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)

And We're Off ....Or Not.

It's September 9 and this school year is amazingly awful. I've doubted myself more in the past month, and especially in the past week, then I did all last year - and that was our first year at home! I'm so upset, overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at once that I've cried twice-today. My husband just sent me a text saying, "There's no crying in home school." Oh, but there is. Today there is.

Why all this doubt?

I changed curriculum this year. Last year we had what is called a curriculum in a box. It was planned and came with every.single.thing I needed to teach: books that matched what we were studying, a CD of the World Book where we found all our articles, end of unit activities, laminated maps and pretty lesson plans written out and well organized. All I did was open the binder, check the pages we needed and open the CD. Done and done. But it was dry and there wasn't any movement. When I asked the kids what one thing they'd change about the year, they each said the history/geography curriculum.

I was OK with that - I knew it was coming, and I wanted to branch out, be more creative. So we decided to use a unit study approach (it's called KONOS). I'm doing it with a friend, Rachael, who has used it since the beginning with her kids (six years) and she was home schooled with it. So I have great support and can see the success. The way it works is, we pick the unit we want - in our case this first unit is Kings and Queens/The Middle Ages.Then we pick the people/events we want to cover.  I searched the library catalog and have a trillion books on the floor related to all things Middle Ages and kings and queens. I found  pins and web sites for activities and projects. It's so incredibly interesting and my head is just swimming with all the information, dates, rulers, battles, laws, quirks and life of that time period. That's the problem.

WHAT do I teach? In what order? I started with Charlemagne, then realized I'd neglected The Hundred Years War (that's right, right? gah) WHO do I pick? The most famous of the time? Or a few obscure rulers who are interesting? How many dates should they memorize? Learn a little about many famous kings/queens, or really dig in and learn as much as we can about one or two?

And the organization needed. My little head is exploding. I need to learn about the middle ages and kings/queens, then decide what to teach, how and in what order. ::headexplosion:: My friend has the entire unit planned, logged into an app (which is amaze-balls), page marked and probably color coded.

I have four days of the unit study planned and logged into the app. Pages marked - but I forgot what for. I also forgot I needed to make copies of a map, so had to do that in the middle of a lesson just when we had built our momentum. Then I didn't have the time line figure cut out. I cut him out ... lost him. Found him. The kids argued over whether he should be placed when he was born or when he became king. In the end I slapped him up, wrote the date and yelled at the kids to knock.it.off.right.this.very.minute. (Can't you see Mommy needs wine?)

Yesterday we bailed on our day because a friend needed our help with a 'buggy' situation. And since there is a chance we created that situation....well. And also, she's a dear friend. Today I relented and took Violet to the doctor because her neck has been hurting since Sunday. She's got a 'deep' muscle spasm and our doctor said she had to recline, put a hot water bottle on it and relax. No tension/weight on her neck in hopes it will just release. So....no school for her.

There *may* have been some crying and freaking out on my part when I realized this. Last year at this time we had 15 days in. 15!

I've spent the day distracted. Sarah got her language arts and science homework done. John and I did his language arts and his handwriting (I really have to tell you guys about this handwriting curric!) so I'm trying to be OK with that. The beauty of homeschooling is that we can make these days up. We'll do school on Saturday if we need. We didn't do Christmas or Easter break last year, so we won't this year if need be. This is all wonderfully logical. But in my head? In the deep places in my brain and heart where my demons lay in wait for me? There, there I just know that we'll never make our days, never mind actually learning something. Suddenly I see us doing school six days a week, no breaks and well into July.

And yes. All because September has had a slow (albeit rough) start.

So, I'm going to continue lesson planning, hopefully remember to make copies and make sure I write notes on the pages I mark. And try, really try, to not compare our days, our schedule (or lack thereof) our goals, my lessons or my organizational skills to others. (However, I crave that organization that Rachael has going on. It's so ....*sigh*)

The Dog Ate....er....Crapped On My Homework....

I had my binder review scheduled, as I mentioned last post, but then I rescheduled it because the year end stuff -- dance recital, the begin of swim practice, actually organizing the binders -- all coalesced into one week and I needed to take my time. So, I rescheduled. No big deal.

On Monday night I spread the binder materials on the floor and began assembling them. I flirted with the idea of putting all  Sarah's work in page protectors, but I needed to save them for specific things, so I whole punched and organized them.
Violet: Done
Sarah: 1/2 done.
John: untouched
I needed to get to bed. With all of Tuesday and Wednesday left, I wasn't worried at all.

We woke up Tuesday morning and John asked me what the brown stuff was on the school room carpet. I absently replied that I must have spilled my soda the day before and I'd go clean it up. Except I hadn't had any soda ....

You guys. YOU GUYS.

