Category Archives: survivor

Who’s that girl?

“When you see her, say a prayer and kiss your heart goodbye
She’s trouble, in a word get closer to the fire
Run faster, her laughter burns you up inside
You’re spinning round and round
You can’t get up, you try but you can’t”

-lyrics, Who’s that Girl, Madonna-

Innocent enough lyrics, right? Of course, given that they’re Madonna lyrics that’s an arguable statement. Yet these lyrics are so very applicable to Postpartum Mood Disorders.

As a mother with Postpartum Mood Disorder, we drag ourselves out of bed in the morning after a lengthy internal argument between “have to, able to, and want to.” We stumble into the bathroom where we catch a glimpse of ourselves in the mirror. Raw. Unkempt. Barely awake. Depressed. Anxious. Angry. Petrified. Unrecognizable. So we hide her. We hide the girl in the mirror behind make-up. Behind a forced smile. We tuck her away in the corners of our mind and pretend to be okay for everyone else.

It works for awhile.

But then the mask begins to crack. Chips fall to the floor. We can’t replace them. The cost is too great. Exhaustion sets in, keeping us from fixing the veneer we have worked so very hard to replace. Our hearts and broken minds spill out into public view. We crumble as the pain of exposure overwhelms us. Frozen with fear we become deer trapped on a country road as vehicles race past us.

Until finally someone stops, gets out, and approaches us with compassion. They hold us and walk us back to ourselves, allowing us to lean on them along the way. As we awake each morning thereafter, the girl in the mirror begins to look a bit more like us. Sure, we still have our raw, unkempt, angry, sad, depressed, exhausted days. But in between those days, we cautiously regain our glow. Our eyes once again transform into a beautiful stained glass window to our soul instead of the broken window to the dark soul of the depression or anxiety which has gripped us for so very long.

But the window to depression or anxiety which exists in our eyes, jutting deep into our souls, will never fully close. It stays open, even if just a centimeter. Each time we falter, fail to live up to our own impossible standards, our mind will scurry to that window to measure the opening, to see if it’s widened. We will check and re-check, not believing original measurements equal to the original. Eventually we walk away somewhat satisfied but never fully believing we are recovered.

Depression and mental illness thrive on doubt. They thrive on suppression, stigma, and questioning of our own abilities whether from others or the internal struggle for sense of self. Even without mental illness, we question ourselves our entire life. Grab onto the positive. Grasp tightly onto balloons of hope when they float by. Marvel at the flame of a beautiful candle when it shines light onto your path. Find your light where you can, when it is offered, and let it flood your world. Don’t hide it behind the darkness in the soul of your depression.

Let go. Allow the light flood into your world until you recognize the girl in the mirror again as beautiful. It’s not that she disappeared. It’s that your perception of her was stolen by Depression, a sly thief. Steal her back.

Far from perfect

Leave a reply

Tousled whisper thin golden hair fell softly around my face as I pulled a stuffed animal from beneath a toddler-sized shirt. Cradling the stuffed creature delicately in my arms, I leaned down to whisper a promise:

“I’m your Mommy. I’ll love you forever. You’ll see.”

In toddler years? Forever lasts two minutes. If that. I repeated this action over and over again as a child. Motherhood, you see, was my dream. My aspiration. My definition of self.

20 something years later, I grew three real babies over the course of four years under an assortment of plus-sized maternity shirts.

I learned birthing a baby was nowhere near as easy as yanking a stuffed animal from beneath a shirt. It was hard work. It hurt. It was traumatizing. And that love? It’s not always there immediately. Sometimes, it’s confusion. Frustration. Anger. Doubt. Guilt. Apologies. Tears. Overwhelming sense of failure. Depression. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Anxiety. Post-Traumatic Mood Disorder.

In short, birth and the aftermath is MESSY.

You can’t turn your back on the aftermath. There’s a creature there requiring attention when you want to sleep. Needing to nurse or feed when all you want to do is cry. Wanting to play when you want to sit. Asking questions when you long for silence. There’s this intrusion on your life, this thing to which you may not know how to relate.

What do you do?

Some rush forward, headlong into the fray, successfully.

