I'm A Believer

Monday at 3 o'clock  I suddenly believed. I believed from the core of my soul. Prior to 3 o'clock I would have said I believed and would have thrown information at you in order to make you believe as well. But deep inside where you hide the things you don't want to think about ....I doubted. I doubted that Sensory Processing Disorder was real. I secretly wondered if one day we were going to find out it was all made up, like immunizations and autism.  I doubted myself and my ability to pick quality doctors who would tell me the truth. I still believed that it was my parenting that had messed John up. I believed that it was me that had screwed my own son up so badly he has four separate diagnoses.

And then 3 o'clock  happened.

We needed to leave for John's OT appointment and he was still in his pajamas.  I told John to get dressed in his clean clothes and I walked away.

 He came screaming down the stairs, red faced, hot tears wetting his shirt collar. He was jumping in the air, flopping like a fish out of water, spinning and grabbing, yelling something over and over. Finally I understood: "It hurts."

He was out of control. He would jump and his entire body would arch backwards as his feet left the floor. He was clawing at the inside of his legs and shaking uncontrollably. He started to hit himself in the head. He started pulling on his penis. His face was pulled into a grotesque mask of pain.
 I started trying to get the clothes off of him. In my head I was a frantic fool, repeating,  "Off Off Off. Just get it off off off why doesn't he just tear it all off? Where are the scissors? Can I rip the pants? OFF." Finally I was able get my arms around him and squeeze him long enough that he could take a breath and tell me that he couldn't take the clothes off, because he had to go see Miss Beth, his OT. I suggested he wear his pajama's. That was not acceptable and everything began again.

At some point I just sat back and looked at him. I looked at my perfect and wonderful child and saw the pain he was in.  I saw him pull his beautiful blonde hair. Leave welts on his rosy skin. See his collar turn deep blue form his tears. I saw him curl up in the fetal position on the dirty floor and just sob.  This was my baby. The baby I helped and soothed through feeding therapy, through asthma and pneumonia. The baby I could soothe then. But could not now. This was pure pain, all centering in him, in his body, in his nervous system. This is was John's own personal pain.

And I couldn't fix it. Taking the clothes off meant we weren't going to see Miss Beth. Keeping the clothes on meant we weren't going to see Miss Beth. We couldn't win. I called the office and tried to tell them we'd be late, with John yelling in the background. I started to cry. Here I was, my child needing to come to them - for real- and we can't get there because we are so beyond help. I talked with Miss Beth and she had some suggestions. She talked low and calm to me, asked me to go to a dark room, sit on the floor with him, squeeze as he would tolerate,  and would it be helpful if she wore her pajama's? I already think the world of this young lady, but my respect for her grew ten fold.

I was doing everything right. Nothing I was doing was making it worse or causing it. We were in a dark room, I was barely speaking and when I did it was a whisper. I was holding him tight when he pressed against me and releasing him when he leaned away. I was pounding him on the back the way he likes and offered the swing, weighted blanket, trampoline and chewy. I WAS DOING EVERYTHING AND STILL NOTHING WAS WORKING. This wasn't poor parenting. This was my little boy who desperately wanted to see his OT, but his pants were setting his legs on fire. He was so distraught that he began pulling on his penis; of which he has no memory. This was my child who's legs were on fire but he couldn't wear his pajama's out because that is embarrassing. He couldn't wear shorts because it's now fall.
THIS is not poor parenting.
THIS is not my child wanting control.
THIS is not my child being difficult.

THIS is my child with a Sensory Processing Disorder, along with ADHD, anxiety and Dyslexia.
THIS is what he looks like. THIS is how he feels. THIS is real.
BUT. This isn't WHO he is.
He is the child who suffered on the floor, yet dragged himself to the van and made sure we got to see Miss Beth. She greeted us with warm smiles and soft voice and took us to the smallest room where she knew John would feel most comfortable, even though he normally prefers the largest. She had the lights low and was ready. He was subdued, she respected that. She provided suggestions and helped him into equipment that wrapped against him and gave his body the input it needed. He is the child who pushed through and climbed ladders he couldn't in May. He is the child who dashed up the slide without one misstep. He is the child who designed a series of traps, then maneuvered himself through it in a way he could not have done 3 months ago. He is the child who craves this sensory time he has with Miss Beth and somehow pushed the pain aside long enough to see her, play with here and then come home to quickly shed the painful clothes. Miss Beth did her job. But to me, as she helped my son, it was so very  much more

It was a terrible day. Worse than any day where he 'just' rages. I saw him in pain. Undiluted, uncontrolled pain. And I couldnt' fix it.
And THAT is the worse day.
(And if you are wondering about this OT angel, Miss Beth, she works at All The Difference here in Wilmington. It's the only facility like it in the area and a gift from God)

Doing What I'm Told . . . And Trusting God

I don't even know how to begin this post. I've already started crying. But after talking with my therapist and psychiatrist they recommended that I write about it. So I'm going to listen and do what I'm told.

 

We've all written posts about Sandy Hook, have prayed and done random acts of kindness in honor of those precious lives.

It's been 3 weeks since this horrific event.

It wasn't me that lost the love of my life.

