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#PPDChat Topic 01.24.11: Potholes & Detours: Relapse & More
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Tag Archives: mental illness
YAWP!!!!! (a rant)
(the following was inspired by The Daddy Yo Dude Unfiltered’s piece entitled: Bent, not broken)
In the deepest depth of the darkness, I had days unlike any days I had ever experienced.
Days on which life swirled around me, flowed up, down, backward, east, west, and pulled me in every direction. A thought? What was that? Thoughts were for other people, other humans who could engage in meaningful conversation with each other, meaningful multi-syllabic conversation. Other people who did things besides dishes, diapers, breastfeeding, feeding dogs, cooking, cleaning…. other people who did things like shower, leave the house because they weren’t afraid of everyone else knowing their secrets. Other people who could chop vegetables for their families without a zillion thoughts about how to use that knife for something besides chopping the vegetables.
Life was for other people.
Not for me.
Life requires you to hold it together. To not fall apart. To NEVER fall apart – not even behind closed doors.
We hide those who fall apart. We hide ourselves when we fall apart. Because we are not supposed to do this – we are, above all else, to stay together. “Keep it together man!” or “Just keep swimming” are a couple of recent quotes which come to mind here. (And yes, I realize that I am quoting Monsters, Inc. and Finding Nemo. I’m a parent with three kids six and under. I watch these films often therefore the dialogue is applicably stuck within my few remaining brain cells)
Legs break.
Arms break.
Hearts break.
Sympathy for all. No stigma or shame attached there.
But if your MIND breaks?
Holy effin’ robin eggs, batman.
If your MIND breaks …..
Society at large would have you believe:
It’s YOUR fault.
YOU can snap out of this.
And if you can’t snap out of this? YOU will never get better.
Once you get better, you are never ever allowed to break your MIND again.
(yanno, because YOU broke it to begin with and should now know how NOT to break it again)
Dear Society At Large:
My Mind broke. Twice. Or more. I wasn’t to blame. It happened. I sought help. I didn’t get help. I got worse. My mind broke even more. Shattered, dare I say. Decimated. Dust. I got help then. I wandered aimlessly about the hidden place – the hush hush ward of the hospital. The place where they say “You don’t have to tell anyone you were here.” (The first rule of Psych Ward is that there is NO Psych Ward!) The stigma? It starts THERE. It travels home. It spreads. In every direction, in every crook and corner of society it creeps and crawls. And it is there we, the ones with the broken minds, are expected to stay. We are sent home with this expectation, this order to hide ourselves away, to lie about what really happened to us. In the dark corners. The crooks and the crannies. Where NO ONE CAN SEE OR HEAR OUR BROKEN MINDS AND VOICES.
Guess what?
I’m in the middle of the room.
On a table.
Shouting out my story.
TO ANYONE WHO WILL LISTEN.
(Not as sexy as a stripper but I’m there and I’m rockin’ the room)
Because you know what?
I was broken. But I’m not anymore.
I broke the old me. I broke the scared human. I broke her and I left her far behind, crumpled in your dark corner. I gave birth to the new me. I like the new me. She says things outloud. Things that shouldn’t be said and don’t want to be heard by you. But she says them anyway. At the top of her lungs to anyone who will listen.
She is healed. Scarred, but healed. New scars don’t scare her. New scars excite her because it gives her another avenue full of houses to which she can reach out.
I wish you the best of luck, dear society.
The best.
YOU may bend me. But YOU? May never ever break me again.
Love,
ME
Are PMD’s the new Jimmy Chu’s?
Six years ago, I woke up and wandered into my walk in closet. To my left, neurosis and psychopathy. To my right, temporary madness. I walked right past them to the very back of the closet and grabbed a pile of dusty boxes from the darkest corner.
Ahhhhh.
There they were. All the members of the Postpartum Mood Disorder line, their labels obscured by years of dirt and grime, left there by the previous generation of women just for me. Chills ran down my spine as I placed the boxes on the floor and plopped down beside them, dizzy with anticipation.
As I opened one, cobwebs covered my hands as stale air escaped.
I hyperventilated as the suspense of discovering my poison washed over me.
As I pulled the lid off, there it was, shining in all its glory.
Postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder! I clapped my hands with glee, grinned, squealed, and slipped my toes into the bejeweled insanity, strapping my heels in for the bumpy yet glittery ride.
As I returned the other boxes to the shadowy corner, the fun times rolled full force ahead!
Horrible traumatic thoughts about harming myself and my baby slammed into me. I shivered in sheer delight. My anxiety level shot sky-high as my daughter screamed and fussed in the next room. And oh yes, my favorite of all – my newfound fear of kitchen knives as they became central to the little shards of horrificly delicious thoughts.
Oh yes.
THIS is what I am talking about. This is awesomeness all wrapped up in a gorgeous pair of killer heels. Where on EARTH had they been my whole life? This rocked.
As I sat down in the living room to nurse my daughter for what seemed like the 50th time in less than 3 hours, I admired my fancy new shoes. They were hypnotic, yet psychotically tragic at the same time. But dammit, they were mine. Bejeweled, beveled, and shining like gold, they clung to my feet with a grip that just would not quit.
Slowly the sun slid beneath the horizon as the house darkened and a loud silence filled the world, screaming at me. Yet here I still sat, pinned to the couch, nursing baby on my boob, on my gazillionth episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, shoes still strapped to my feet. My heels blistered, my toes horribly pinched, my arches swelled, and my cankles threatened to devour the straps.
I wanted to take the shoes off. Now.
But baby wouldn’t stop eating. Life wouldn’t stop moving forward, swallowing me whole, the thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to figure out how to undo the now almost buried straps beneath my cankles.
I pulled, I fought. I screamed, I wept, wailed, gnashed.
I needed professional help.
Had I waited too long? Had I done permanent damage to myself? To my marriage? How would I care for my baby if I could no longer function? What on earth had I really sacrificed to be so fashionable? Slipping on a PMD was the trendy thing to do, right? Why wasn’t this working for me? What the hell had I done wrong?
Turns out I had done nothing wrong.
And for the record, I didn’t really slip on a PMD. No, it crept up on me from behind, beat me over the head, and rode me like a drunken sailor rides a mechanical bull after one too many beers during shore leave.
I did NOT choose to have a PMD.
I do not claim to have a PMD so I can be like Dooce.
I do not claim to have a PMD so I can outdo your bad days.
I do not claim to have a PMD just because the cool kids are doing it.
I do not claim to have a PMD just because I want more traffic to my blog, dammit.
I started my blog to cope with an unexpected pregnancy AFTER two episodes of Postpartum OCD, one of which spit me out on my bed, rocking back and forth in the fetal position muttering “I don’t want to be Andrea Yates,” over and over to avoid grabbing a pillow and smothering my daughters. Yes, I said daughters.
My Postpartum experience couldn’t be solved simply by going home and calming my daughter down because even when she was calm, those thoughts still crashed against my shores, angry, unforgiving, and pushing me even further toward the overgrown jungle.
I for one, applaud mothers daring to be vocal about their experiences with PMD’s. As we raise our voices in a loud and beautiful chorus, more mothers are aware of what CAN happen after the birth of a baby. More mothers today know what to do, how to seek help, and have access to peer support immediately via the blogosphere, Twitter, Facebook, or other Social Media sites.
At the same time, I do agree that some might cry wolf. BUT – it is not my place to judge them. It is not my place to tell them to MAN UP. It is not my place to force them to a doctor so they can pop pills and become one of the “cool kids.” (By the way, if you go to a doc about a PMD and he/she immediately writes you a script, RUN. Run quickly. Find someone who rules out physical causes such as thyroiditis or anemia first. Please?) It is not my place to diagnose them. It’s not my place to compare their journey to theirs and try to one up them. It’s not my place to brag that my Motherhood Lane has more or less potholes. It’s not my place to blame them for feeling lied to if that’s what they express. It’s just not.
It’s my place to listen. It’s my place to show compassion. It’s my place to love them as they travel down their OWN Motherhood Lane. It’s my place to offer resources through which they will also find compassion, empowerment, and achieve the Motherhood Journey they so sorely yearn for as they lay curled in their beds, unable to get up because the thought of facing one more day has left them powerless. Or the thoughts racing through their heads have frightened them so much they want to sleep forever – because when you’re asleep, when you’re asleep .. those thoughts are quiet. But they’re there as soon as you wake up and when you have a new baby, let’s face it, you’re up a LOT.
