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)

What Homeschooling a Child with Special Needs Means

As  I talk with friends who home-school 'typical' kids, I've come to realize some interesting things. Our days are vastly different. I cannot fathom their days nor them mine.  But I found a new friend who has a son who is incredibly similar to John. And hearing her talk about her struggle and what the day looks like for them made me laugh and tear up with joy. Because I'm not alone.

And I thought I was. 

It was then  I realized I didn't know any of this stuff about home-school and special needs kids before I became a mom that home-schools a kid with special needs. Homeschooling a special needs child was  some vague notion about a mom with a child with Down's Syndrome or Cerebral Palsy. Certainly not me. Oh, how God laughed. There are so.so.many things I didn't anticipate or even give a thought to in regards to home-school and a special needs child.
  
What I did not anticipate was a child that was so needy I'd cry with anger and sympathy for myself and empathy for him.  I did not anticipate needing Sensory Breaks in the swing, on the trampoline, in the tent or BodySox. Those breaks eat into our day. And while I *know* that he does so much better when he takes those breaks, it doesn't mean that I have stopped watching the clock and trying to guess when we'll be done. I did not anticipate having to work one on one so much with him that I then worry and feel massive guilt about the time I miss with the girls.

I also never anticipated the sheer amount of guilt I'd harbor. That it would make me scream. That it would make me stand in the shower and sob.
 
Homeschooling a child with special needs means I wash the same set of clothing and pajama's every.single.day for 8 months. And when the weather turned cold yesterday I started to sweat and stutter as I tried to casually suggest he wear pants instead of the same pair of shorts he's worn since April.

It means that I get pissed at him every day. Every day. I get angry that he has these needs. Why can't he just wear clothes? Why does he have to swing before, during and after math, science and reading?(Hello Sensory Processing Disorder.) Why can't he just do.his.work. Stop bargaining. Stay at the table. STOP TALKING OH MY LORD JUST STOP TALKING. (Hello ADHD) Why is he asking about lunch/dinner/if I'll wash his clothes/are his pajamas clean? AGAIN. (Hello anxiety.) Why can't I simply read his journal? He truly worked hard on it and now I can read only about half of what he's written. (Hello Dyslexia). And after I've gotten angry at him? I get angry at myself because what kind of monster of a mother gets that upset with her child who cannot help feeling/doing/saying any of things??

ME.I do all that.

Homeschooling a child with special needs has made me needy, lack confidence in all areas of my life and crave acceptance. I want my husband to systematically acknowledge all the things I've throughout the day; from school to house work and dinner. I've gained 15 pounds and need to be affirmed every day that I still look OK. I need every person I know to be completely accepting of my son, what we are doing and all of my choices. I hope fervently that I hear, "Excellent! You're doing such an incredible job! I know this is hard, but you are working on this and it's getting better. I'm so proud/impressed/in awe of you," every time I tell someone about a new therapy we are trying, a change I've seen, if I'm considering or not considering medicine, that essential oils are starting to sound less crazy to me or that I've decided to live on a farm in Greenland because I heard that might help.

And yet.

I do love this. Somehow, amidst all this craziness, all this chaos and all these tears, I see that this is what we're supposed to be doing right now. For unknown reasons (well, to me. God certainly knows), this is what our life is meant to be. At the end of each day I am spent. Emotionally, physically and mentally I'm useless. But if I look back on the day I can see glimpses of what we're fighting for. I see John completing 2 pages of math, accurately, in 10 minutes. I see him taking a Sensory Break when he needs it, not when I demand it. I see Violet grabbing John and squeezing him tight to relax him, then reading his history to him. I see Sarah asking him to play a math game and the two of them having a blast. These are small moments, but I cherish and cling to them as the day ends and I start to worry about the next day.

Nobody told me this stuff. (And there is so much more.) But even if somebody had told me?

We'd still be right here, doing this.

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. :)

3 1/2 Years . . . You've Come A Long Way, Baby

September marks the 3 1/2 year 'anniversary' of my first stay in a mental hospital. July 2013 will mark four years. Each September, as the kids start back to school I'm flooded with memories of the day I fell apart and went in that first time. I was obviously a complete mess, but I honestly didn't know it at the time. It wasn't until I was laying in my bed, sobbing and begging my friend to let me go to sleep and never wake up that I truly realized how much trouble I was in.