But I'm grieving more than I've ever grieved.

More than even my 3 miscarriages - which almost sickens me.

I've avoided all news about what happened - I'm at least smart enough to know that information will not help in this situation. I've managed to quickly scroll past pictures of those babies lost and descriptions of funerals, information on what actually happened.

And still, I'm plagued by intrusive thoughts of 'what ifs' and 'oh, Jesus, why, why, why?'

I've stood in my shower and yelled at God, sobbed and started taking Xanax again at bedtime.

I have stopped crying every time I look at my children. But when I kiss them goodnight, when they are sleeping soundly in their beds, when they are warm, safe and wrapped in my love? I get choked up and my mind races.

The first thing I think of when my eyes open in the morning is the parents and the overwhelming grief they are experiencing.

Because when I first heard the news we all thought it was a kindergarten class that was lost, I immediately fixated on John - because he is in kindergarten and I volunteer in his classroom. And an entire class of these amazing little lives were gone.

Then I learned it was a first grade classroom. So I transferred my obsession to Sarah because she is in the first grade and I've been in her room, on field trips with these sweet, sweet children, and how could this be gone in an instant?

I'm completely aware that I'm transferring my worries, my fears, from one child to another. Which my therapist and psych say is a good thing. It means I'm paying attention to what my mind is doing and beginning to understand what my brain does when I'm overwhelmed with grief and fear.

I did give Sarah and Violet good, appropriate information on what happened. Violet heard some worrisome information while at dance and around older girls, but we talked about it and she was reassured. Since I couldn't talk about it without crying, we also talked about grief and being sad about something when it hasn't happened directly to you.

I'm talking to God about this constantly and holding onto the knowledge that this, somehow, in some way, is His plan. But, even with this knowledge, I question continually and argue that even one soul saved from this tragedy does not justify what happened.

I'm furious with God and this didn't happen to me.

I'm grieving deeply and somewhat inappropriately for the parents, family and friends of these perfect lives lost.

I'm praying that by writing about it I will be able to get some of this grief out and onto this paper, pour it into this instead of into my heart and mind. When I write about my depression that is what happens - I'm able to acknowledge what happened and begin to move on. Perhaps this will be the same.

I don't know yet, because I'm sitting here wiping tears off my face and feel no release.

The only thing I do know is I've cherished my children and our moments together more than I thought possible. I thought I cherished them before - I was mistaken. This injustice has taken my love for, my feeling of being blessed for my life and babies, my patience with them and acceptance of who they are to a whole new level.

But even if that is part of God's plan from this - that we all experience these feelings? It's not enough.

My heart breaks numerous times daily for Sandy Hook and all of the victims. I know it stretches across the country with relatives and friends of those incredible lives lost. I pray almost continuously for them and think about where they are.

And I'm well aware that this is, on some level, going too far.

My psych says that I take my grief for one thing - something that has happened to me such as losing memories when I was so sick, my fear for Violet when she had the meningitis this summer, and instead of dealing with it then, in the moment, I shove it down and then it overwhelms me when something else happens. Then it all comes out - somehow safer when I'm feeling for somebody else and not me.

Messed.up.

I'll let you know how or if this helps.

 

 

Photographs and Memories

Today I have the honor of guest posting over at John's place: Daddy Run's A lot, about my perfect children. :)  If you haven't been reading John then you are really missing out, so go! Check him out.

Over here, I'm talking about depression and healing.

I've told you before about how I literally lost two plus years to depression. I have huge chunks of my memories just gone. I see pictures and have absolutely no recollection of the event, have no idea what the event even is sometimes. The grief has been overwhelming at times to know that I've missed so much.

But the other day I made the most wonderful discovery: I took a thousand pictures during that time. It's as if part of me knew I wasn't truly connected and was missing things. That someday I'd crave those moments. So I took a bajillion pictures. Even if I don't have the memories in my head, I have them in scrapbooks.

I think taking pictures was my way of participating at that time. Since I had zero energy or want to get up and involved, I become the photographer. Therefore I could sit and snap pictures or just walk around after the kids as they explored the zoo, museums and ordinary daily things. How could I run through the sprinkler with the kids when I had to take pictures? So I remained an observer.

But I have those pictures. I have pictures of everything. That farm trip, the Children's museum, swimming. Silly faces and temper tantrums. I have the memories in concrete form.

This is incredibly healing for me.

And sometimes the pictures bring back the real memories, which an unexpected and beautiful gift.

The Good Life

I had a doctor appointment today, with my primary doc who I haven't seen in 2 years. I was there for a migraine. She looked me over, sat down and said, "Well, you have a nasty migraine, we need to break it. Other than this though, how have you been? I haven't seen you."

And it hit me.

I used to see her every week or so, for some complaint. An illness, a migraine. My depression.

I looked at her, sitting there all pretty in her doctors white, me in my grunge clothes and unkempt hair, and I traveled back in time. Back to the last time I saw her. In that very room.

John and Sarah were toddling around the room, they couldn't have been older than 2 1/2 and 1 1/2. I was sitting in the chair, half hearted attempting to entertain them and keep them from screaming. I have no idea if I was successful.

