On Walking Through Life as a Postpartum Mood Disorder Survivor

I had a very interesting discussion yesterday as part of an interview with a woman who is putting together a proposal for a book about Perinatal Mood Disorders. Both of us struggled with PP OCD and for the first time, I think we nailed it when we discussed how Postpartum becomes part of your life, even after the initial “crisis” phase passes.

You see, struggling with a Perinatal Mood & Anxiety Disorder affects your entire life. It affects how you function, how you relate to everyone and everything around you, and it ultimately changes your outlook on life. This change, this transformation, at least for me, is directly related to know just how far down I slid when it struck me from out of the blue the first time around.

Diagnosis is one of the first steps toward healing. Diagnosis leads you to help and regaining your footing on the proper path. We all walk different paths and for some of us, our diagnosis becomes our mask. For others, it becomes just one part of us. Or for others, it becomes the very definition of who we are as a person, a mother, and whatever else we are…some become the personification of a PMAD. One of the things we hit on is how women who do not define themselves completely as their diagnosis find it easier to heal because for them, it’s essentially a broken leg instead of a full body cast if that makes sense. It doesn’t take as long to heal just one part vs. the whole thing. Even then, there are always mitigating factors affecting the pace of individual healing.

When you fight back, you develop coping mechanisms to pull yourself through. These look different for everyone and depend on how defined you allow your sense of self to be by the diagnosis of a Perinatal Mood & Anxiety Disorder. It is also important to note that these coping mechanisms may continue to be part of your life for the remainder of your days. It takes 21 days to develop a new habit. Therefore, it makes sense that if you continue something for longer than 21 days, it will become a habit. Whether this habit is healthy or not is up to you and your physician to decide. If it’s minor, no worries. But if it affects your normal day-to-day functioning, it might be time to evaluate things and consider breaking this “habit” as it isn’t healthy.

Do I still carry some of my OCD habits with me from my Postpartum days? Absolutely. But I know they are not a sign that I am still fighting the beast. They are there because they were a part of who I was for a very long time. There are still signals that speak to me and let me know that I am spiraling down the dark path once again, however. My habits tend to increase and begin to interfere with my day to day living when this happens. For instance, I will obsessively brush my hair, stop listening to music, and start looking for things to be upset about if I start to feel overly stressed. Learning to recognize these is a huge leap forward and learning to accept that little quirks you developed with Postpartum are just that, quirks, is also a huge leap forward.

Today was a huge milestone for me. I cleaned and organized the entire first floor of our town house because it needed it, not because I needed to do it. Yes, the clutter was bugging me but not to the point that it made me twitchy. To clean and not “need” to clean felt fantastic. In fact, I’m sitting here, basking more in the accomplishment of having cleaned NOT because of my OCD and because it needed it than in the fact that the downstairs (including the front closet) is completely spotless.

Our habits stay with us after Postpartum because we have immersed ourselves in them for so long as a coping mechanism. Sometimes we have thoughts that carry us back to those dark days and it is important to recognize them as such – just thoughts, not an actual fall back into the dark hole (unless they persist for more than a week or two – then you may want to seek help). Some of us may move on to a deeper, lifelong diagnosis of a daily fight against mental health. But the thing to remember is that you are YOU. You are not your diagnosis, you are not your habits. You are YOU and YOU are amazing, even when it is darkest.

A Brief Bad Poetry Analysis

A writing friend of mine shared a link with me the other day, prefaced by the following words: “If you ever feel down about a piece you wrote…”

I received it just as I was struggling to write for the day. I read it. Then I read it again. And then, I thought to myself, wow. Anything I write now will be gold, Jerry. GOLD.

I messaged this “epic description” of the poem to him yesterday: “It’s like she played Twister with a Thesaurus, writing down the words as she went, mashing them all together in one long horrific string.”

It’s that bad, people. What is it?

It’s poetry. Seriously awful poetry by none other than Kristen Stewart. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, right? I mean, we are talking about an actress who really only has one reaction to everything – a total non-reaction.

Her poem is entitled “My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole.”

So your heart is a ball of white plastic with holes punched in it? Mmmmmk. If you Google Freedom Pole (which I did), all that comes up is article after article about this stupid poem. Because obviously, none of us know what the hell a Freedom Pole is except for Ms. Stewart.

The first verse:

“I reared digital moonlight/

You read its clock, scrawled neon across that black/

Kismetly … ubiquitously crest fallen/

Thrown down to strafe your foothills/

…I’ll suck the bones pretty.

Digital moonlight? LED digital…oh hell. Kismetly isn’t even a word. But kismet is – so there’s destiny and fate…everywhere all at once disappointed. But Ms. Stewart? Crestfallen is ONE DAMN WORD. Apparently this verse, the best I can gather, is about the disappointment of a clock waking her, and she throws it off the side table then for some odd reason, sucks bones pretty. I’m shuddering at the mere thought of Kristen Stewart sucking anything. Pass the brain bleach?