Then there are those of us who hate those who rush headlong into the fray successfully. Because we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. We’re frozen by fear. Frozen by anticipated judgment of our decisions. Frozen by the potential for failure. The potential of screwing up our kids. Frozen by selfishness. By not knowing what to do – by not wanting to be a parent. By the loss of ourselves. The loss of our lives. Failing to integrate our lives with the needs of this new intrusion, this tiny helpless being imposed upon us. We retreat. We fall back and wonder what’s wrong with us. We wonder why we’re flawed.

But are we flawed? Is there really something wrong with us deep down? Should we be afraid of these “flaws” or should we embrace them?

Yes, there are parents who suffer from Mental Disorders after the birth of a child. I know, I was one of them after the birth of both my daughters. I apologized to my first daughter when she was 7 days old for not knowing how to talk to her. As if she had already memorized Merriam Webster’s entire dictionary, Mother Goose, and Hans Christian Anderson. I refused to leave the house unless I had to because EVERYONE judged me with just a glance. (They didn’t, but inside my fishbowl head, they absolutely did.) I cried. I screamed. Horrible thoughts zoomed in and out of my head.

But I learned.

When my second daughter arrived, we recognized symptoms sooner. Help arrived quicker. Yes, I was hospitalized but it was necessary. I recovered much faster despite the additional complications of her special needs and NICU stay. I started to heal.

Then her brother dropped in as a surprise. I quickly worked on advocacy and care for myself. I was the complication, not the baby. Already experienced in advocacy for others, advocacy for self came naturally. My doctor worked with me, not against me. He treated me as a trusted partner instead of a subordinate. I developed a Postpartum Plan for myself. Handed it to my everyone involved in my life and in my care. I thrived and had a successful Postpartum experience until three months after his birth when all hell broke loose in another area of my life. But because of my careful planning with my postpartum experience, thankfully, I had everything in place I needed in order to deal with this dam break.

I still failed with the hell which slid my way after his birth though, because instead of diving in to advocate for my own care, I waited for someone to dive in and help me. I didn’t ask for help. I waited. Like a fool. I focused on daily living while I waited. Only the necessary – just enough to get by. I buried my issues with the situation at hand and moved forward without dealing with it. I failed to reach for my scalpel and explore the problem. I didn’t dig around to figure out the landscape. So it festered until it exploded, my marriage along with it.

Instead of accepting responsibility for this explosion, I shifted it to everyone else when in reality, I failed to deal with the issues appropriately. Yes, the source rooted elsewhere, but my failure to deal with the aftermath appropriately is ultimately what caused the explosion. No one is responsible for my actions but myself.

Life is messy. It’s not some neatly wrapped package to be displayed in a store window during the holidays like a Norman Rockwell painting. It’s more like a Jackson Pollock piece in progress. Somewhere, eventually, someone will think it’s fabulous and want to buy it. But most will simply see the mess instead of the passionate art deep within.

Bernard Baruch once stated, “The art of living lies less in eliminating our troubles than in growing with them.” Life is art if you just let go of expectations, of definitions, and learn to LIVE instead of satiate the constant needs of others. Selfish? Yes. But ultimately selfless. How? By letting go and living for YOU, you give more of yourself. You learn what brings you passion, you learn your flaws, you recognize them as beautiful, you recognize that yes, even your weakness is beautiful and not something to be hidden away.

For a very long time, I’ve wrapped my problems in wrapping paper, placed them gently and neatly on a shelf inside my head, then walked away. It worked until the room overflowed and the door burst open, dust, paper, and all my issues flying every which way. I’m sitting in the middle of my brain these days, cleaning house. Step by step. Inch by inch. Face to face with issues I thought I dealt with ages ago.

I don’t know who I am completely these days. I’m not sure where I’m going in life.

But I do know one thing – that room in my head? The one with the shelves? Won’t be rebuilt.

Instead, I’ll be grabbing my scalpels and digging around in my messes in the hopes of understanding them before moving on. Yes, it will be chaotic and unrefined. But it will be resplendent imperfection.

I’m far from perfect. I will make mistakes. I will fail. But I will learn from those mistakes and failures. And that? Makes my life the most beautiful piece of art I will ever have the honour of witnessing.

Go.

Thrive.

Be messy, imperfect, and blissful.

Make your life Art.