I was unshowered. I was heavy. My hair was frizzy. My skin was greasy. I may have put on make up to show I was making an effort. I remember that I had on too tight yoga pants, a long sleeve tee shirt and most likely no bra. (And I totally thought I was fooling people, with this appearance.)

More showing than my physical appearance was my mental state. I know that I was shaking uncontrollably. My hands, my legs, my body. Tears flowed from eyes constantly, no matter how hard I tried to stop them. I was so humiliated at this, but I couldn't do anything about it.

I had three gorgeous kids, two of them playing at my feet, a loving husband, a wonderful home and friends. I was so ashamed that I couldn't keep it together. And nothing was working. Nothing. Not the meds. The therapy. The quiet time. The journaling. The naps. The diets. The exercising. The praying. The yoga. The power foods. I was doing it all. And I was failing.

My doctor walked in the room and I started crying even harder, asking her, begging her, "Is this me? Is this what I am? Is this what my life is? Because I need to know. If this is my life then I have to learn how to cope. If this is what I have . . . then I have to figure out how to live. Because this isn't' living. My husband needs to know if this is his wife. My kids need to know if this is their mom. I need to know if this is my life."

I remember her staring at me, caught off guard. She finally asked if I'd driven myself to the appointment - I guess I came off pretty frightening. I admitted that I did and she shook her head.

She calmed me down. Recommended I get a new psych and try some new meds. She did everything she possibly could to help me.

I'd had two stays in the mental hospital at this point, a third could be in my future if I didn't do something.

I looked at my babies. I looked at her. At myself.

And I left.

I listened, though. I got a new psych and new meds. I kept doing the work and  all of those things fell into place. I began to live.

And I havent' been back. I never called her to say, "Hey, I listened and thanks" or "You were right." I haven't said a thing.

So today as I sat there with a migraine and she asked how I was, I cried a bit and said, "Well, it's been nice not seeing you, I'll be honest. I'm doing so well. The meds have been life changing. I have a good life. Thank you."

I should have said that sooner. Since I didn't, Dr. Kelly, Thank you. Thank you for listening and not dismissing. Thank you for telling me to do something, to not just accept less than the best for myself. Thank you for telling me that my kids deserved a mom who was 'there,' my husband deserved a wife who was present and most importantly that I deserved to be me, to live and enjoy every bit of life.

I have a good life, a great life, now. Thank you.

The Fever.

Baby fever.  I've got it. There are pregnant ladies all around me. Fresh newborns to cuddle and smell are everywhere.

And I still want one.

I still lay in bed at night and think about a new baby.

A baby in my body, that I'll grow and birth and nurse and watch grow outside of my body.

I think of it every day.

Two of my best friends are pregnant, and while I'm incredibly happy for them, I'm also insanely jealous. I'm living vicariously through them.

And that will have to be good enough.

Babies are not what my husband wants. He's done - and 45. I'm 39 and I know that I should be done - done wanting, done having kids. If we had a baby right now, my husband would be 55 when the baby turned 10. I'd be 49.

I'm OK with my number, but I know he isn't with his. And I respect that - during the day. At night when I'm laying in bed and the house is quiet, I stroke my belly and wish for it to grow.  I cup my breasts and crave  the quiet nursing  of a new born.

These things won't happen. They can't. We made a permanate choice when John was a baby. It was the right choice. Because another baby would have broken me. I was on the edge of a breakdown and my husband knew this, somehow. He knew we needed to be done.

And I thank God that he knew.

The meds I am on cause birth defects. I know this. And yet I still crave a baby of my own.

Adoption isn't an option, because my husband feels complete in our family. He feels that we are a solid, complete unit. He's completely fulfilled.

Then there is the money factor with adoption. That's daunting. And again, our ages.

So.

I want a baby.

It's not going to happen and somehow I've got to learn how to get through this. To accept and move on.

I'm trying. I truly am.

Bring Home The Bacon, Fry It Up In A Pan

(does anybody even remember this song? No? I've just so dated myself.)

Anyway, I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, because I'm a woman.

A woman with a job. A paying job. In cash.

So, it's contract work, about 10 hours a week, but you guys, it pays me money. M-O-N-E-Y. Like, I can buy a pair of shoes money, or I can take my husband to dinner money. Or I could join the Y money. Real, live, green money.

Mulah. Dead presidents. Clams.

Whatever you call it, I'm making some of it, and I'm so excited.

It's not just the money that I'm excited about. I'm also thrilled that I was considered for and hired for the position -- and I have one. A position. With a title. I know.

This means that I'm really normal -that I've shown the outside world what I feel inside - confident and healthy. (I know that I'll always be working at being better, I think I learned that lesson last week. But this makes me feel normal, you know?)

I feel like this is a huge milestone in my health. To have somebody else recognize that I'm healthy and can be trusted with a project  . . . it means more than I thought it would. Today as I was being trained I thought, " I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. But I also know that I can do it." And I can. I can organize these papers. I can get these mailings out. I can talk to mom's about cord blood. I know all this stuff. I got this.

And outside of being a mom (which is a huge thing) and a wife (which is a huge thing) I haven't felt like that in probably four years.

You guys? I'm a mom. With an outside job. That pays money. People are trusting me. And I feel like  I got this.

