Retrospect

I stumbled upon this very old post and wanted to share it again.

Especially since it resonates off of this last post I'd written just a few short weeks ago for Birth Touch.

I was a mess. I'm slowly getting better.

Wow, does it take an amazing amount of time and work.

PLEASE. Pass these along to anyone you think might benefit. They would be written in vain otherwise. 

My Sunday gift to those suffering.

 I love you.

By the way. I have a lot of really good posts on my old blog...I'd love for you to read some of them...Head on over and take a look.

Post Partum Wha?

So, I'm watching my 8 year old get ready for bed the other night. What a mature, independent girl she is turning out to be. She does everything on her own (most of the time) and usually without me begging more than 5 times.

I can't believe how far we've come.

Dancing with her is still my all time favorite thing to do with her...It started unexpectedly, in the living room and we've been doing it ever since...

You see, when she was born. I was afraid of her. I was afraid of her cry, her helplessness and most of all I was afraid I was hurting her. Not physically hurting her, I would never do that even in my darkest moments. I was afraid I was hurting her in the way that when two people are so connected and one is, how do you explain, "off"? The other gets screwed up too. Kinda.

I started crying the second she entered this world. Non stop. Crying like I couldn't breathe crying.
Crying like I had lost my mother all over again and I didn't cry right the first time 13 years ago.

That first night, I lay in the hospital bed in the middle of the night hysterical. The nurse came in and told me I had baby blues. I'd be okay in a few days.

But I kept crying.

I didn't get out of bed until they threatened they would catheterize me in order to pee. I peed.

I cried.

I was really suffering physically, my body was a mess. I had a flabby belly, jiggling, painful boobies...a severe swelling in the *ahem* area that really hung down like a penis (no joke, ask my husband). Physically, I was so wrecked no one thought to check out my mental state.

Until I realized they weren't releasing us into the real world until the "social worker" came to talk to me. We talked. She gave me her card and said she'd call me in a few days.

She never called.

On the way home from the hospital, I secretly prayed that my husband would get into a car accident so we could all die and and I wouldn't have to feel this pain anymore.

So I cried.

I was afraid of this little baby who needed me to stay alive, and I knew in my head I wasn't right. I have been diagnosed with depression/anxiety prior to childbirth so I knew this was possible. But the things I was thinking! This wasn't the blues. And I knew it.

I couldn't breast feed. So I was guilty for being a disappointment to all of motherhood. I couldn't comfort her so I was guilty for being an unfit mother. I felt guilty for bringing her into this world. I just felt dark.

And I was afraid of the dark, because that was when the thoughts were the clearest. I would envision my sweet, little newborn slamming against the wall the way paint, or blood splatters and dripping down in chunks. I would envision her being thrown into a wood chipper (by some random person, it was never me) and coming out the other end all bits and blood and pieces.  I would create these elaborate soap operas in my head (all the while, awake) that the house would burn down and we couldn't escape. That she would be kidnapped or I would be killed by intruders.

I saw her face change in the dark, into something unreal, evil like. I would see her mouthing to me that she knew my real story and she would tell everyone the shit job I was doing. I saw creatures watching me in the dark corners of her room so I relinquished the midnight feedings to my poor, overtired husband.

I saw her staring at me as something judgmental and cruel. Like she was sizing me up and realizing that she was dealt a shitty deck. Hence, her colic. It was totally my fault. She cried because she was trying to warn whoever would listen that she needed help. That she was being raised by a lunatic and she needed out.

I cried. She cried. I used to beg her to answer me. "Are you crying because I'm crying or am I crying because you're crying?" She answered with more crying.

Then, after a few weeks, my husband threatened to call a doctor to have me committed and he would raise her himself because he was literally afraid to come home from work every night to find me or worse, the baby, dead.

But I would never hurt her. I knew that. I didn't leave the house alone with her until over a month after she was born. I was afraid I'd get into a car accident and kill her. If I hurt her physically, I had a plan to kill myself because I wouldn't be able to live with that amount of guilt.

Eventually, I called the doctor. I dont know what took me so long. I truly thought this was "normal". I guess my version of "normal" is already skewed, losing my mother at 17 did that to me. But I knew, for her sake, I had to fix things. And things weren't fixing themselves.

It was a long process. Finding the right doctors to really hear me. Finding the right medications that really brought be back to reality. Finding the right frame of mind to accept that there was an issue. The day I was diagnosed with Post Partum Psychosis, I was relieved. I had a real symptom with a title and a progress plan. I could feel joy instead of pain? Over my baby? I could be in love with her? Really?

Really.

While during this recovery process, eight years in the making, I still carry much guilt over not getting help sooner. Missing out on those awesome new baby smells and milestones. I just wanted them all to be overwith quick. I rushed her babyhood away. I regret that. But I do not regret getting help. I got the help I needed when I was ready and I have to take that inside of me and savor it. I have to covet the thought that I was able to enjoy toddler hood and beyond.

I see now, that she never noticed all those insecurities in the beginning. How could she? All she needed was a good swaddle and some formula that worked for her. We finally clicked. One day it just happened. I was having fun with her when my husband came home from work and he couldn't believe his eyes. We were "dancing" in the living room to Bon Jovi and she saw our love radiate for the first time ever.