There’s no other way to live.

Depressiva: For the 20%

Leave a reply

Coco Chanel. Valentino. Dior. Givenchy. Gaultier. Armani. Versace. Saint Laurent.

All top current or past fashion houses. Associated with luxury.

Ferrari. Porsche. Mercedes. BMW. Lexus. McLaren. Bentley. Audi.

All luxury automobile companies. Associated with luxury.

Godiva. Lindt. Cadbury. Jacques Torres.

Chocolatiers. Associated with luxury and indulgence.

Depression.

Mood Disorder. NOT associated with luxury.

So often we wish and covet the finer things in life. Good chocolate. Fine cars. Nice clothes. Materialistic, yes, but we are by default, human, and have materialistic cravings. It happens.

I remember the last time I thought about wanting a decadent truffle. Or a nice dress. Or even thought about my dream car.

What I don’t remember, however, is the last time I wished for depression. The last time I thought to myself, hey, you know what? Depression sounds really good today. I think, along with a hot bubble bath and a cup of the world’s finest hot cocoa, I’ll slip a little Depression into my day. It’s just too damn bright and sunny today. Today needs a touch of Depression. Where do I get that? What does it look like? Is it a pair of glasses I slip on to grey down the bright sunny day? An iPod with Ben Stein’s monotone voice repeating over and over how much today sucks? Or is it food that looks delicious but tastes like nothing? Oooh.. I know.. it’s a bouncy house… grey… with an entrance which closes behind you and doesn’t re-open until you manage to find the right secret compartment containing a magic map to show you the way out. YES! It’s a grey bouncy house!

Depression is not a luxury.

It’s not a sumptuous bubble bath into which one sinks at the end of the day.

It’s not a delectable hand crafted dark chocolate truffle.

It’s not a magnificent engine encased in fine steel able to handle curves as if they don’t exist.

It’s just as real though.

It’s just as tangible.

It’s there for up to 20% of new moms.

It’s there for millions of Americans.

They didn’t go to a showroom to purchase it.

They didn’t click on a link to choose it.

They didn’t put it on a gift list.

It wasn’t swag.

Like an unwelcome guest, it showed up at the front door, pushed inside, and stayed put for much longer than necessary. It fed on shreds of happiness, sanity, and gobbled up hope. Like a squatter, it showed no signs of leaving.

If that’s your idea of luxury, if you truly think that falling into the deep dark pit of depression is luxury?

You need more help than I ever did.

When Marketing forgoes facts

Leave a reply

This past Tuesday, an article by Sheryl Paul entitled “Three Tips for Navigating Motherhood” was published at Maria Shriver’s website. After public outcry regarding the contents, the article has subsequently been removed. But for 48 hours, the article existed and was accessible to an enormous amount of traffic. Maria Shriver has just over 900k followers on Twitter and is well known as an activist and celebrity. When she speaks or shares something, a lot of people listen.

In this case, the danger of deciding to post Sheryl Paul’s article lies within the manner in which Ms. Paul treats Postpartum Depression. According to Ms. Paul’s article at Maria’s site,

“Pregnancy anxiety and postpartum depression are avoidable and preventable! They both result from normal thoughts and feelings that are pushed underground because we don’t realize that they’re normal, where they then grow into an unmanageable state.”

While I agree that most pregnancy anxiety and postpartum depression is avoidable and preventable, some cases are not. These cases more than likely do not result from normal thoughts and feelings which are pushed underground. Research over the past years has proven a biological and chemical link to more severe cases of Postpartum Mood Disorders. Cortisone levels, etc, are often higher in those who experience Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders. Research continues into the root cause of Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders so we can better help those who struggle with this difficult condition. Ms. Paul also stated these emotions are rooted in a deep sense of loss which accompanies any transition, emotions we push aside in order to “focus on buying the right car seat.” These emotions then “mutate into anxiety, and your doctor suggests anti-anxiety medication.” Really, Ms. Paul? Because Hippocrates wrote about PMAD’s and I’m pretty sure the ancient Greeks didn’t need to purchase car seats.