Whoa.

This Christmas

I will remember everything.

I will be functional.

I will be happy.

I will be present.

I will be thrilled to see my children opening gifts, not wondering when I can go back to bed.

I will be remember what gifts I received and from who.

I will appreciate the little things and the big things.

I will make dinner from scratch (not all. Just some, because I realize I am not Martha).

I will be here.

I will be healthy.

 

So Much To Be Thankful For

I know this is an obvious post, but let's go with it, shall we?

I have so much to be thankful for. For friends who have stood by me as I heal. Who have supported me with kindness and love this past year. I don't know if you'll ever understand how much your love and support mean to me, and I can't ever thank you enough. When I'm having a bad day your friendships pull me up.

For family who loved me through the darkest days and now smile with me as I have bright days. You helped me when I couldn't help myself and for that I am ever thankful. Your love pulls me up on my bad days and supports me in ways I can't express.

My February Song

Where has that old friend gone

Lost in a February song

Tell him it won't be long

'Till he opens his eyes, opens his eyes

Where is that simple day

Before colors broke into shades

And how did I ever fade

Into this life, into this life

And I never want to let you down

Forgive me if I slip away

When all that I've known is lost and found

I promise you I, I'll come back to you someday

Morning is waking up

And sometimes it's more than just enough

when all that you really need to love

Is in front of your eyes, it's in front of your eyes

And I never want to let you down

Forgive me if I slip away

Someitmes it's hard to find my ground

'Cause I keep on falling as

I try to get away from this crazy world

And I never want to let you down . ..

This is my song. My anthem. It's the song that pulled me through some of my deepest, darkest moments during my depression. The first time I understood the lyrics I had hope -- hope that I was not alone. That hope echoed through my soul. "I am not alone."

The Girl Who Didn't Run

On Monday I will board a train and head for NYC. Two hours later I'll be in Penn Station. And with a very, very great friend of mine, Karen. Six hours later we'll be at the closing concert of Josh Groban's Illumination tour. Did you miss the important detail there? Karen is the important part. Not Josh.

[caption id="attachment_1592" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Our Philly concert. Karen is on the far left."][/caption]

*gasp*

I met Karen three and a half years ago online. Right about the time I was really losing my mind I started talking to her. Since we only talked online I was able to paint a pretty normal picture of my life. But as we got to know each other better and our talked turned from, "OK, Josh's first CD makes my kids sleep. What's his latest??" to "I have a therapist." She was clued in.

And she didn't run.

Then I went into the hospital. The mental hospital. And I told her.

She didn't run.

I even said to her, "Now I really am some crazy person you met online!"

We met in person, and just laughed and talked for hours. She asked how I was. If I was seeing my therapist. If I was taking my medication. If I felt well. She cared.

And I was some crazy person she'd met online.

Nine months later I called her again to say I'd been back in the hospital. She already knew. My husband had told her when she'd called to check on me because she hadn't heard from me.

Again, she didn't run. She just made sure I was still coming to her house for our girls weekend.

No fear, this girl.

In July we spent our third girls weekend together and went to the Josh Groban concert. Yes, it was a thrill  to see him. But the bigger thrill? Spending that time with Karen. And now, here we are another four months later ready to do it all again. Heading to NYC for a mere 24 hours to act like teenagers, giggle, dance and scream  for this random singer that literally brought us together.

But the greatest part? Karen. The girl who didn't run.

Things You Should Never Do . . .

When you are depressed.

Really.

As I've gotten better this past year, I've come across some 'projects' and organization I did while I was in the throes of depression. And, oh, sweet lord. The mess I created. At the time I thought they would help, would give me a sense of purpose. But even at the time they only served to overwhelm me and therefor I tried to complete them as fast as possible.

Completing something like, ohhh, painting your entire downstairs hallway while you are hurrying? Results in not the greatest outcome. This summer we decided to repaint, and I was so shocked at what I'd done. I'd painted everything the same color as the wall. Every.thing. The walls, the trim, even the doors. No, it didn't give the house some ultra sheek and modern look. The paint I used was not made for doors or trim. Therefore it chipped off everytime you touched it. Which I didn't see while I was depressed. The good thing? Repainting was really satisfying.

Packing for a trip. I've told you the story about our Trip From Hell. How I packed the diapers in the roof top carrier. Here's some other gems. I didn't pack my husbands shoes. So that's why he had them in a plastic bag in the back of the van, just waiting for Sarah to spill Pedia Sure all over them and completely ruin them. I also packed items we wouldn't need unless we were staying for weeks and weeks and didn't have acess to a washing machine. We weren't, and we did. On a seperate trip I neglected to pack shoes, again. For John. Who was learning to walk - in the summer. How exactly could he do that on hot pavement? Planning while depressed was not something I did well.

I planned numerous birthday parties for the kids, which for the most part went well. I was able to pull it together long enough to get some food prepared and a cake made for them. We'd have a few friends and family over and I'd consider it a roaring success. Except the year we decided to have Violet's party at a local park. And I forgot to include that little detail on three or four invitations. So they showed up at an empty house.