My memories of that time period, when I was so sick, are fuzzy at best. But that day is crystal clear, burned into my brain.

The day started like any other day. My husband took Violet to school and I muddled through the morning with Sarah and John. I didn't get dressed. I may have dressed them, but it's very likely that I declared the day a 'pajama day' as an excuse to not get anyone dressed.

I made the kids breakfast and then left them to play while I sat on the sofa. They dumped out a box of Quaker Oat Squares all over the floor and then broke my favorite pie dish -- how they got to said dish I have no idea.

And that? Was it.

I broke. I lost it. I started crying and couldn't stop.

I put them down for a early nap and contemplated all the meds I had at hand.

I looked at myself in the mirror and didn't recognize the shattered woman staring back at me. She was unshowered, greasy, and red faced. Heavier than I remembered, with messy hair and sloped shoulders. Lines were etched around her mouth and eyes.

My eyes. How they haunt me. I study my reflection still, looking for any traces of those eyes.

By the grace of God, I decided to call my friend, Jen, instead of taking any pills. I crawled into bed and sobbed to her about the feeling of hopelessness, the feeling that nothing in life was good -- and how that didn't make sense. I had three beautiful children. A loving husband. How could I not feel happy?

But the truth was I hadn't felt joy, happiness, anything, in months.

She talked me into calling my husband or perhaps she called him. This part I don't remember. I  do remember her staying on the phone with me until he got home. She told him what to do, where to take me.

And he did.

I spent three days in the hospital. I cried for a day in the half.

I faked my way through it, that stay.

And it didn't take.

9 months later I'd be back.

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.

My Wish For You

 

You break free.

You let you yourself become powerless.

You find the power in that letting go, find the freedom.

You recognize that you cannot fix, you cannot love it or control or organize it away.

You realize that even thought you can't do these things, you are powerful, courageous, strong, independent, intelligent, amazing.

You find peace.

You find quiet.

You find easiness and relaxation.

You stop planning.

You let go.

You love and laugh and dream again.

You stop trying.

And start living.

You let go. Just let go.

You stop trying and start living for you and your children. Make a new life.

You let go.

 

 

 

When Depression Attacks

It did this morning. It freaking attacked. Or rather the aftermath did.

I was a crying mess, sorting through boxes and bins in the attic and basement, raging at myself and this effed up brain of mine.

I was full of self hatred, self pity, self loathing.

I was convinced I would never be well enough to remember a thing, function as a responsible parent/human/woman/member of society.

It appeared that I'd given away/lost all of Violet, Sarah and John's special clothing from when they were babies. All of those outfits you keep just because they look so cute and adorable in them. The coming home from the hospital outfit. All the clothes that my mom made for them. The sweet little dreses and matching hats. The old man jammies that matched my Grandfathers, who John never met.  The First Birthday outfit. First time in church. First time they rolled over. Spit up. Whatever. All those outfits that made your heart melt and still make it swell when you see the pictures.

[caption id="attachment_992" align="aligncenter" width="224" caption="My mom made this. "][/caption]

And I've been looking for them for months. Months. They could have been in one of the kids' closets, but those all got cleaned out with the painting. So today I was in the attic, for the second time. I found clothing for John in the next three sizes. Clothing that has been through two boys and handed down to me. That made me start to bawl. Because evidently I can keep clothes that are useful and great for play, but the ones that actually mean something? The ones that I want? The ones that hold a special place in my heart and cause me to recall fond memories? Yeah. I can't keep those.

My sister in law, Kerry, stopped over and talked me down. Reminded me that I was probably in a traumatic place when I was putting all of that away. And maybe I wasn't the one to misplace it or send it to Good Will. Maybe it wasn't my mistake.

Yeah, right.

I've given away, thrown away, donated, "organized" away so much in an effort to fix myself. In an effort to cure my depression. I knew exactly what had happened.

She left and I went to the basement, where the clothes were surely not. It is damp there, so who in their right mind would put the special clothing there?

Right. 'Who in their right mind,' indeed.

That would be me.

[caption id="attachment_993" align="alignleft" width="224" caption="She made this, too. Look at that hat!"][/caption]

So I ended the morning as I began it. Sobbing and talking to God.

Have I mentioned how much depression screws with your head?  Even after you consider yourself to be recovered. Well medicated. Well therap-ied.

Consider this a PSA.