I still suffer from depression and anxiety, and I'll be on medications the rest of my life for that. And I never did have another child. But I do have this gorgeous little girl with a heart of gold. Who loves animals and music and art and reading. Who has friends and play dates and loves her school with a passion. Who loves me with an immeasurable amount of vigor. And in return, I adore her every pore.

So every night we snuggle in bed together and talk. We bond. We laugh. And those memories come slipping back once in a while, but then I look over at her gorgeous brown eyes and see through them, that they are filled with love. My love. And there's nothing in the world I would change that for.

Ever.

I was thinking.

When I start thinking it could go either way, terribly bad or good.

But I was driving Fa to school this morning and the day was starting out to be a wonderfully sunny day.

It reminded me of a time.

It must've been about the same time of year, because I had just started walking again, for exercise, after Fa was born. She was about 4+ months old. She was just coming out, I mean just coming out of her colicky stage. Add that to what I was going through and you had one fucked up JJ.

I took her to the beach to walk on the boardwalk. I had my jogging stroller all ready to go, the tires were filled with air, my sneakers were ready to move, my muscles needed toning...I was looking forward to exercising and getting the baby out of the house...(That was still a big feat back then. I was afraid to leave the house and all.)

I strapped her into the car, drove the 5 minutes to the beach (lucky) and started adjusting her into the stroller. My courage was strong, for some reason that morning...

We took off.

Not three steps onto the boardwalk and she started crying. I kept it going a few more steps. She started crying harder and louder. But I was determined to walk. And she was determined to cry.

I was so nervous that I sat on a bench to try to calm her. Water, formula, sunscreen, clean diaper, hat, shade...all in order. But she was inconsolable. You'd think I'd be used to it by then, but it hurt that minute just like every minute prior. Like someone was stabbing me in the heart over an over again with each wail of her tiny but booming voice.

Like all the other times before, I didn't know what to do. So I sat and cried. On the bench at the beach. Bawling.

And my anger for her welled up inside me like a volcano and I started yelling at her on the boardwalk. For crying.

My four month old.

I was screaming at her.

For crying.

I feel so guilty for that. For blaming her for my short comings and fears and insecurities. And for actually taking it out on her. Like a mad woman. People were staring and the more they gawked, the louder I yelled, the louder she cried.

I must've been a sight.

I resented her for being a burden when I wanted to walk. I resented her for making me feel so out of control physically and mentally. I was angry at her for taking this time to throw a fit. Like she was doing it on purpose. I was fucking crazy, man.

I think back at that now and I cringe. The guilt is overwhelming.

But I was trying. I really was.

And I used to ask her, "Are you crying because I'm crying or am I crying because you're crying?"

Who knew.

But I pray that my initial actions as a mother will have no bearing on her as she grows. Do they know? Do they remember? Will it effect her in the long run?

We went home shortly after that scene and I waited a little longer to try again. Watching the fear grow with each new failed experience.

But eventually we did it. We got into a groove. And it became a ritual of sorts. Every summer we'd go back, every other day, walking on the boardwalk...counting big, orange garbage cans. She loved those garbage cans. They were evenly spaced throughout the boardwalk and for 3 years she saw them return every summer.

I wish I could have known then what I know now.

I wish that she knew then what I pray she knows now.

That I loved her unconditionally, even if I didn't know it back then. And I love her unconditionally now. And I do my best to show it in every way possible.

I hope my guilt doesn't spill over. I truly do.

In control

I have been examining this life lately.

I believe I have finally come to the realization that I must enjoy it now. For I won't have another chance.

I have been given a clinical name for what I have been suffering for all of these years.

Depression.

And when Fa was born, Post Partum Psychosis.

I hate labels.

But for some reason. These labels in particular have helped me to let go of all the pain and insecurities I have held deep for so long. There are reasons for why I felt the way I did. I am not the only one who has felt this way. Experienced this. I am awakened to this new found security.

A funny kind of security. It's more of an "ah-ha!" then an "I can do this" thing.

When Fa was born, I was severely misdiagnosed and I wasn't given the correct line of treatment, which may have saved me from years of insecurity and fear vs. what I've gone through. I thought I was losing my mind. And no one even made a blip about my symptoms. I am surprised I got through it as well as I did. Goes to show what your heart can take for your child.

Today, it has a name and symptoms that I actually had, and a cure. A cure that I am finally receiving after 4+ years.

I am relieved. I am justified. I am secure.

I am so happy with being a mother these days that I almost feel jipped. I should have felt this way much earlier. I've lost precious moments due to the visions, fears, insecurities and thoughts.

I can't get those moments back. But I sure as shit can enjoy the ones I am having now.

I am proud of myself for finally, finally taking steps to figure this out. I knew it. I knew it was something more than depression after Fa was born.

Looking back and examining my life so far, I also realize that after the trauma of losing my mother at such a young age, I have done pretty good for myself...even if it took longer than I'd have liked. I survived a loss that led me through a downward spiral of depression and suicidal ideations and I was strong enough (without therapy, back then) to get through it.

I'm one tough bitch.

And finally. Finally. Thanks to Fa and the Pro, (and some damn good psychiatrists and therapists) I have finally begun to step into the light...To enjoy my life and thrive on the events that make it mine and only mine. This is my one and only life.

I am finally strong enough to live it to the fullest.

I am breathing again, for the first time in years. I've taken control and I love every second of it.