There’s more.

The second verse:

Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps/

Spray painted everything known to man/

Stream rushed through and all out into/

Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck/

Through our windows boarded up/

He hit your flint face and it sparked.

Abrasive organ pumps? This line immediately after the line about sucking bones pretty… and then apparently someone has spray painted everything known to man, a stream rushed through and all out into. How does something rush all out into, exactly? If it’s rushing all out then into? Into what? Something Whilst the crackling stare down… is she being stared down by Pork Rinds? Then apparently sun snuck through the windows boarded up (then they weren’t boarded up very well, were they? And if this is the crackling stare down, um, you might be entirely too close to the sun or whatever shack you’re in is on FIRE.) A face made of flint that sparks. Fabulous. But what the hell does a flint face have to do with your heart being a wiffle ball/freedom pole? WAIT. IS the freedom pole what spray painted everything???? I’m so hopelessly lost.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Verse three:

And I bellowed and you parked/

We reached Marfa/

One honest day up on this freedom pole/

Devils not done digging/

He’s speaking in tongues all along the pan handle/

And this pining erosion is getting dust in/

She’s bellowing now. Apparently this is what one does when one sees a flint face spark. One bellows. Duly noted. Then someone parks. Parks what, exactly? Their freedom pole? What the hell is Marfa? Texas? The film festival? An honest day on the freedom pole. Does Marfa have a freedom pole? Are we talking about a flagpole here? Has Kristen Stewart been listening to far too much Harvey Danger and decided to flip “Flagpole Sitta” for her own hopeless hipster poetry? It makes sense that Marfa is in Texas now that she references the Devil speaking in tongues all along the pan handle. The dust reference makes sense too because well, Marfa is a desert city. Finally! Something I understand, dammit. (Marfa? My condolences for being immortalized in this poem. Really. You don’t deserve this. You deserve better.)

Fourth verse:

My eyes/

And I’m drunk on your morsels/

And so I look down the line/

Your every twitch hand drum salute/

Salutes mine.”

The dust is in her eyes? That’s a bitch. No, really, it is. There’s nothing worse than dust in your eyes when you’re on top of a freedom pole in the middle of the desert, right? Now Kristin is drunk on the morsels of her companion. WAIT. WHAT? She killed her companion in the middle of the desert and is nomming on the remains??? WHOA. She’s looking down the line as the hand twitches, saluting hers? KRISTIN. The hell, dude? WE EAT FOOD. Twilight was just a movie, honey, not real life. We do NOT EAT PEOPLE IN THIS DIMENSION. (Also? A little clarification goes a long way and is perfectly acceptable in poetry, honey.)

There we have it. The poem in it’s entirety. I’m left wondering why Kristen Stewart’s heart is a Wiffle Ball Bat though. Or what a Wiffle Ball Bat has to do with a Freedom Pole (flag pole?). The only correlation of which I can think is that both Wiffle Ball Bat and Freedom Pole reference things that are at the heart of Americana which is baseball and the American Flag. However, the remainder of the poem has absolutely no redeeming patriotic value to it whatsoever so….. I’m left holding morsels of my brain in my hand, wondering what the hell I just read and analyzed.

To quote Ms. Stewart’s thoughts regarding a post-writing reaction: “Holy f**k, that’s crazy”

Yes, Ms. Stewart, yes it is. Totally crazy.

Source for this post: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/news/kristen-stewart-writes-worst-poem-of-all-time-9121635.html

On Stealing Joy

(There is a brief, non-graphic reference to suicide in this post. If you are sensitive or thinking about suicide, please consider avoiding. Also, if you are considering suicide, know that there is help available, you are not alone. Call the Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 to be connected to a crisis center near you or visit their website by clicking here. Please do not suffer in silence when help is just a click or a phone call away.)

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Peter Pan and the Lost Boys symbolize the importance of never completely growing up despite a society which constantly tells us and expects the opposite of us. There are dreamers among us who manage to hang on to the childlike wonder and awe of all that occurs within our paltry world. Then there are those who prefer we be nothing but straight laced, dry, and act our age, the haughty people who believe life is meant to be lived according to a rule book instead of according to our hearts and souls.

Dead Poets Society captures the very essence of this battle.

Robert Sean Leonard is brilliantly cast as Neil, an artistic soul desperately trapped in a straight-laced life by his father. In fact, the opening scenes foreshadow the weight Neil’s father holds over him when he is forced to quit the school annual after a discussion Neil’s father has with one of the headmasters. Neil quits the annual because as he puts it, “What choice do I have?”

Yet, after meeting Mr. Keating, who dares his classes to do more, to be more, and to ultimately walk to the beat of a different drummer, Neil finds his soul set ablaze. He spearheads the resuscitation of the Dead Poets Society meetings at Welton Academy. He takes his artistic defiance a step further when he auditions for a role in a local theatre’s production of A Midsummer’s Night Dream. This time, instead of worrying about his father’s reaction, he pens a note of permission from his father on the typewriter in his room. Neil is growing, walking to the beat of a different drum, and daring to be his own man. He is embracing the spirit of carpe diem.