Our dog, Buck, had peed and pooed all.over.all.over.all.over Sarah's entire binder. Directly on the work I hadn't page protected. All her essays -- from her first awkward attempt at dialogue in September  to her full on script in May. Her journal entries. Her letters to Santa, her aunt, her siblings.The entire year of attendance, so carefully recorded and color coded, days added up repeatedly and my work shown.  All covered with dog pee.

And right in the middle of the science papers? You know, the papers filled with  all the pictures of our major FAILS in science this year? A GREAT BIG STEAMING PILE OF DOG CRAP.

Appropriate, yes?


I cried. I yelled. I swore like a sailor. I picked up all that nastiness, spread the papers out on my counters and went to swim practice. Then called my binder reviewer and cried. She talked me off the ledge, some. I bought Febreeze pet order remover, came home and sprayed all those dog pee smelling pages with it, and continued to clean up the lake of pee. And the stench.

The pages dried, I salvaged what I could and then put those in page protectors, which I sealed with tape. I washed my hands obsessively, because EEEWWWWW. I had to throw out the actual binder and quickly liberate a new one from science curriculum. Then a friend helped me slip them into the binder, along with John's, on Wednesday afternoon.

I finished in time and made it to my review, still so very worried that without Sarah's attendance log my umbrella school would be like, "Well, too bad you can't prove you actually had school days for her. No home school for you!) (said in Soup Nazi voice, obviously.) But she assured me that I had records for Violet and John, as well as dated work for Sarah.

Buck.
You're name rhymes with a certain other word. For a reason.

180 Days: Achieved (along with some grey hair)

I've sat down to write a post a thousand times since my last one, only to be distracted by a voice, a spill, a crash, a text, a phone, a project, a need to feed someone.

Such is happening as I write. BRB.

To continue....a load of laundry to be switched or folded or put away, dinner to make, an errand to run, a child that needs to get to an activity.

I'm exhausted. I'm aggravated. I'm annoyed. I'm frightened.

This year was wonderful. It was completely wonderful. We've had many days where we laugh and dance and do cool projects. Where we get our work done early and then watch a movie. Where I've seen the kids pulling together and getting along better. Where I've seen better manners appear and the kids mature.

In some ways it was harder than I anticipated - scheduling and maintaining so many different activities was ridiculous. But it was not as overwhelming in the beginning as I expected. Not that it wasn't overwhelming, because it was, just not  "WHAT AM I DOING EVERY DAY IS A FAIL" that I was anticipating. Oh, I've had days like that, but not every day, not every week.

So, I'm caught off guard as this past month has unfolded and reared it's ugliness in the form of all I worried about when we decided to home school.

There have been tears, yelling, begging, bribing, stomping, icy silences, aggressive ignoring, rudeness, nastiness and yes, swearing.

And that's from me.

John is having horrible temper tantrum's that are sending us to therapy. They are epic. They push me over the edge. He kicked me on Friday and I slapped him.

That's when I picked up the phone and called a dear friend and sobbed. Then I cancelled the sleepover all three kids had planned. As I sobbed -again- to another friend when I told her I was cancelling John's sleepover with her son, she told me that those things happened to her. The frustration, the anger. That her kids had lashed out and hit her at times as well. She let me know that I was not alone, these frustrations happen to home school moms. Hearing her tell me that she, too, has gone through these emotions and days was so incredibly reassuring, because I always see her as the ultimate in calmness. As I cried to yet another friend when I called off Violet's sleepover my friend offered to take Violet for the night, reducing the number of children pecking at me. (If you're keeping count, that's 3 friends called and cried to. Plus another 1 who I spoke with later in the day. Thank you God for loving friends.)

As I get overwhelmed I start to seriously worry on two different levels. One, worrying that I'm not doing a good job if I'm this stressed out. Two, scared that my depression is going to swallow me up, because feeling overwhelmed and angry was a big part of my daily emotions when I was so sick with it. Which meant that on Friday I was overwhelmed, and then overwhelmed because I was feeling overwhelmed. That was productive.

I spent a lot of time thinking this weekend. I realized that I've been so hell bent on proving that I can do this, that I'm successful at this, that I can do fantastic projects with the kids, that I'm able to keep our schedule and cook, clean, maintain friendships for both me and the kids, to work at my Internet job, that I've lost the ability to just be. To just sit back at home, have a glass of wine and read a book without making lists in my head about what I didn't do, what I need to do and what I know is not going to get done.  I remembered that in September, October and November I took an hour every afternoon to sit down, eat lunch and read a book. In December I became worried that we were behind and started using my lunch hour to do laundry and surf Pinterest for activities.  Any 'me' time was replaced with looking at lesson plans, cleaning and re -cleaning the school room, and obsessively reading posts about home school tricks in Facebook groups. All of this has not led to a clean home or home school room. It has not lead to laundry being done or dinners cooked. In fact, I haven't cooked a good, balanced dinner in about a month.

