I am doing right or wrong according to others. I don’t worry about what she says or she says or she says. What she says does not matter. All that matters is if my daughter has laughed with me today. Has she felt loved? Has she been hugged? Is she warm? Clothed? Fed?

Our house is a wreck. My kids watch TV. My kids eat junk food occasionally. I do too. We are imperfectly perfectly us.

And for that?

I am grateful.

So I breathe. I exhale. I move forward as an empowered unapologetically me.

The day I gave birth to my daughter four and a half weeks early was the same day I gave birth to a stronger me.

It just took me nearly five years to really figure that part out.

(This post is part of the March of Dimes Blogger’s Unite to Fight for Preemies event. You can learn more about Prematurity Awareness at the March of Dimes website.)

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