I attempted, at numerous times, to organize my depression away. I was convinced that if I had a super organized house than I'd have more energy - and 'energy' was all I needed, I kept telling myself. So periodcially I'd clean out closets and rooms. And give all the 'junk' to GoodWill or day cares. I gave away important items such as: sheets we were currently using. (And searched for them for an entire day once the depression lifted. Then I remembered, vaguley what I had done with them.) Coffee grinders, all the Harry Potter books, children's puzzels that just needed to be organized - for real- in order for the kids to use them. Toys and stuffed animals/dolls that were gifts from special  people in our lives.

 I don't know that I could have been stopped. I was actively trying to heal myself and I thought these things would help. They didn't. And now I grieve some of those lost items. It's also embarassing when somebody says, "Where is that ____ I gave Sarah?" and I have to explain, again, what happened. I see the sadness in their eyes, and I'm not going lie, sometimes annoyance with me.

And I can't blame them.

But as I keep telling myself, everytime I say, "Where in the world is that ___?" And realize I gave it away, that it's all part of the healing process.

(Comments are now working! Blog is back up!!)

Role Reversal

It's no secret that for over two years my husband took care of me - from making sure I was eating and taking my meds, to taking me to all my doctor appointments, he did it all. And while I've thanked him for all of that, and everything else he did (taking care of the children, the house, the cars, my family, his family, the dog, the cat, the bills, the laundry, the groceries, etc) I discovered that there was one area I didn't understand, didn't empathize with, when it came to the 'taking care' of things.

Being with me at the doctor appointments.

A Day In MollyWood: On My Blog!

I 'found' molly via Twitter when I had been blogging about a month. I read her post, "The Lost Year" and was blown away. I knew. I understood. I fell in absolute love with he. The first time I saw her in my comments? I sat and stared at my screen for about two minutes in complete shock. We've gotten to know each other a little since then and she's a wonderful, wonderful woman. When she agreed to guest post for me I did a big ole funky dance around my kitchen, I'm not going to lie.

Kim, who has always been one of my biggest supporters, asked me to write a guest post on what it’s like to blog about living with mental illness. For a few weeks I lingered in writer’s block every time I tried to think of what to write. Then a common little saying popped into my head.

 

The benefit outweighs the risk.

 

This was said to me when I was 21 weeks pregnant with my second son. I needed to be medicated due to a bad case of antenatal depression. I cried to my OB telling her that it couldn’t be good for the baby.

 

She looked straight at me and answered, “Neither is a mom who can’t take care of herself while she’s pregnant or after her baby is born. The benefit outweighs the risk.”

 

She was absolutely right. Soon Brigham was born and it was one of the most memorable and blissful times of my life. The benefit most definitely outweighed the risk.

 

I think the same could be said of blogging about depression.

 

I understand the risks. Every time I write a post about depression I know more people will read it than any other posts I write. It is easily reflected in my blog stats. I get sad and the readers, they come a running. I would like to believe that they are there because they worry about me or they want to learn more about it. But I’m sure some of it is the ambulance-chaser mentality. Watching people falter is fun for some people.

 

The risks grew as my family members and friends started reading my blog. Even my mom reads it now! I used to share stories of my most difficult times only to the strangers who stumbled upon my blog. Now people I know and love read the words I write. Worrying them is never my intention. Writing is my outlet. It is the way I repair what is broken. It makes me happy and helps me heal. I know they understand that.

 

Blogging about something so personal means I have to moderate comments. It is sad but I have received a few hateful anonymous comments that if published would erupt into a catfight below my post. I don’t want that negativity on my blog so those go straight to the blog landfill.

 

One of the worst comments I ever received said that I needed to “shut the f**k up” about my depression and write about something else. They told me no one cares about it. Best believe that went unpublished. But it didn’t stop me from wondering if this person was right.

 

 

It can be risky to share so much. But for every hateful comment I receive there are also beautiful and uplifting emails sent to me each and every time I post about my struggles.

 

This email was sent to me after pressing publish on one of the most difficult posts I have ever written involving suicidal thoughts.

 

I just wanted to say thank you for sharing your story. I am sitting at work reading your blog and having a weird "I wasn't the only one" feeling. Mostly because I know that girl. You are brave and strong and truly inspirational. And yes you do deserve to hear that.

 

Every time I wonder if I’ve shared too much and contemplate quitting I receive an email like the one above. The feeling that I’ve helped someone else in some small way makes me feel like I made the right decision to blog about a taboo subject.

I know talking about mental illness makes some people uncomfortable. But it breaks my heart that many people struggle even more because they feel they aren’t allowed to share it. They are afraid of being made fun of or afraid to be seen as weak or psycho.

 

I don’t blame them. I used to be afraid.

 

But being open about mental illness helps me and it seems to help others too. As long as that’s the case I will keep it up. I will continue writing because the benefit outweighs the risk.

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My Heart Is Home Again

I want to paint. Decorate. Plant a garden. Rearrange the furniture. Buy new furniture. Dust. Organize. Polish the floors. I want to make Martha Stewart look at me and say, "Dang, girl. How do you do it?"