This has to stop. I need to take a deep breath. I need to just be. I need to close up the lesson plans, clean the school room one last time, grab an iced coffee, my swim suit and sit by the pool while the kids swim.

 Sarah is done school today. Violet and John will be done on Friday. Our binder review is next Thursday and then The School of Kuhl is officially closed. We will reopen in August.

When You Can't Say What NEEDS To Be Said

 

Oh, I have stuff that needs to be said.  Honest? So, so honest. Necessary? Like you wouldn't believe.  And hurtful? Yes.

But for a lifetime there has been hurt going on, one person consistently hurting others, holding people hostage with the hateful behavior, the irresponsible cutting remarks, the careless words that cause tears and more anger.

And I'm so, so done. This is unfair - the stress of events where everyone is together, the worry of "What will happen? Will there be a blow up? Will it just be covert nastiness?"

However, the repercussions of saying something, of calling this person out on their hatred and telling them NO MORE are scary. Telling them that I, and my family, will not participate in this hurtful drama anymore may be worse than remaining quiet.  Which creates a vicious circle - the behavior holds us hostage, yet confronting this behavior may cause such nastiness that I am afraid, thus holding me hostage.

So, do I go the passive - aggressive direction and just avoid all future contact? Leave them to their crowd where this behavior is evidently acceptable? Or do I call them out on it and tell them exactly why they won't be seeing us?

I just don't know. Perhaps I should wait until I'm contacted for something and then say, "No, and this is why."

Again, a vicious circle that I desperately want to end and I'm of course obsessing over.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

After Shocks

So . . . I haven't been around lately, at all. Not on Facebook, not really on Twitter and definitely not here. And I've missed it all. But something more pressing has been keeping me occupied, and once it was under control, well I'd kind of lost my mojo. Again.

You all know that all three of my children had viral meningitis this summer. Oh the joy. Violet had it the worst because we didn't know what was going on -- we initially thought it was just a stomach virus. Since she went the longest without treatment it took 2 1/2 days to get it all under control. Which left her with some side effects we had no idea were coming.

About 6 weeks after the meningitis things started getting weird with her and then they got violent. She had such raging tantrums that I was forced to empty her room because her toys provided ammunition to launch at me. She screamed. She jumped on her bed. She yelled strange insults at me. When she'd done this twice in a row I sought the help of a dear friend, Lisa, who knows so much about brain function, environmental issues, allergies etc. Her son has mild autism and she is a wealth of knowledge. As I cried to her about Violet's behavior, she started questioning me about other things, and we made a list of symptoms and dates they started. What resulted was a timeline that started after her meningitis.

Things I saw included violent temper tantrums, sleeplessness, clinginess, quick mood changes, recurrent headaches  and a fear of doctors.  I made an appointment with her pediatrician, talked with her teacher, my therapist (who is also a child therapist)  and social worker at her school. Then I started to research all this myself.

Meningitis.com and The Mayo Clinic as well as several other sites listed after effects of meningitis: temper tantrums, sleeplessness, clinginess, quick mood changes, recurrent headaches  and a fear of doctors.

What? Not a single doctor told me took for after effects. And I didn't research the meningitis while she was sick because  I knew I'd get all sorts of scary, ridiculous results.

I called two friends of mine who's family members had experienced meningitis. I simply asked, "What happened after the meningitis?" One said, "You mean like behavior changes or tantrums?" What? She knew? And the other told me her brother had headaches for 6  months after.

We had blood tests done to rule out any other problems such as a hyper active thyroid. We had an MRI done. Saw an ENT. Everything was normal.

We went to the therapist and started to work on the actual behaviors -- because even if they were a result of the meningitis we couldn't live our lives walking around just waiting for the next explosion and all nervous about it.

So. Time has passed. She's been to see the therapist twice now. Talked with social worker who gave her some books on anger to read. We have 'anger rules' up in the kitchen and her room. She's earning toys back. She takes melatonin to get to sleep each night. She questions whether or not she's going to have 'a needle' every time we go to the doctor - and remember, we went to the pediatrician, had blood drawn, were sedated for the MRI then went to the ENT. So she's very worried. She is very clingy and tends to do it more around a lot of people. She's tantrumed in front of two of her friends -- who thankfully had experienced similar behavior in their own home so they just shrugged it off.

At first this consumed me. I searched the internet for hours. I talked to my friends. I asked for many, many prayers. I talked extensively about it to my therapist. My anxiety level has shot through the roof.

But I'm starting to see the other side now. She's doing much, much better. She hasn't had a full  on tantrum in about 3 weeks. She's beginning to learn that she needs to take a break from us when she starts to feel angry.

So this are starting to get better. Our home life is pretty normal now, no eggshell walking and no searching the internet for hours.

