Today, I finally entered politics on Facebook with this post.
---
Friends, I've stayed out of political chats and have avoided commenting on most posts. The one thing that this election cycle has shown me is that most people need far more than whatever Civics & Government class is required in American schools. Voting for a President is voting for your ideals; to make government truly work, you vote for Congress. A President creates no laws and, contrary to popular belief, doesn't stack the Supreme Court. The President signs bills approved by Congress and can utilize a veto power that can be overruled by Congress. The President brings a SC nominee the Senate, who then approves or not the appointment. Our government's power is meant to rest in the hands of the people, utilized via Congress. Don't use your vote as a "forced hand" choice. If you love and support Trump, by all means, vote for him. If you love and support Clinton, by all means, vote for her. But if you are voting for a candidate because you hate the other more... This is not what voting is meant for. You only waste your vote when you refuse to use it to send your own message of confidence in your government. Vote for Trump, for Clinton, for Stein, for Johnson, write in McMullins or Sanders. But vote your conscience. Vote your ideals. Vote what you hope this country is able to become. And care enough about this country to realize that your presidential vote is only one very small piece of the puzzle. Take the time to research your congressional choices and vote according to how you want our government to function. One vote matters little if we are all just voting "the lesser of two evils"; but if we utilize the power that people have fought and died for us to have, then we do make a difference. Someone will win the vote; it will likely be Trump or Clinton. But do not go gently into the night. Do not feel resigned and sad, as though voting is a pointless exercise in futility. If you cast your vote with dignity- no, your VOTES with dignity- then you are the greatest sign that our system can still work. #WeAreBetterThanThis
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Monday, October 3, 2016
Eight
Eight.
It seems like a good number.
Like five.
Right?
It's crazy to think that Nicholas and Sophia would be eight and a half... That Alexander would turn eight in November... It's crazy to think that baby #8 is due in May.
Yeah... So there was this:
and this:
I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. But yeah... Wow.
We were getting ready to host a family dinner when Peter noticed my period app pinging that I was late. Since I've only had one real postpartum period and the second seemed like only three very light days, I wasn't overly concerned. It takes a bit to get back on track and I told him as much. But Peter, being a scientist, thought i should test, especially since we were planning on buying tickets to Whiskey Fest. I had tests from when I was pregnant with Lucas and thought I could quickly put to rest the notion of another pregnancy. Instead, this happened:
Talk about crazy! There may have been tears and explicatives. And shock... A lot of shock. Over the next few days, it sank in and I called Dr B, whom I saw last week. I see him again at the end of October and we will have a better idea of where we are, date wise. According to LMP, I was 8 weeks yesterday with a due date of Mother's Day. Based on the first ultrasound, the baby measured a week behind with a heartbeat of 120/bpm. Because we are talking about a small baby and a lot of the same things being viewable, Dr B feels that my next appointment, 10.5-11.5 weeks gestation, will give us the best dating. I'll also have blood drawn for the Materni21 screen which, while it won't give us dating information, will let us know the health of the baby and confirm or deny Maya's insistence that this IS her baby sister. The child has been praying for another baby- a GIRL baby- since Christmas. We really should her her to pray for things other than more children... At this rate, the lottery!
I started with morning sickness and nausea last week. As much as it sucks, it hasn't been as awful as it was with Michael or Lucas. Physically, I feel okay. With four kids to chase after, okay is really the only option.
Emotionally, I'm getting there... I think. It's hard. The part of me that remembers trying for a baby for so long to be answered by constant negative pregnancy tests, is over the moon. The part of me with PCOS and autoimmune disease that shouldn't be able to get pregnant easily is like "Woo Hoo!!!". The part of me that is a homemaker and homeschooler is nervous about where the extra money and time (and, honestly, energy and patience) will come from. The part of me that remembers how awful the PPD was after Lucas is terrified. The post of me that is battling my eating disorder is afraid and just wants to eat the fear and anxiety away. The writer part of me, who is so excited about my latest project, is despondent because where oh where will i find the time to actually write???? Lots of parts... Lots of emotions.