I want to cook delicious, from scratch, organic meals every night. I want to volunteer for every single committee at my children's' school. I want to join every group I can find. I want to make all my Christmas gifts this year. I want to 'dress' every day.  I want Stepford wives everywhere to be jealous of me.

Finally. After all that time, all those years of fighting the hairy beast of depression, I'm home. And it's mine.

When I woke up and looked around at my house I realized that it, like me, was just a shell. When we bought it, it needed work. As in every room needed wallpaper stripped, work. While I was fighting, and losing, my battle with depression, the house sat. It wasn't a home to anybody. It was just a place where I existed.

You see, I didn't pour my love, my heart,  into my home. It was a place to sleep. To eat. To fall, exhausted into bed and attempt to lose myself in unconsiousness.

Sometime around February I looked around the house and suddenly said, "What have I done?" Well . . . nothing. That was the problem. We'd remodeled some. But I wasn't in my home. So I began to change that.

Throughout the spring and summer I have painted and cleaned. Put up pictures. Organized and rearranged. Cleaned out flower beds. Planted (and killed) a garden. This? Is my home.

This morning as I came down the stairs in the darkness I had a flash of my girls walking down that very stairway. The stairs gleaming. Smiles on their faces as they greeted prom dates at the front door of their home.

I saw John bringing his friends over to hang out in our kitchen. Eating all our food. Bringing his friends to his home.

And that's when I fully realized that truly, my heart was home again.

Awwwww . . . . Freak Out

So I had a small melt down last night. And I DO mean small. But it was unsettling to my husband.

And that's my fault.

My 'freak out' was really a 'I'm so frustrated I just want a farking browning or chocolate or roll dripping in butter. But you came home with ice cream sandwiches. And can I eat an ice cream sandwich? NOOOOO. WHY? Seriously? Because they have a cake crust on them. And you didn't think of that and you didn't think of me and I always think of you and I would have so realized this for you and then I would have bought you your favorite ice cream, which I totally know. Rocky road. So there."

And then he said, "You're scaring me." Which caused me to rant even more, that I could be upset, be irrationally upset even and not have it mean a damn thing, except that I.was.very.very.upset.

It doesn't mean anything. Except that I wanted something chocolate that was available and didn't cost 10 dollars. That I was frustrated right then and completely fed up. And that he is my husband and I'm supposed to be able to do this with him.

But I've trained him differently.

So when I behave this way he sees days of sleeping, piles of laundry, agitation, tears, yelling, more tears and more sleeping in his future. Possibly followed by a trip to the hospital.

I've trained him well.

Un-training him is a whole different story. A trip to my therapist is in our very near future.

Because I can't let him feel this way.

Guest Post: Arms Wide Open

Grace at Our Arms Wide Open was one of the first PPD/Depression blogs I found when I began looking around. I was immediately taken in by her charm, her candor. Her complete honesty. Grace's story is one that needs to be shared - and not just with new mom's. Her's is a journey of strength and character building that  you are going to find inspiring. Grace is one of the women who let me know that I wasn't alone. You're going to love her. I do. (and let's be honest. When she agreed to guest post? ::headexplosions::)

~~

Going through depression never really leaves you.

Sure, you heal slowly, life returns to normal - a new normal - and you move forward.
But there is always that demon in the shadow taunting you, waiting to catch you off guard. With time, the shadow becomes brighter and the demon smaller and less intimidating. With time, you gain confidence in yourself, what you've learned, how you've grown, the strength of those who love you. And you move forward even more, from small shaky steps, to leaping with purpose.

My son just turned 3 last week. I can say I've healed. I can say life is pretty much back to normal. The demons are there, however, and they manifest themselves in fear, doubt and guilt.

I'm still learning on a daily basis how to overcome these things will tools like positive thinking, planning ahead, networking with other moms, creating a support system, forgiving myself.

Before becoming a mom I never imagined I would go through what we went through. Now in retrospect, I would not be the mom I am today without overcoming depression. Depression stole a lot from us as a family, but it also gave us gifts.
The gift I am most thankful for is the bond my husband and son have. I attribute this largely to the fact that my husband had to step up to parenting in ways much more intense than the average husband and father. My son received this gift with open arms.
Depression also taught me a new level of gratefulness. I see things through a new lens. I am thankful and don't take the little things for granted. I appreciate small accomplishments. I went into this second pregnancy with purpose, intent, sweat on my brow, and determination in my heart. I don't take any of this lightly.

Depression gave me a community of other like-minded moms, many of whom have gone through the hell we went through. There's nothing that bonds women more than motherhood, and nothing more than overcoming postpartum depression.

In the thick of your pain, the last thing on your mind is the reasons behind your suffering. But, let me encourage you, let me assure you, you will heal. You will emerge from this darkness a brighter person, a lighter person, a person with more purpose.

In October we welcome our second little boy. The name we chose for him means "warrior." I think we are both entering this relationship trembling. But we will fight together and win.

Awakenings

I'm awake, fully and completely awake. I know it to be true. And I know that I'm not going to slip back into that hole at any moment.

Finally.

Freedom. Relaxation. Room to take a deep, deep breath. Smile unguarded. Laugh with complete ease.

Live. Just live.