[caption id="attachment_994" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Some of my faves from John. A little Polo onesie *dies*"][/caption]

Mean

Dear Mean People,

 Did tearing me down make you feel big? Did that feel good? Once I was on the floor, defenseless, were you then able to feel some joy?

Do you realize that your words leave a trail. A paper trail, of sorts? A sneer leads to an off word, which leads to a mean word, which leads to a full on nasty word. Soon you have complete sentences just tearing others down.

I am saddened, I truly am. I want to defend myself. Yell and scream and explain why. But to what end? You'll still be mean. I'll still be hurt. You'll still be laughing. I won't.

Consider your words. Consider where they land. Who hears them, sees them, repeats them. When  you say spiteful things, others hear them. I heard.

Thanks for that.

Where I Lose Myself

I originally posted this back in May. It's one of my first posts, probably the most difficult one I've written. And the one I read the most. It reminds me of why I started writing this blog. I started it because I wanted to help. I wanted to tell someone, anyone, "You are not alone." And so I'm re-publishing this post today, in hopes that someone will read it and hear that they are not alone.

 

Depression is a slimy, black thing that slowly but completely takes over everything. I became someone I did not know. One day I looked in the mirror and was horrified at the person looking back. The woman looking back was completely unkempt. Her hair was dirty, her teeth unbrushed. Her clothes did not fit, were stained and mismatched. She was at least a size, if not two, larger than I remembered. Her face was red, bloated and tear stained. Her lips dry and cracked. She stood hunched up, her shoulders pulled in, her head hung low as though she were trying to disappear. And she was. The camera flashed and she jumped, startled, and began to cry again. The nurse led her to the bathroom and with the closing of the door, 'her' became 'me' as I lived out a horror I was sure I'd never know.

The nurse was gentle with me, recognizing that I was not a hardened criminal, but a severely depressed mom, wife and woman who had lost her way. She knew that I wasn't the type to be hiding weapons, but still. The process of checking in must be completed. So she directed and I obeyed. I took off all my clothes. I stood naked in a bathroom with a stranger as she catalogued my weight, height and body markings. The nurse also had to make sure that I wasn't concealing drugs. I was puzzled when she asked if I was hiding anything. I was naked wasn't I? I mutely shook my head and looked around for my clothing. She said there were two more things I needed to do. I listened, numb. Surely. . . no. But yes. So, naked and exposed, crying and shaking, I presented my back to her and bent over. She separated my buttocks. I was allowed to put on my t-shirt after that, but not my bra -- under wires you see. They can be fashioned into a weapon. Then I had to urinate into a cup in front of the nurse, so it could be tested for drugs, alcohol etc. After that I was able to get fully dressed, sans shoe laces which are another weapon. Sobbing, I was led from the bathroom to the community room. It was lunch time, 12:30. I'd been at the hospital since 9:00 a.m and had yet to stop crying.

How did I get to the hospital? Well, over a period of about seven months I simply stopped living. I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't shower, or dress, or brush my teeth. I found no joy in my children. None. They would do the most precious things, and in the very back of my mind a low, quiet voice would whisper, "This is really beautiful." But I could barely hear it for the loud, hammering, obnoxious voice that was screaming for me to get out of the room, I was a loser, a bad mom, a horrible wife, a completely useless person. Breathing required too much effort. Some days my husband had to stay home because I couldn't even pretend to get out of bed and be productive. So I'd just lay in bed, sleep and obsess about what a terrible mom/wife/person I was. Most days my husband would come home from work to find a snarling, yelling, freaking out woman who slightly resembled his wife. I'd shove the baby in his arms, demand he make dinner and declare that I was done for the night. Other nights he'd get ranting phone calls from me wanting to know just when he would be home, because by god I had had it. Maybe one night in 10 he'd come home to find that I'd gotten take out or pulled some sort of odd dinner together. That was probably a night that was starting my trips into insomnia. During this time, I was medicated. Hard to imagine, isn't it? So I really thought, well, this is me medicated, it can't get any better than this. Meanwhile I couldn't remember phone conversations, peoples names, or appointments I had. I lost the ability to talk with people, even family and friends. I avoided social settings at any cost because I feared that my quietness would be a dead give away that something was wrong to anyone who knew me.