First of all, shame on any doctor who prescribes an anti-anxiety med just because. Secondly, some women truly do suffer from anxiety. From depression. Regardless of how intuitive they are with their own emotions. Failure to explore yourself emotionally at every stage of a transition is not the root of Postpartum Depression or Anxiety. To tell a woman in the throes of a Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorder such sets her up for even more guilt and anxiety in my personal opinion. Time and time again, we must defend our experience with this issue. Time and time again we are told by too many our experiences are not real. If we had only done this or done that, we would be fine. It’s all in our heads. We need to buck up, just get over it, snap out of it, look inward, pull ourselves up, grin and bear it.

I call bullshit.

Some of us have true issues. Mental Illness is not some facade. It’s not some excuse we use to get out of Motherhood. It’s not something into which we collapse willingly because Motherhood isn’t all we dreamed it would be once we arrive. It’s not because we don’t know ourselves. It’s not because we didn’t get in touch with our inner “woman” before giving birth. It’s certainly not because we didn’t accept the loss of self prior to and/or after birth. There are physical causes in which some cases of Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders are rooted – thyroid issues, iron deficiencies, Vitamin D deficiencies, trauma, etc, all of which cannot be cured by simply “emotionally exploring oneself during transitional phases.” To quote Rene Russo from Lethal Weapon 4: “THIS IS NO GODDAMN ASPECT OF A TRANSITION PHASE!”

Yes, there are transitions involved with Motherhood. There is a loss of sense of self. Many struggle to adjust. But even those who are the picture of perfection may fall into Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorder. You see, PMAD’s are non-discriminatory. They don’t recognize emotional health, societal status, natural or medicated childbirth, breastfeeding or not-breastfeeding, traumatic or non-traumatic birth, etc. I’ve known professional therapists, psychiatrists, and OB caregivers who have struggled with a PMAD and not recognized what’s going on with them. People in the know, people aware of what’s going on in the transitional phases. And yet, they still end up with a PMAD. Yes, some pre-existing conditions do put you at a higher risk but overall, Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders are the number one complication of childbirth regardless of your monetary or social support bank account.

When you recognize the signs and symptoms of a PMAD within yourself or a loved one, you seek answers. Solutions. That answer or solution should never discount your feelings or emotions. The issue at hand is not easily solved in 10-15 minutes per day as Sheryl Paul claims about her courses within a video at her website:

“If you follow this road map, which isn’t hard to do, it takes just 10-15 minutes a day, you will prevent Postpartum Depression, you will feel empowered as a new mother, and you will be giving your baby the best possible beginning for emotional health.”

The above quote preys upon vulnerable mothers who desperately want a better life for their “baby.” It’s irresponsible marketing, pure and simple. The only goal here is to get $200 into Sheryl Paul’s pocket – a bargain, she says, at her website, because the course is easily worth $1000 but because she wants everyone to have access, she only charges $197 for it. You can also opt to pay for it in two installments. So you see, for about the same price as a car seat, you can buy your way into avoiding Postpartum Depression but avoid shelling out money for anti-anxiety meds.

Careful, Sheryl, if someone buys your course and still experiences Postpartum Depression? Under the Lanham Act, she can sue you. She can also report you to the FTC. The Better Business Bureau. Also? Instructing a severely depressed mother to “explore her feelings” may lead her to conclude suicide is the only way out. Is that something you really want on your hands? What about Psychosis, which is a medical emergency? Should a mother “explore” those feelings as well? If you are going to mention Postpartum Mood Disorders, you absolutely need to be responsible in regards to all aspects of the spectrum, something this piece and your website fail to do, which is extremely dangerous.

I have zero respect for any caregiver treating Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders as a fallacy or claiming to completely prevent the experience. For those of us who have fought the battle, it feels as if we have been discounted. As if we must stand up and defend ourselves. It tears us down. Angers us to see our difficult journey dismissed. It makes us feel we failed because we didn’t prevent our experience. Would you tear someone’s cast off and beat their broken bone? No. You wouldn’t. Don’t do the same to those of us who have experienced a Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorder.

Birth is a powerful event. Every woman has a different story, a journey which is all her own. No one, anywhere, should ever discount the story of another. If you’ve avoided a PMAD, I’m happy for you. I’m happy you were not subjected to the many circles of hell so many mothers (including myself) have been. I’m glad you found something which worked for you. Don’t claim to cure my situation with your solution. Don’t ignore the facts. Support me as I find my own, regardless of what that may include. I may need to take medication. I may need therapy. I may need hospitalization. And that’s okay. It’s also okay if you found success with natural approaches.You have to do what works for you. Be open to the fact that my path may be different than yours.