Why the change of heart? Is it really Mr. Keating or is it simply that Neil has given himself permission to be who he is finally because for the first time, he has been exposed to someone who says it okay to do so?

Neil’s father predictably discovers his son’s deception and calls him on it the day the play is set to open. His father attends the play, dragging him home afterward. There’s a discussion during which Neil is firmly told he will not be returning to Welton but will instead be attending a military academy. That’s all there is to it, he’s told. The family goes to bed, the father putting his things in their places before he lays down under the covers.

Then, the scene.

It’s a chillingly well done scene, actually, one which draws you into Neil’s mind and the process of suicide one goes through. Each movement, each act, very deliberate. It is this scene during which Neil lets go of his inner child forever, now that he sees only a future ahead of him filled with stuffed shirts, windows of opportunity and doors leading to open fields of passion slamming shut all around him. This life, the one without his inner child, it is not for him, and therefore, he must leave this world.

You see, when we take away the choices a person has, we take away their independence. We steal the very essence of their being, their joy. In a sense, we jack open their mouths and yank their inner child right out when we force someone to conform to a certain methodology of being. If we were all meant to be exactly alike, we would not have originated anywhere other than a factory. Instead, we sprout up all over the world in all sorts of environments, even the most impossible ones.

Our lives are meant to be lived despite our environments. We choose to thrive, we choose to fail. We choose to grow up or remain children. We choose joy, we choose sorrow. We choose to wallow and ruminate or do what we can and let go. Are these easy choices? Hell no. Are they possible choices? Hell yes.

Life is a choice. Thriving, a choice. Stretching yourself way beyond your comfort zone – a choice. Our overall path may not be a choice, but the steps we take along it are our choices to make. We can choose to trod along the muddy road or skip in the rain, stopping to jump in the puddles, giggling as we are covered head to toe in the slimy brown dirt.

What will you choose today? Will you choose to harrumph, put up your umbrella and frown angrily at the gathering clouds?

Or will you pull a Gene Kelly and go singing and dancing in the rain?

A Journey Toward Personal Intimacy

The paved road curves toward the forest as trees start to bend over the edges, giving the sense of entering a tunnel. The new green leaves flutter in the light breeze as the tires squeal ever so slightly at the apex of the curve as it slants downhill. The paved road fades into a gravel road. Dust kicks up behind the car, drifting up through the trees to a bright blue sky seared with sunshine.

Once again, the road curves, a brick wall looming in the distance. A gate crosses the road. The car slows, coming to a stop just inches away from this mysterious gate in the middle of nowhere. There is a house on the hill just a mile beyond the gate.

The driver swings the door wide and steps out of the vehicle. She walks up to the gate, grabs it, and gives it a little shake. Walking down the gate, it appears there is a chain with a lock, preventing the gate from opening. The driver shrugs and begins to climb the gate despite the clear lock and desire of the resident in the house to keep visitors out. The driver leaps to the ground on the other side, and begins walking toward the house.

Imagine, for a moment, that this road is a part of yourself you have decided to let a friend journey down. Part of your brain, part of you which you are comfortable sharing. Eventually, a wall will crop up whether you want it to or not. Even the most open of those among us have a wall somewhere.

Walls, while meant to be broken down, are also meant to be respected. It is not for us to decide to suddenly leap over them despite the clear warnings to do the exact opposite. Boundaries are healthy for both parties in a relationship. That said, it is important to not have too many walls in an intimate relationship. Too many walls lead to issues with communication and understanding. If a partner is left standing on the other side of a gate for far too long, he or she will start to feel as if they are being held at arm’s length.

Love is about trusting people enough to let them into the places you often keep locked behind a gate. It’s about letting yourself behind the walls in your own head and accepting them as wide open fields instead of gripping the key tightly and refusing to open the gate, afraid to let anyone, including yourself, through.

Intimacy with others must first start with yourself. Not THAT kind of intimacy. The intellectual kind of intimacy. The kind of intimacy we share with a close friend over a cup of coffee – the kind of intimacy we experience when we are at our absolute worst and someone offers to be there for us, even if it’s just to sit in silence. The deep intimacy which speaks volumes over any kind of physical intimacy.

It is this mental intimacy which we often deny because it means our soul is naked which, frankly, is far more intimidating than any sort of physical nudity. A mental intimacy is what keeps us together, it’s what endears others to us, and what endears us to others.

Keep that in mind as you relate to those around you and consider whether or not you are allowing yourself to be as intimate as possible with those closest to you, including yourself. The greatest damage we could ever do to ourselves is to lose touch with our own heart and souls – to not be intimate with our own minds. For when we fail in this area of intimacy, we fail at living the life we are meant to live and instead live the life others want us to live.

Ask yourself which life you’d rather be living and make the changes you need to bring a more personal intimacy into your life.

You won’t regret it.