Regardless of everything else, there is a new baby in our lives and we are grateful for the chance to know this new little one. For now, we are taking it one day at a time.
It seems like a good number.
Like five.
Right?
It's crazy to think that Nicholas and Sophia would be eight and a half... That Alexander would turn eight in November... It's crazy to think that baby #8 is due in May.
Yeah... So there was this:
and this:
I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. But yeah... Wow.
We were getting ready to host a family dinner when Peter noticed my period app pinging that I was late. Since I've only had one real postpartum period and the second seemed like only three very light days, I wasn't overly concerned. It takes a bit to get back on track and I told him as much. But Peter, being a scientist, thought i should test, especially since we were planning on buying tickets to Whiskey Fest. I had tests from when I was pregnant with Lucas and thought I could quickly put to rest the notion of another pregnancy. Instead, this happened:
Talk about crazy! There may have been tears and explicatives. And shock... A lot of shock. Over the next few days, it sank in and I called Dr B, whom I saw last week. I see him again at the end of October and we will have a better idea of where we are, date wise. According to LMP, I was 8 weeks yesterday with a due date of Mother's Day. Based on the first ultrasound, the baby measured a week behind with a heartbeat of 120/bpm. Because we are talking about a small baby and a lot of the same things being viewable, Dr B feels that my next appointment, 10.5-11.5 weeks gestation, will give us the best dating. I'll also have blood drawn for the Materni21 screen which, while it won't give us dating information, will let us know the health of the baby and confirm or deny Maya's insistence that this IS her baby sister. The child has been praying for another baby- a GIRL baby- since Christmas. We really should her her to pray for things other than more children... At this rate, the lottery!
I started with morning sickness and nausea last week. As much as it sucks, it hasn't been as awful as it was with Michael or Lucas. Physically, I feel okay. With four kids to chase after, okay is really the only option.
Emotionally, I'm getting there... I think. It's hard. The part of me that remembers trying for a baby for so long to be answered by constant negative pregnancy tests, is over the moon. The part of me with PCOS and autoimmune disease that shouldn't be able to get pregnant easily is like "Woo Hoo!!!". The part of me that is a homemaker and homeschooler is nervous about where the extra money and time (and, honestly, energy and patience) will come from. The part of me that remembers how awful the PPD was after Lucas is terrified. The post of me that is battling my eating disorder is afraid and just wants to eat the fear and anxiety away. The writer part of me, who is so excited about my latest project, is despondent because where oh where will i find the time to actually write???? Lots of parts... Lots of emotions.
Regardless of everything else, there is a new baby in our lives and we are grateful for the chance to know this new little one. For now, we are taking it one day at a time.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Happy First Birthday, Lucas
Could this kid be any cuter???
Happy birthday, Lucas Andrew! You make our lives so much brighter!
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Summer Rain
It's dark and I'm sitting outside on the deck. A soft rain falls; the humidity broke with last night's thunderstorm and it is a beautiful summer night. My kids are all asleep, safe and comfortable in their beds. They are clean and fed. They snuggle with their lovey bears and dream of playdates and cupcakes.
They don't know what it is like to be cold in winter or unbearably hot in summer. They don't know what it is like to have to choose who will eat, for it not to be their turn for the day's rations. They have no idea what it is like to go hungry. To be nasty. To be thirsty. To feel alone.
Today, as they hung out in the backyard, Michael ended up on the ground. He was dirty and a bit scraped up from the twelve inch fall, but he was fine. He cried. He cried because the scratches stung, because he was scared, because it hurt. He cried, knowing he would be comforted and held and loved. He cried, knowing that this was an outlying event and that his little, three year old life would go back to normal... which it did.
I see the images of a boy who, although he is five years old, looks like my three year old. I see him, dirty and bloody from an air raid- an air raid... a scene played out in Syria, day after day, a scene that he has probably known about daily since birth since the war has been going on since 2010. I see him, silent. No tears. No screaming. No asking for his mother (who was still being rescued by volunteers). He doesn't expect a lollipop for being brave or a trip to the arcade for sitting through his stitches like a big boy.