Bottom line here: People who claim to completely prevent Postpartum Depression are dangerous. You can do everything Sheryl tells you to and still end up with a Postpartum Mood Disorder. And yet, you won’t be educated about Postpartum Mood & Anxiety Disorders. You’ll be educated instead in how to explore your emotions instead of what to do when you can’t get out of bed in the morning or brush your teeth, or even make small talk with another adult. You won’t know how to recognize Psychosis. You won’t know that an intrusive thought isn’t Psychosis. You won’t be empowered to go to your doctor for help because well, Sheryl’s program more than likely doesn’t cover such a course of action.

If you or someone you love is struggling during pregnancy or after birth with a possible Mood Disorder, go visit Postpartum Support International for information and support. If you’re suicidal, there’s a helpline at the top of the sidebar here at My Postpartum Voice. If you want a powerful community at your fingertips, go visit Twitter and use the hashtag #PPDChat for moms just like you. Our moms range from those who have been hospitalized to those who have used natural methods, etc, to battle Postpartum Mood Disorders. We are all over the world and there is always someone watching the hashtag. You’re not alone and we’ll give you more than 10-15 minutes of our time every day if you need it. Best of all? It’s FREE.

All alone in a digital world

Leave a reply

The following post is not meant to make anyone feel guilty or wonder if they should have leaned on me for support over the past few months. Everything I’ve done to support others has been of my own volition and if I needed to step back, please know I did so. It’s because of what i do that I’m writing to you today.

It’s been a helluva summer over here in my world.

I’ve not talked publicly about the details and will not do so now but I am now divorced. So when I say it’s been a helluva summer, I mean it. Over the course of this past summer, I’ve had a lot of emotional upheaval come my way. There have been things in addition to my divorce, which, I also will not divulge the details of, but these things have shaken me to my very core. I’ve gone to bed in tears. I’ve screamed. I’ve cried. I’ve wailed. I’ve wondered why I have to wake up. If I wanted to wake up. And yet… here I am.

In Nashville, I arose at 530a CT, made my bed, got dressed, drove to a nearby park and hiked 1.5-3 mi, showered, ate breakfast, made coffee, then onto the job hunt. I didn’t find a job. So at the beginning of July, I moved back home with my parents. Which, hello, humbling.

I lost my drive. My routine. I’ve been job hunting but I’ve also felt frozen. Frustrated. Scared. Rejected. Dejected. Alone.

Me? Alone?

But you’re a well-known blogger. The founder of #ppdchat. Giving. Compassionate. Funny. Awesome. One of the best friends I could ever imagine. Always there when people need you.

Surely you have people.

I have people. But I type to them on the computer. On my phone. They’re electricity, phantoms at best. In person?

I have my parents. People with whom I have been close with from a distance for the better part of the past 11 years. And let’s face it – you really don’t want to sit down and share everything with your parents.

Here, in person? I have no friends. I’ve lost touch with them all and really, at this point, don’t want to reconnect. I haven’t had an in-person best friend (other than my former husband) in nearly 11 years.

Then.

Trey Pennington.

Well known. Over 100k followers on Twitter. Committed suicide.

Alone.

Trey’s death scared the shit out of me.

Why?

Because there have been thoughts. A lot of thoughts.

Oh look. That tree is sturdy. I bet it’d destroy me and my car if I hit it going 70mph. Or… A steep hill… a ravine…. And trees. Surely I wouldn’t survive that.

But the one that scared me into really reaching out to someone?

Standing in front of my bedroom’s second story window wondering if I had what it took to fling myself out of it – at what angle would I have to do this in order to hit the cement wall? How long after I hit the ground would I survive for? Would I feel anything? Surely that pain had to be better than living in constant anxiety and frustration.

As I reached out to push the screen, I recoiled and rushed downstairs. Too close. Too.FUCKING.CLOSE.