I think we're going to be okay. :)

It's Best Said With A Song

I know this is an old song, 'Unwell' by Train. But on days when I'm remembering how deep and dark that well was . . . this song says so much. I wish I'd heard it back then. I crave it on days when I'm feeling off. And yet am strangely afraid of it. It says everything I ever felt, in a way I can never express. I've heard that the lead singer struggles with mental illness and this is why this song strikes such a chord with those of us who also struggle -- because he knows. He gets it.

Today was a great day . . . but not every day is. This song reminds me that some days are good, some are bad, and I will be well again.

 

All day staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night hearing voices telling me that
I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good
For something
Hold on feeling like I'm heading for a
Break down and I dunno why
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then You'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
Talking to myself in public
And dulging glances on the train
And I know I know that they ‘ve all been talking about me
I can hear their whisper
And it makes me feel that there must be something wrong with me
After all the hours thinking somehow I‘ve lost my mind
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little impaired
I know right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
I've been talking in my sleep
Soon they'll come to get me
And they're taking me away
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little unwell
I know right now you can't tell
But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me
I'm not crazy
I'm just a little impaired I know
Right now you don't care
But soon enough you're gonna think of me
And how I used to be
And how I used to be
How I used to be
I'm just a little lonely
How I used to be
How I used to be
I'm just a little unwell

Why I'm Afraid You Were Depressed

I'm afraid you were depressed - even though it could be a bonding and educational relationship for us both.

But I'm afraid you were depressed.

(And I'm afraid to tell you I was depressed and stll struggle with depression/anxiety.Which is totally ridiculous becuase I tell the world here (or, like 12 of you).  I mean, I spill everything about my struggles with the lowest of my days from years ago. And yet . . . )

I'm afraid to tell you I still struggle with depression/anxiety because I'm afraid you'll tell me you do as well. Which is silly, because you might be able to help me cope. You might even reveal you still struggle.

I'm afraid to tell you all this because I fear that you were depressed and managed it better than I did. I'm afraid that you didn't sink as low as me. That you held it together better. That you didn't neglect your house, your husband, your friends, yourself, your children, like I did.

I'm afraid that when you say, "I was depressed, too." And tell me your story I'm going to think, "No. No I cannot share. Because now you will know the truth. You will know why we weren't friends so many years ago. You will know why our girls weren't friends from birth. You will know why my house is still being remodeled. You will know why my kids misbehave. I was depressed and let things get so out of control that I'm only now regaining control."

I'm afraid of these things and so many more.

I'm so afraid that you were depressed.

Anxiety, Be Gone!

I used to secretly be a little jealous of working moms, I admit. They had this whole other world, this whole other 'gig' to be responsible for. They got to work at a computer like an adult, have adult conversations with other adults on the phone.

I was jealous, I admit.

Then I became, KINDA, in a very, small infinitesimal way, a working mom. A work from home mom for only a few hours a week.

OMG.

You guys.

I bow to you. I'm not worthy.

The anxiety. The constant worry that I've forgotten something, anything. Something big, something little. But that I forgot. I also worry about, are you ready? That I lied. Really. I worry that I accidentally lied about my hours, even though I meticulously document them, or my expenses, even though I have receipts for any of those.

I worry about accidentally lying.  I worry about forgetting things. Every.single.day.

And then there is the mom stuff. I'm constantly torn: what to do first? The work stuff or the mom stuff? Do I work and let the kids play? Or do mom work and let the kids play? Or play with the kids and let everything else wait until after bedtime and I'm exhausted?

There's no easy answer, except I wasn't prepared for this. I knew there'd be an adjustment period - but I thought it would be an adjustment period of just my time management skills, not my anxiety ridden messed up mind skills as well.

So, full time working mamma's? You're rock stars. Full fledged, Lady Gaga, Madonna, Kelly Clarkson ROCKSTARS. YOU bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan.

 

Dear Diary

I found some old journal entries from when I came home after my first hospital stay. What a hot mess of mindless ramblings and insignificant details they are. My brain jumps from one topic to the next with no obvious connection between the two. The things I chose to fixate on . . . so sad.

:: 12/9/08::

Got agitated at dinner again -but if abilify makes me jittery, this is not the time to take it. So must talk to psych about it. After Sunday I can wrap and pack. Trying to pack family friendly things to do together as much as possible. Need to get ears (pig ears for the dog) and food. Gah. Winter clothes. Fear I will wear out my 1st cashmere sweater while in Michigan b/c I will be so cold?

::1/6/09::

Meds going well -mood stablilizer must be taken at betdtime but I feel really good . . . Find self doing 'busy' work b/c am afraid to be still, but I learned to knit so that is a huge help. Am having tons of thoughts about death and loss of one of the kids. Lots of anxiety there. Pretty sure it started Thursday when I saw that John Travolta's son, Jett, had died. But it may have been there before that. Can't remember. Do know that since his death my fear has gone thru the roof. Need to somehow get a handle on that.