Then one morning I just couldn't do it anymore. I somehow managed to get Violet off to school and my husband off to work, put the younger two in the playroom and went into my room. I laid on my bed and thought, "I just don't want to be here anymore." I began thinking about the meds I had in my bathroom. As I laid there and tried to calculate what I had and who I could get to watch my kids, I realized that this was a problem. I called a dear friend, Jen, who is also a nurse, and when she answered the phone, all I could say was, "Help. I don't want to be here anymore. I just can't be here." And sob. She yelled at me until I heard her and convinced me to call my husband, insisting that I then call her back. I did what I was told to do, and I believe she called my husband as well. He came home and literally led me to the car like a child. I don't recall what he did with the children. Maybe they came with us? I remember him talking to Jen, trying to figure out where to take me, as I cried and stared out the window.

I cried for 20 hours. On my first morning, I put a watery smile on my face and went to see my personal case manager, where I attempted to convince him that this had all been a mistake. I said, and I quote, "Listen, I watch t.v. I saw them take Brittany away in an ambulance and release her the next day. So that's what you can do here, for me." He smiled at me, I burst into tears and I'm pretty sure that's what kept me on 'in line of sight' status for another 12 hours.

I scoffed at the other patients who lined up for meds as if their lives depended on it. At my first med pass I was given an antidepressant, an anti-anxiety (which I was fine with) and then given a drug I was not familiar with. When I asked the name I recognized it though. I'd worked with special needs adults long enough to know it. A very high level sedative. I quickly succumbed to sobbing again. The guy behind me in line asked what they gave me. I told him. He replied, "Hoo, that's some good shit. You don't like it that way, crush it up and snort it. That's some really good shit." Without thinking I yelled at him, "This is helpful? I'm crying because I'm on such heavy drugs and you think "crush it up, it's good shit" is going to help me? Really? Shut up!" I'm sure that outburst did nothing to get me off the 'line of sight' standing. Within 15 hours I too would find myself lining up early for meds and vying for a forward spot. A mood stabilizer had also been added to my list of meds.

I stayed at the hospital for 4 of the longest days of my life. I should have stayed longer. But my focus wasn't on getting better, it was on getting out. A nurse, upon seeing me still crying, took me aside and told me I had to get control of myself or they wouldn't release me. She told me 'fake it 'till you make it.' And that's what I did. But I did it with deceit. Somehow, I still didn't totally get how deep I was into this disease. So they let me go, with my meds, and the order that I find a therapist.

9 months later I'd be back.

Still think you're alone?  Click here to read another story about PPD/depression. It's the post that got me blogging. And just a warning, it's difficult to read.

To read the second part of my story, click here. For more about my recovery, click on the tab, Depression and Recovery.
Kim

So, I'm A Cryer

I've recently discovered a new personality quirk that is embarrassing, humbling, and life affirming. And also totally laughable.

I can cry at anything. Anything. A newborn baby? Watery eyes as the memories of my own little ones well up inside me. My friends one year old finally getting her first tooth? Shiny tears in the corner of my eyes as I remember those first teeth. Working the last stitches in the baby hat I'm praying will one day grace the head of a niece or nephew? Glistening tracks down my cheeks. Hearing Violet sing her part in the upcoming Holiday Magic Show? Tears, coursing down that I swipe away quickly with my sleeve. Watching Violet watch the older dancers as they move their bodies in the most beautiful, magnificent, fluid ways and her eyes follow them, and I see that she hopes to move that gracefully, that wonderfully some day? Full on ugly cry.

This? All happened in the span of about an hour. An hour, people.

Which got me thinking. When I was in the depths of my depression, I didn't cry at beautiful things. Ever. I cried out of fear, anxiety and despair. But I never saw beauty so I never reacted to it. Now that I am healing and am out of that black, roiling place, I see beauty and grace everywhere I turn. I appreciate it. I think I appreciate it even more because I was so horribly blind to it for so long.

My feelings were also so incredibly turned 'off' during that time period, that now, as they awaken, it's as though my nerves are exposed. I feel things with more intensity. They are more powerful. A hug from  Sarah can send my heart racing, make my entire day. I don't mean, "Oh, that just made my day!" But, literally, change my entire outlook on the day. A hug. Her two little arms reaching around my neck, her sweet scent, and BAM! The day is fixed. Before, a hug was like putting a band aid on huge gash. It worked just fine, until I moved.