A friend had reached out and told me if I ever felt Not OK, to text. So I did. We talked. He searched for some local agencies and found one for me. Today was my second therapy appointment. It rocked me. Hard. I drove for nearly an hour just to be okay enough to come home.

I’ve been wanting to write this post for almost a month now. I’ve been lying to myself. To you. To people who love me. I’m not okay. On my good days, I’m okay. But most days? Most days I’m a shell wrapped around shattered porcelain supports threatening to break any second. I rock, I pace, I can’t get my leg or my hands to stay still. I’ve been telling myself I’m okay, that I can do this, that I’m strong, that I have to make it through this because there’s no other choice but through. I can’t get out of this. It is my life. But – I’m alone in my life right now and I’m not so okay with that even though really, I have to be. There I go again.

Why now? Why today?

Because over the past week or so, I’ve had a couple of friends who have been in the same place come to me for support. I’ve watched myself type things to them I should be heeding but haven’t been. Words I need to live by but haven’t been.

It’s so very easy in this day and age to isolate ourselves. To live in an ivory tower connected to the world only with Wi-Fi. There are walls we put up, a lack of contact, a lack of true connection even if we try to impress upon others how much we care, they are, ultimately, still alone in their private hell. Our words are not three dimensional. They’re not hugs. They’re not “real” no matter how real they may seem or feel to those sending them. You can’t hug an email, a tweet, or a comment on a status update. Well, you can. But it’s awkward. And you’re still alone in the dark. It hurts, y’all. Like hell.

Trey’s death especially hit home because again, here was someone who was not only connected online but in person and yet he felt so profoundly alone and lost that the only way out he could locate was death.What’s really scary is that from initial suicidal thought to completion, time lapse is typically only 10 minutes. 10 MINUTES, people! Which, in the Social Media Realm seems like forever but in the real world? It’s only 10 minutes. That’s not a lot of time to do anything. No amount of Klout in the world is powerful enough to prevent someone from going through with suicide if they’re truly determined.

I don’t want that to be my way out. I don’t want to be a statistic. I can’t let myself be a statistic. I’m fighting as hard as I can but it’s exhausting. Some days, I may be quiet. I may not be able to handle supporting you. I need you to be okay with that. I need to be okay with that. I need to be okay with not being okay right now and admitting that I’m tired. It’s a work in progress and I suspect will be such for quite some time to come.

I’m not posting this for pity. I’m not posting this for attention. I’m posting this because the more honest we all are about how we feel and the more truthful we are with facing the hard, the easier it is for us to make strides in healing the hard. The easier it becomes for the NEXT person to talk about the hard, especially when that hard is suicide or a mental health issue.

I’m refusing, once again, to remain silent. I hope my refusal to stay silent about this will help someone somewhere.

Know I’m on my way to my new okay. I don’t have a plan right now and I am seeking help. In the meantime though, and especially right after I post this, I’m going to need some time to myself because wow has this been hard to write. I imagine deciding to hit Publish will be even harder. Because once I hit that button there’s no more hiding this from anyone. And also? I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be the support. Once I hit publish, that flips. Being on the opposite side of the equation is a bit scary… it’s territory I’ve not been in for quite some time. At least not publicly. Or ever, really, because I didn’t go through my PPD in real-time through my blog or on Twitter. Maybe I’ll just close my eyes and click. Like Pin the Tail on the Donkey except this is Bare your heart and soul to the entire fucking Internet and never take it back. It’s a pebble which, once dropped, will create uncontainable ripples.

Also? Make those connections. Online and off. Lean on them. BE HONEST when you’re not okay. Lying about your well-being only hurts yourself. I am SO sorry for not being honest but it’s hard to be honest with others when you’re not even capable of being honest with yourself. Now that I’m somewhat heading toward self-honesty, I will do my best to be honest with you too. I pray you’ll forgive my dishonesty and understand my struggles. I know most of you will. But I do worry some of you will worry unnecessarily about me as well or even wonder if you’ve done anything to add to my issues. Rest assured you have not, I promise.

I love all of you to pieces and hope you’ll continue to support me as I go through this new and not so stable time in my life. I know you’re going to want to help but a lot of this involves things I need to work through on my own. Just knowing you’re out there to support me as I’m moving forward will be more than enough.

I’m working to find my happy again. I promise.