** Ok, in the first sentence I say how great I'm doing, then a few short sentences later (that I edited out, they were just daily med checks) I'm saying what a mess I am. How didn't I see this? It's all so sad to me, today looking back. And my entries focus a lot of my anger at my husband, too. I didn't include any of those here, for obvious reasons. I was angry at myself for what I saw as weakness - the depression- but blaming my husband for it. Oh. It's just a mess.

The positive thing is, reading these entries shows me how far I've come. And where I'm not going again. I'm trying to read through them and be objective, not judgemental, but it's really hard. I don't quite know how I did even the little I did, with these restless thoughts running around my brain.

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!*

Dear Anxiety

I haven't been around the last few days because a virus the likes of which I have not seen, nor wish to ever see again has assaulted my home! We have been sick since the beginning of the January, and it all spiraled out of control on Wednesday morning. I had a fever, John had a fever. And on and on. Somehow the girls have avoided it. I replaced toothbrushes, bought everybody their own tube of toothpaste. Bought those automatic soap dispensers. Sanitized until my hands hurt. The downstairs bathroom actually got cleaned after every use. And since that was John's central 'meeting place', that meant it was getting washed down every 20 minutes for one entire day. Really. Any other tips?

Anyway . . .

The other morning I started strolling through my favorite places and found that Kate at Mommy Monologues had posted an amazing letter called Dear Anxiety. It was so refreshing and empowering. I was jealous with the want of that power, the strength I felt in her words that morning. So, I've summoned up my strength and I'm writing Anxiety a letter of my own. And I think I'm going to make a habit of it. Thank  you very much, Kate. I knew you were a smart one.

Dear Anxiety,

You are a small, impotent, ugly thing and I will not give you any more power over my life. Oh, I know you like to try to convince me you are big and bad and going to crush me. But I am better than you. I will not bow down under your cold claws. I will not run and hide in my house when you call.

Anxiety, when you throw yourself at me in the form of  newspaper, or television or even other people, I will not back down. I will speak up for myself. I will walk away from the paper. I will turn the TV off. Yes, Anxiety, I am fully aware that I must live in the real world and you are everywhere. But that does not mean that I will succumb to your details, your stories. I will not allow you into my thoughts where you fester and brew and grow. I will not bring you into my bed where I cannot sleep because you mock me. No, anxiety, I will banish you.

??

This smile? I will keep.

??

Anxiety, I take back my every day life from you. Once again, I hold joy, happiness, gladness, in my hands. I will laugh while my children play in the snow and not worry about the snow collapsing. I will sled with my children and delight in it, not fear for them. I will play because I can. I will not listen to you tell me how we could be hurt. I will lay with them at night and marvel at their sweet faces, their perfect bodies. And I will not hear a word you say about anything. I have listened. I have planned. I have slept with my cell phone next to me, shoes at the ready, baby sling at hand.

 I am prepared, but I am no longer a prisoner.

I have fought the fight. And I am winning. You anxiety? You lose.

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream . . .

must. . . sleep

When I was pregnant with Violet I tried to educate myself on all things baby. I read every book I could get my hands on. I quizzed every mom I came in contact with on labor, delivery, breast feeding, diapering, traveling, and mostly: sleep. Not when the baby would sleep. When would I sleep? From everything I'd learned, as soon as I gave birth, I was never going to sleep again. And to say that I enjoy my sleep is a vast, horrible understatement. Plus, as any pregnant woman will tell you, the later it got in my pregnancy the more I craved sleep and yet the less able I was to sleep! Between all the pillows I needed, the hot flashes, the heart burn, the constant need to urinate, the thirst, the hunger, the baby kicking my ribs, my bladder, my husband, or taking up residence in my lungs some nights, sleep seemed to be a long ago memory. And the baby wasn't even out yet.


My dear friend, Micki, who is a labor and delivery nurse and mom of two, got tired of me asking her repeatedly to describe how tired she was. Finally she told me there was no way she could describe it. It's just so all encompassing, she said. It's a tired that you've never felt before -- not in college when you've pulled an all nighter studying for a final, or stayed up partying then gone to class or work. It can't be described. But I wanted, needed a description!


Finally, the day arrived and Violet and was born. We made it home and through those first crazy days of motherhood. I'll admit it. I was heard to say, "When does it get hard?" *ducks flying objects* Because nobody had explained the adrenaline rush to me, or how long it would last. So I had no idea that for like, nine days, I was all hopped up on natural endorphins from the birth. (and a medicated birth at that!) Then reality hit. And I got tired. Tired. Really, really tired. Allow me to tell you how tired I got. Listen carefully. If you are expecting a child, pay attention. I am going to tell you just how tired you will be after your baby is born.


You will be so tired you will be stupid. You will in fact, be a complete and utter moron. I have a pretty darn good college degree. I am quite well educated. I can hold my own in  conversations with attorneys, judges, even a Senator, a former Governor and two Congressmen. But after Violet was born? I forgot her name. 