I used to escape into books. (I still read voraciously. Don't get me wrong.) I'd get so angry if I was interrupted because the book was my one chance to be whole, to be normal. The other day I was reading and was at an awesome spot when John wormed his way up next to me. He dragged the blanket over himself, snuggled next to me, grabbed my face with his little hands and kissed me. Then laid back and watched t.v. I put the book down, wrapped us up and watched the show with him. We talked and giggled the whole way through it. And I cried.

I can be driving down the street and see a father walking with his son, holding hands, and I well up. The site of my three kids holding hands, spontaneously, this summer put me over the edge. The way my friends dog greeted me the other night. Such unbridled love. And oddly enough, that is when I realized what I have been feeling.

First, I've started feeling again. And that was absent for so long. So long that it physically hurts to think about it. Second, I'm feeling unbridled love. I'm not analyzing it. I'm not saying, "Why?" I'm not asking, "Should I be feeling this?" I'm not running away from it. I'm just . . . feeling. Yes, it is sometimes frightening. For so long I medicated away every emotion, every tear, that now when I actually have these authentic feelings my first response is, "Oh God, I'm cracking up again!" But then I realize that people feel things. They are happy. Sad. Angry. Scared. And I can feel all of these, and more, and not be ready for the hospital again.

So, lately? I've been one big cry baby. And I think I'll stay that way for a while.

A Purpose Driven Life

Irene, Matthew, Violet, Elizabeth Christams '05

What is the purpose? I've been asking myself this question a lot the past few weeks. What is the purpose for my depression? It was and is so huge. I lost such a large piece of time to it. Now that I am healing and learning, there must be a reason for it. I do not believe that I went through all that despair and anxiety to come out on the other end and do nothing with the knowledge. I believe there is a purpose.

Sometimes we learn the purpose for something immediately, other times it takes years to see it. Whenever I start to doubt that there is a purpose I think back to when I had my first miscarriage. 

We kind of planned for that baby, in that we did nothing to prevent him or her from being created. So when I didn't feel well and took a pregnancy test, we weren't exactly shocked at the positive result. Violet was nine months old and we were ecstatic about having another baby. We quickly told the world. 

My friend, Jill, came over to watch Violet while I went for my ultra sound appointment, alone. We wouldn't be hearing a heartbeat or anything like that during the ultrasound, (it was too early) so I insisted my husband go to work. 

I'm not going to get into the details of the appointment in this post.

Although there was a sac, there wasn't a baby. To say I came unglued would be an understatement. I only remember crying and shaking, and people staring at me. They escorted me out a back door so I didn't pass back through the waiting room full of pregnant moms. Because I was no longer pregnant.

My husband came and got me, took me home. Then he and Jill went back to get my car. On the way back to our house he called his mom. We needed her to come help us watch Violet when I went back to the hospital for the procedure.

My mother in law is an incredible woman. I simply adore her. She is probably the most organized person I've ever met. She's practical, well planned and scheduled. She's kind and quietly loving, gentle and thoughtful.

My husband called her at 11 o'clock, told her what had happened and could she help? I expected her around 7 o'clock. She was at work, lives an hour and half from us, needed to finish the day, get home, pack, fix my father in law dinner and drive here.

So at 2 o'clock I was a bit surprised when I heard a noise, looked up and saw my mother in law rushing at me with open arms. She wrapped me in a huge hug and held me while I sobbed. I'd been on the phone with my mom, but it wasn't the same, you know? I needed to be touched. To feel. To connect. And there Irene was, just holding me, letting me sob and snot all over her.

For the next three days Irene stayed with us, cooking for us, taking Violet when I was short tempered or the sadness welled up inside me and even my baby couldn't soothe it.

We sat and had pots of tea in pretty cups, talked about marriage and babies and love and sorrow and cried. I'd known her for just about three years at that point, but during those three days I actually got to know her. I got to know the woman that is my husbands mother. The woman that carried him in her belly. That felt him move for the first time and felt joy in it. Loved him first. Held all his hopes and dreams in her heart. I never knew this woman. But in that time of great sorrow came a great knowledge. And I've taken that knowledge with me.

It's no secret that the past few years have been difficult, to say the least. When I have been humiliated and horrified by what I have had to ask of my family, Irene has always shown up at my door. When I flinch away I am reminded of this time, this time when we sat and cried over that first lost babe and I really got to love her. And for that, I am thankful. That is the purpose.

Kim