I know that for over two years I was not present. I am aware, now, how checked out how I was. There was no happiness in my life, despite an incredible husband and three beautiful children. I couldn't find the joy there. I remember searching for it but even when I found something to spark my interest it couldn't hold my attention for very long. I remember just laying on the sofa as the kids played or watched television.When I did interact I yelled. John was barely two years old. Sarah barely three. That put Violet in the care taker role.

The guilt that comes with it sits on my chest and weighs it down so I cannot breathe at times. It is a heavy, wet, sucking weight.

But today I play with them. Television is practically banned in our home. Do I still yell? Yes, but mostly because I'm a loud (oh, so loud) person.

I know I have large chunks memory that are gone. Some are not going to return. I feel the truth in that deep inside me. But for the most part I've come to accept that, even if it still brings me to tears. I'm noticing more details that I've forgotten, but I'm more comfortable with it.

 I'm also living in the moment. In this very moment. Right here. Right now. I'm not worried. I'm not self checking, looking for signs of me checking out. I do this, yes. But not every single hour of every single day. Or even every day.  I know that I'll have to be vigilant and fight this enemy, depression, forever. But while I fight it, I'm fighting it totally and completley awake. I'm aware of everything. This weekend I was present for every moment. And during our drive to Michigan yesterday I realized that I've been present, completely awake and alive, for months now. All June and July we ran around like crazy. And I enjoyed every moment of it. I remember all the swim meets. I remember the names of the women I met -- and how I met them. I'm still over emotional but I'm beginning to think that's  just me. I always was way too empathetic. I just forgot how to be that way when I was busy concentrating on breathing. And medicating the world away.

Today I just have good days. There aren't bad days looming on my horizon.  I have bad moods. The kids drive me crazy. But I'm not crazy. I'm not sad. I'm not waiting for a good day to get something done.

I'm just . . . awake. Alive.

And with that's how it's going to stay.

*I'm on my laptop, which is overly sensitive (as well) and jumpy. The spell check won't work, so please forgive any mistakes. Thanks!*

Where I Say "Thank You & OMG It's Happening" All At Once

Don't click out because you think this post is about Josh Groban. It's not. Really. *rolls eyes.* (But This post is. And so is this one. )

I'm leaving this morning for my annual girls weekend. Four girls and I sit around for four days and talk all things crazy, play silly board games, catch up on a year of kids, romances (three of the five of us are single), and yes, Josh Groban. Although, to be fair, he is the last thing we discuss.

Except this year.

This year we go to The Concert.

*squeals like a 13 year old* *shut up, I know I'm 38* *nobody asked you*

You must understand, that these girls, these women, are awesome. Awesome with a side of awesome sauce. Before we met -- in person (because, yes, I met them on line.) I was hospitalized for depression for the first time. I told them. And they didn't run. In fact one of them, Karen, met me just a few months later. Alone. The other three kind of shrugged their shoulders and said, "Yeah, stuff happens. Are you alright? What can we do from out here in the interwebs?"

And then they spent long evenings and late nights chatting with me on AOL Messenger -- and no, not all about Josh. I got a care package. Phone calls. So many, many  laughs.

Support, that's what I received. So much of it.

And when I went into hospital the second time, they continued to support me. I met them in person, a few short weeks after. They hugged me and showered me with love. We giggled and talked and giggled some more. They treated me as though I was normal. (ha!)

So, this morning I pack up and drive to Pennsylvania to join Karen, Linda, Mal and Keren. We'll stay up late talking about all things silly and serious. We'll play Dirty Pictionary. We'll exchange funny gifts with each other. On Friday we will get dressed up big time, get lookin' all hot, take tons of pictures and go to the concert together. And I? Will totally cry. Not because I'm seeing Josh Groban. But because I'm with these girls.

Thank you. I love you all.

 

I Want To Be A Cowboy . . .

And you can be my cowgirl . .

Right.

In October my husband and I took a week vaction to Colorado (where I met Diana. Awesome-sauce.). It was an incredible week.

We went on a three hour trail ride through  the mountains of Salida, and oh Lord, the sights. Also? Oh LORD my rear end.

They asked if I'd ridden before, and well, I have. (Never mind it was like 9 years prior.) They gave me a horse name Bealzabub Jake. My husband was yelling that he'd never ridden a horse in his life and wanted a lame one. So they gave him Elmer Suzie.

 After Chuckie Jake ran me into the fence, feeding station, mounting platform (that's what she said), and Suzie, our guide said, "You ever ridden?" At which point my husband laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. The John Wayne look- a -like in the coral with us was, by this time, annoyed with me because at various points I had too hard of hands and too soft of hands. I was asking Diablo Jake to go left then when I really wanted him to go right. And then surprised. Only I swear to you I was following their directions. And I swear to you by all that is holy and good in my life that Damien Jake was rolling his eye back at me before we even left that dusty coral and laughing at me. (And YES, horses can laugh.)

The first hour was glorious. Our guide, Jesse, chatted with my husband and our horses followed each other without a problem. We picked our way up the mountain through pine trees and tumbled rocks. We were in a very small valley of sorts and all shadowed by the trees. It was the kind of place where you knew God exists. You could see His hand tossing stones and lighting the ground just so. We came out on the edge of a cliff and looked out over a huge valley at the Collegiate Peaks: Mt. Princeton, Harvard and Yale. There's also a funny formation in them that looks like an alien.