Really. I was in Target, standing in line and this woman smiled at Violet. She asked me what my baby's name was. I totally blanked. I stared at that woman for a good 15 seconds before I glanced back at Violet and saw that she was wrapped in a blanket that had her name on it. I literally yelled, "Violet! Her name is Violet!" The woman started to laugh and said, "Ahh, new mom. I remember."


I forgot when she was born. Two weeks after she was born. Uh huh.  I was in Target (I'm seeing a theme here) with my sister in law and I saw a friend that I hadn't seen since I gave birth. She saw me with a baby and asked when Violet was born. Again, I totally blanked. I just blinked at her. My sister in law jumped in with the birth date when it was obvious that I was not going to answer. My friend did not have any kids at the time so I can only imagine what she thought.


I forgot who was on the phone, as I was talking to them. And I knew them. They asked a question. I answered. The said something. I said OK. Then said, Uh, wait, who is this again? Even though I already knew who it was. I think I may have even called them.


I took a message for my husband, hung up the phone, turned to give it to him, and forgot what it was.  That is all. That fast.


I had to make people call back and leave messages on the answering machine if they needed my husband to know something. Because I might write it down. But I might not know what I did with the piece of paper.

My husband was mowing the lawn and spilled some gasoline on his clothes and arms. He came inside, dumped the clothes on the floor and jumped in the shower. I wrinkled my nose at the obnoxious smell. Tossed the clothes in the hamper and began lighting candles to get rid of the smell of gasoline. I'm surprised that I survived. No, the house didn't blow up, but my husband sure did. (As was his right!)


The UPS man rang the doorbell and I answered the door with my breast hanging out. Because I'd forgotten to put it away after nursing, that's why. And I was tired. When he left, and I realized what I'd done, and I was annoyed with him.

Any questions?

I was happy to discover that I was a bit more prepared for the tiredness when the next two kids came along. Not that I was less tired. Not at all. I was definately more tired. But I think as we gain experience as moms we learn to function with less sleep. We somehow are able to cope, make dinner, change diapers, do laundry, clean, rock babies, drive kids around and arrange play dates all on less sleep then when we were only parenting one child. That's because we're women. And we rock. 


How tired have you been?

Kim

Just Breathe

When John was a newborn, my husband had sleep apnea. Horribly. And he snores. And Sarah was 15 months old, and still not sleeping through the night. Imagine my nights. Up nursing John for a half hour or so, then give him a bottle of formula because I had to supplement. Shuffle back to bed after being up for about 45 minutes. Sarah would usually begin to whimper for me maybe a half hour later. Up I'd get. Calm her down, climb back in bed. Cue husbands snoring. Nudge him. Fall asleep to the sound of his even breathing as I listen to the sound of John's not so even breathing on the monitor. (Remember, John breathed weird from day one.) Then, husband would STOP breathing and gasp for breath and I'd jerk awake, punching at him to WAKE UP and BREATHE!! My heart would settle back down to a normal rhythm and then John would wake up. And so the cycle would begin again. Every.Single.Night.  For about three months.


One day I was talking to friend of mine who is also a nurse. I was complaining about my husbands sleep apnea, his complete denial and refusal to do anything about it. She is such a wise woman. She told me to call his doctor's office and speak with one of the nurses. They'd mark it in his charts and at his next appointment they'd screen him for sleep apnea, all without him saying a word to the doctor. Genius! I did just that, and luck was on my side. He had an appointment later that week!


Three days later, my husband saunters through the door of our home. He props a hip against our counter,  leans back and gives me the smuggest, most knowing smile ever. I'm in a sleep deprived haze, juggling bottles, breast, barf, blankets and breakfast dishes. But that look stopped me in my tracks.

"Sleep apnea?" He asked, grinning at me. And we were off. He was laughing, I was yelling. It was the same argument we'd been having for 3 months, only now he had a doctor backing him up. The doctor gone down the checklist and Husband didn't have a single symptom of sleep apnea. Not one! (Except of course, that I had to keep waking him up because he kept NOT breathing!) Husband laughed some more, and I lost it. I burst into tears, handed him John and fled to the shower. I stood in the shower stall just sobbing. When I finally let my husband in he pretty much demanded that I go see a doctor myself. I'd battled PPD before, and this little 'crying jag' alone screamed "I need some help" based on what I'd been through before. So I dug out my references and made an appointment for me. And continued to wake up my husband multiple times a night to keep him alive.

I went to my appointment, where I talked with a psychiatrist about my symptoms, feelings, sleep patterns etc. He suggested an antidepressant. ( It was one that was safe for breast feeding babies, no worries.) I'd been on and off them for years, so it wasn't as if I was surprised. But three weeks later, oh, was I surprised.

My husbands sleep apnea? Totally cured itself.