Once again, disappointment creeps deep within my heart. I wish we could co-exist in our own spaces without offering critique. Without feeling like the grass on the other side is just a smidge greener and then offering suggestions on how to improve our neighbor’s lawn or gossiping with the other neighbor about how the problems we are having with our own lawn is SO much worse than the ones they are experiencing. Fire Ants? Yeh, well, I’ve got moles. Moles? I’ve got groundhogs. STOP IT. Just stop it.
Can’t we all just grab a margarita and tear down the fences between us without the competition? Please? Cuz that, that would rock.
Just Talkin’ Tuesday 10.13.09: I’m OUT with my PPD – are you?
Within the past couple of weeks I read a great article by a columnist down in Palm Beach, Florida. Of course the article is from February 2008 but still relevant. The author waxes over various reactions she’s received as a result of coming clean about her mental struggles and illness. But in the end she decides that shes would not change a thing about coming “out” about her struggles.
I started this blog as a way to cope with my third and very unexpected pregnancy on the heels of a nasty episode of Postpartum OCD which landed me in a psych ward. While there, several of the nurses specifically told me I did not have to share with anyone where I had been or why I had been there. Even at the time I remember thinking that was an odd thing to say. Why would I want to hide what had happened to me? Why would I do such a thing when all I wanted was to talk with another mom who was struggling just like me? Wouldn’t it make sense to reach out to other moms? To open up? What good would hiding my “light under a bushel” do?
So here I am.
Out. Shining. And still struggling from time to time. I have stages – right now I’m struggling a bit with not having the same bond with my girls as I do with my little guy. You see, I didn’t have PPD with him so we got to have the fun bonding way it’s supposed to be according to the books experience. Which, by the way, I found a little weird considering I had never done it that way before. But now I find myself saddened and angry that I never got to bond as strongly with the girls as I have with my little man. But alas, I digress.
Let’s get to just talkin here!
If you’ve “outed” your PPD whether it be through a blog, a book, a news story, sharing with a friend, loved one, co-worker, etc, tell us about the experience. Was it positive? Negative? What you expected? Has the experience of “outing” your PPD changed your life? For the better? For the worse? Let us know!
Just Talking Tuesday 07.07.09: Anti-depressants or Not?
original photo by thegirlsmoma @ flicker
Today’s topic was inspired by a post over at Postpartum Progress: You don’t NEED Anti-depressants, Do You?
In this post, Katherine discusses the lack of stigmatization regarding pharmeceutical treatment for medical conditions in response to a ScienceBlogs post you can find here.
Anti-depressants are stigmatized. Period. Nitro-glycerin or insulin? Not so much. Why? Just as Anti-depressants may work for me, they may not work for you. And if you have the wrong heart condition and take nitro-glycerin, things may not go your way either. But you don’t hear people judging others for being on nitro-glycerin, now do you? And insulin? Many Diabetics require this life-saving medication. Even pain medication after an injury – do you question that prescription? Most don’t and certainly aren’t stigmatized for taking it because let’s face it – a broken leg hurts – something we all understand.
Mental illness hurts too. It hurts the person suffering. It hurts the people around them. And if the right medication is paired with the right therapy, it can make a world of difference. Why then, are we stigmatized or accused of not understanding informed consent for deciding (of our own free will) to take medication as we heal? What makes the scaffolding of Anti-depressants any different than pain medication as a broken leg heals?
So I’m posing a pretty big question today. And I expect there will be a bit of debate about it – which is good…our different opinions are what keep us interesting! Just keep things polite. No hateful, judgemental or fear-centered comments will be approved.
Do/did you or don’t/didn’t you take Anti-depressants? Why? Why not?
And more importantly – IS it your place to tell someone else they absolutely SHOULD not take them if you don’t believe in them or have had a bad experience? Or should you calmly refer them to research that explains the risks vs. benefits and let them make the decision on their own WITH a professional on board?
Let’s get to Just Talkin’!