[caption id="attachment_1010" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Do you see it?"][/caption]

We rested at a the edge of cliff, where we could get off our horses and take pictures. It was at this point that I realized there was a problem. A very, very serious problem. I knew that if I dismounted from my horse, whom I was sure was plotting my demise by throwing me over the edge of that cliff, I would never be getting back on.

We took pictures while still sitting on our horses. Then started back down the trail. Back down into the depths of hell. The dark, dank, depths of hell.

As Jesse and my husband chatted on about their carreers, my body reached levels of pain that child birth had never inflicted upon me. The demon I was sitting upon ceased to listen even a tiny bit. Jesse and my husband prattled on about Jesse's thisclose to 'I'm a Navy Seal' days in the service.  Since my husband was also in the service they talked shop about that for awhile while the heinous Jake kept breaking into a down hill trot.  Which caused my tender rear to slam against the saddle numerous times.

Slam. Slam. Slam.

While Jesse and my husband discussed Jesse's new carreer as a professional rodeo cowboy.

Really?

Lucifer Jake continued to break into a trot, knowing we were headed home. And that I could do little about it. I was also behind our '8 Second' guide and my husband, so what were they going to do?

Nothing, that's what.

Eventually, Jesse would hear my grunts and turn around. He'd say something to Belial Jake in a demonic tongue and he'd slow to a walk, his eye rolling back to look at me, closing in a wink that said, "You just wait. I'ma gonna git you." (Have you seen the movie 'Fallen'? Because I could totally hear someone nearby singing 'Time Is On Your Side' by this point. Not even kidding.)

Slam. Slam. Slam.

I practiced my natural breathing on the way down the trail. For real. When I was in front of the men, my husband kept calling out encouraging words. "You look great on that horse, babe."  and, "How do you say it? You sure know how to sit a horse."  (whatever.) and his favorite, "Your hair looks amazing, flowing in the wind." I snorted so hard at this that the ogre beneath me jumped.

As Jesse told us that his big toe was broken and he'd had a 'slight' problem putting on his boots that morning, The Prince Of Darkness Jake broke into a full on run. Because he'd seen the Promised Land. His barn. I watched my teeth fly out of my mouth and bounce along the dirt trail. And I heard Jesse and my husband laugh.

When we got back to the coral, I attmpted to steer (yes, steer. I was done 'guiding') Satan Jake to that awesome  mounting platform (that's what she said) so I could dismount. From the distance I heard John Wayne holler, "We don't use that for dismounting, ma'am." And I know he was laughing. And lying. He was so lying.

My eyes welled up with tears, but I took some deep, cleansing, natural child birth breaths, visualized my cervix opening like a flower, and heaved my right leg over that saddle.

It moved about an inch.

Jesse took it out of the stirrup and helped me lift it over. The Fallen Angel danced below me, increasing my agongy, and yes, laughing at me. With tears streaming down my face I heard a distinctive sound from behind me.

Click.

Bwwwahhhaaa.

The sound of picture being taken. And my husbands laughter.

Awe.some.

Here, captured for all eternity, and your viewing pleasure: my pain.

[caption id="attachment_1014" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Unbearable pain."][/caption]

And You Are?

I've mentioned before that I have some memory loss from my depression. I know the time period, am aware that I have this lost time and can make the necessary adjustments in public to accommodate any small things that come up.

I thought.

I have a very kind and wonderful friend that I've known for quite a few years. She's been a huge help this summer with Violet getting sick. Which got me to thinking: How did I meet Tonya? And I couldn't figure it out.

Then today, as we're sitting at the pool she mentions the pre-school Violet attended. And without thinking I'm like, "What? Kevin went there? When?" She just stares at me.

And I realize. This is how we met.

Excellent.

Thankfully, when Violet was sick I happened to mention, completely in passing, how I had lost time when I was depressed. Since she is a licensed psychologist I felt totally comfortable revealing it -- and the fact that I was aware I'd known her since John was a baby.

So she stared at me for about 10 seconds and her face softened. She kind of shook her head and said, "We talked in the hallway all the time. I was pregnant with McKayla. You told me about The Brady Kohn Foundation. You aren't remembering any of this?"

I shook my head, no.

She said, "Wow. You really were out of it."

And I had to giggle. Once again, a true friend.

No, I don't remember. And I still don't. I want to. I so do. I'm trying to piece it together, but I think I'm creating memories of what she just said, not real memories. And it sucks. Because I adore her, her kids and her husband. I want to have these memories of her being pregnant and the beginnings of our friendship. Instead I have a blank space.

Later, at the swim meet I turned to her and confirmed the name of two women we've spent days talking to.  Every morning. I know that I talked to them every morning last summer as well. Our girls swim together. But I don't know their names. So I asked Tonya. She just told me I was right. And I said, "Yeah. I should know them. But I 'met' them during the really bad time. So . . . " And she didn't ask any questions.

Maybe another reason for this depression, for this whole healing process is to show me the wonderful and beautiful woman who surround me.