Yeah. I know. It's a miracle! Praise the Lord! He won't be dying in his sleep! I can get some sleep now! No more waking up to the sound of Husband suffocating! No more waking up to the sound of Husband gasping for his final breath! Oh . . . wait . . .

That was me. That was me waking myself up gasping and panting. That was me having multiple panic attacks a night.  Not Husband's dying breath. My full blown anxiety and racing heart as my brain went into overload in my sleep.

So Husband had the pleasure of telling his doctor that 'his' sleep apnea was 'cured' when his wife adjusted her meds :) and I had the pleasure of getting a little healthier. Of course, if you've read any of my past posts, here and here,  you'll know that I went way downhill from there. But we must be able to laugh at ourselves! This is one of our favorite stories to tell people -- even though it totally shows how crazy PPD/depression can physically and mentally make you, you have to admit, it is funny!

Kim

Comments make my heart sing!

Friday Flip Off -- Depression! Anxiety!

Thanks to Momma Kiss for hosting the Friday Flipp Off. And  big apology to her, from me for messing it up!!

So this is my first Friday Flip off, and I'm pretty sure I did it all wrong!! But for my virgin flip off, I'm giving the ole bird to depression and anxiety.

I 'crashed' this week, as they call it in the medical world. I slipped back into my old ways, and was brought up short by my loving husband. Granted, he did this by freaking out, but the fact remains that he did it and I heard him. Three months ago I would not have heard him. First, I admitted that he was right -- oh, that was so humilating and heart wrenching. But I did it.

Then I called my psych. Then I got my bum to my therapist. Once there I cried and yelled. Dammit! I felt so amazing, why was I crashing? I mean, I know they said it would happen, but really? I guess I didn't believe them. They both said that when the weather turned and the barometric pressure changed drastically, as it did this week, that I would be affected. That this was 'normal' among people with depression. I didn't believe them. Turns out these people with medical degrees know what they are talking about. My psych adjusted my meds and my therapist added in another session.

Then I threw myself on the mercy of a new friend and told her my truth. I needed a babysitter desperately and well, I was out of ideas. So there I was, on her door step, crying and once again humilated, just praying she would understand. Turns out she has her Masters in Counseling. Her sister has suffered from Bi-polar for years and spent a month in a facility after her third child was born. So basically, Michelle gets it. She held me while I cried, she prayed with me. She was the most awesome friend. She didn't run screaming into the night. She didn't judge me. In fact she later called me to pick her daughter up from the bus stop. Huh. So maybe humbling myself before her had it's benefits. I gained a true friend.

But still? Here's the bird, depression.

Depression, Take 2

So, at the end of my first post about depression and my hospital stay, I wrote that nine months later I'd be back in. Here's what I didn't understand. My first trip to the hospital, those four days, they didn't 'cure' me. They only served to stabilize me. And since I was so resistant to it, I probably wasn't even all that stable, only very medicated and very much in denial. The second time around I knew I was in trouble on a much deeper level. Even when I didn't want to answer the intake counselors questions, I did.

His name was Aaron and he asked if I was having suicidal thoughts. I paused, thought about what I'd been thinking, and answered honestly. "No." Aaron cocked his head to the side and put his hand on my arm. "Kim, what have you been thinking?" Well, that was a totally different question. One that I answered honestly. "I've been thinking that it would be better if I just wasn't here. If I could just . . . go away. Leave. I don't know how I'd go away . . . but being away would be better." I tried to make it clear that I didn't have a plan, that I was not going to commit suicide. But the damage was done. Aaron squeezed my arm and said, "We call those thoughts suicidal ideations. They are dangerous. We'll help you." I knew I was being admitted. I also knew that I was not going to be out in four days.

I didn't cry as long, the second time around. I was at a different hospital, on a unit that was geared to patients with depression and anxiety more than alcohol and drugs. That also meant I didn't have to go through the humiliation of a full body search. Plus, I was familiar with how things worked now that I'd been in- patient once before.

Immediately I was put into a small group that was actively working through issues. It was all about what depression and anxiety really felt like, what triggers they had, side effects of meds, coping strategies. I was able to just sit and listen while I waited for my in house psychiatrist to see me.

The doctor I saw was hard core. She was abrupt. She was borderline rude. She was not a nice lady. Thank you, Jesus. I didn't need nice. I didn't need polite. I didn't need my hand held anymore. I needed somebody to say, "I'm putting you on these meds. These are the side effects. They suck. You will talk to these five people about how you feel. It will suck. You will talk about how you feel in these six group meetings every day. It will suck even more. You will sleep here. You will miss your family. You will talk, because if you don't talk you will be here even longer. You will not leave here until I know you are safe. Good bye." And that is what she said.

So I stayed for a week. And it sucked. But it put the wheels in motion for me to get better. I learned that I wasn't going to 'heal' while in the hospital. The hospital was only going to get me stable. I was going to be put on high levels of different meds to get me out of the crisis, and do some really tough therapy. I was going to have to face my deepest fears and admit my lies, all my little tricks to cope and appear normal. (which was pretty funny, since I so did not appear normal!) I was told that I would be in therapy once a week for the next year if I wanted to succeed. This is when I began to realize just how much help I needed. 52 therapy sessions. I needed help. I was told, point blank, by that wonderful psychiatrist, that I would probably be on meds for the rest of my life.

When I visibly recoiled, this is what she did: She folded her hands ever so calmly on my chart and said, "Yes, you will need medication probably for life. You will take it. You will learn to deal with this . . . issue you seem to have about it. Or you will not. If you do not learn, then I will see you back here. And I do not want to see you again, Kimberly." So that was something I started talking about in group time.

When I was discharged, I was not just sent home. I went into what they called a 'day program.' For two weeks I went to a kind of school to keep learning about depression, anxiety and my meds. So for about 3 1/2 weeks, my life was all about my brain and how it worked. My brother and his fiance` were living with us, so they really helped out, plus my mother in law came to stay. Then my mom came. With out my family, I don't know what I would have done. Kerry, my sister in law, was a life saver. I was humilated at having to go back to the hospital, and terrified of facing her, but still, I knew she was hugging my kids when I wasn't there at bedtime. I knew she was loving them. She doesn't have kids, and to put this responsiblity on her, I can never thank her enough.

Once they were all gone and I was on my own. . . well. I was 'stable.'

I certainly wasn't healthy. I went to my counseling appointments and muddled through the days and weeks. Mostly I felt like I was underwater. Just breathing. I barely kept the house functioning, the kids fed and clean. I was not a loving wife. I was not a present mother. I was not a responsible or reliable wife. Art never knew if I was going to do anything I said I'd do. I might fall asleep, or get a migraine, or just plain forget. I kept working with my counselor and my psych. I was alive, but I was not living.

In late May I told my counselor that I wanted to change psychiatrists, that I didn't trust myself with the one I had. He scheduled in five minute increments and I felt I was just saying, "I'm fine!" so I wouldn't hold up the waiting room any more than I already was. I needed to see someone who could prescribe meds as well as listen to me. She suggested someone, and I took the first appointment I could. This woman listened to me. I sobbed my way through the first 15 minutes of the appointment, explaining why I was changing docs, lest she think I was a drug seeking junkie. I explained my lack of energy. My lack of motivation. My lack of me. How I used to be this fun person who laughed and enjoyed life. Who loved her children and her husband. Who could breathe with out being overwhelmed. She shook her head and we went through all the antidepressants I'd been on. All. Of. Them. I didn't realize till then just how many I'd been on. She'd name one and I'd go, "Oh, yeah. Spring, 2000." She'd name another and I'd say, "Yup. December 1999." It was sad.

When we were done with that little exercise she said she really felt that antidepressants weren't working for me, because if they worked for me, then one of them would have helped, right? TA-DA! So she switched my meds. She switched methods. I'll be honest, when she told me what she wanted to put me on, I started to freak out.There is a stigma attached to that kind of med. She smiled and asked, "Does it matter if you feel like you?" Oh. Umm, NO!! So I started it. I was afraid to hope. I was scared out of my mind. And then . . . I met myself again. When I went back for my one month check up I was crying for a different reason. They were tears of joy and hope.

I'm not 'healed.' But I am healing. Now instead of coping with getting out of bed and breathing, I'm working through the fact that I missed out on about 2 1/2 years of life. Yes. 2 1/2 years. Typing it makes me cry. Admitting it brought me to my knees last week. I have a lot of work to do. But finally, finally, I know I can and will do the work.

Kim

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I had an awesome summer vacation. Which is why I haven't been here. :) I've been playing in Michigan (enjoying that 12 hour drive to and from the Great Lakes state. NOT.), swimming every single day, going to various water parks, spending time with great friends and family, taking a hot air balloon ride with my grandma -- how incredible is that?? -- going to numerous county fairs and in general goofing off. And along the way I met the most incredible woman.

I guess it was sometime toward the end of July that we met, and we totally connected. She is funny, smart, energetic, kind, doesn't take herself too seriously. She knows how to have fun and really laughs with her kids. I watched her roll down a hill with her three kids and they just ate it up; they couldn't get enough. They had a tickle fight that brought tears to my eyes. I caught her totally flirting with her husband one evening, catching him completely off guard.

One day I sat down and really took a good, long hard look at her and asked her, "How did you get here? How do you do this?" She looked back at me from the mirror, smiled and said, "Hard, hard work. Take your meds like your life depends on it. Because it does. You trusted your instincts and changed doctors when you felt like things could be better. And look at us now. We haven't been this good, this healthy in five years. Work your program. See your counselor. Count your blessings. Enjoy. Laugh. Live. Finally, live."

So that's what I'm doing. It was a damn fine summer folks.

Kim