He probably wanted to go home. But his home was gone. The strike destroyed his home. Maybe he was learning to read and now his books are tattered ashes. Maybe, like my kids, he had a lovey that is now nothing but scraps.
This is the world we live in. A world where children are born into war. A world where children are bloody and damaged and aching, yet do not cry.
I can hold my kids close and hope they never experience what this child has. But I can't close my eyes and wish his broken image away. My heart breaks for him and all of the children like him. I wish beyond measure that I could scoop those children up and give them a childhood.
They don't know what it is like to be cold in winter or unbearably hot in summer. They don't know what it is like to have to choose who will eat, for it not to be their turn for the day's rations. They have no idea what it is like to go hungry. To be nasty. To be thirsty. To feel alone.
Today, as they hung out in the backyard, Michael ended up on the ground. He was dirty and a bit scraped up from the twelve inch fall, but he was fine. He cried. He cried because the scratches stung, because he was scared, because it hurt. He cried, knowing he would be comforted and held and loved. He cried, knowing that this was an outlying event and that his little, three year old life would go back to normal... which it did.
I see the images of a boy who, although he is five years old, looks like my three year old. I see him, dirty and bloody from an air raid- an air raid... a scene played out in Syria, day after day, a scene that he has probably known about daily since birth since the war has been going on since 2010. I see him, silent. No tears. No screaming. No asking for his mother (who was still being rescued by volunteers). He doesn't expect a lollipop for being brave or a trip to the arcade for sitting through his stitches like a big boy.
He probably wanted to go home. But his home was gone. The strike destroyed his home. Maybe he was learning to read and now his books are tattered ashes. Maybe, like my kids, he had a lovey that is now nothing but scraps.
This is the world we live in. A world where children are born into war. A world where children are bloody and damaged and aching, yet do not cry.
I can hold my kids close and hope they never experience what this child has. But I can't close my eyes and wish his broken image away. My heart breaks for him and all of the children like him. I wish beyond measure that I could scoop those children up and give them a childhood.
"People need to know this happens everyday... Every day we rescue children and families. Every day I meet traumatized parents for losing a child or even not being able to find the body under the rubble. Just this time it was caught on camera."
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Before the Sun
You know it's crazy hot when you trade sleep for cooler running weather. It's hot. Nasty hot. Yesterday, instead of doing a long run in 100° temps, I've been up since 4:45, to meet Sarah at a local trail to do ten miles or so. Fun times. Remind me again why I run?
*****
Peter's birthday was Friday. He took a half day from work and we lounged around in spite of our best laid plans. To beat the heat, he took the older kids to the pool (Lucas feel asleep so I did naptime at home), and that night, he took the twins to the local parish carnival. We had his family dinner last night. He does so much for everyone else, it was nice to celebrate him for a change.
*****
Peter's birthday was Friday. He took a half day from work and we lounged around in spite of our best laid plans. To beat the heat, he took the older kids to the pool (Lucas feel asleep so I did naptime at home), and that night, he took the twins to the local parish carnival. We had his family dinner last night. He does so much for everyone else, it was nice to celebrate him for a change.
Friday, August 5, 2016
Returning From the Dead
It's surreal to think that I haven't written here since a "Merry Christmas" post last year. To be honest, I can't tell you how I even managed the few posts I've written since Lucas was born. There's so much to say and I don't know that I even have the voice to say it, the words to tell you that I've been dead inside and am, only now, coming back from the dead. It's as though I've been in a pit- a deep, dank, dark pit, with dirt on the ground, a hint of light from the top to let me know that there is, indeed, a way out, with walls of stone that have the tiniest sliver of ledge. For a while, I just lay in the pit, the cool dirt numbing some of the fear and the pain, before it became viscous, thick mud that covered me and weighed me down. At times, I tried to climb the wall. Sometimes I went nowhere. Other times, I made it a few feet off the ground before slipping and stumbling backwards to rock bottom. Once, I thought I would make it to the top, before my bloody, broken fingers could no longer hold the weight of my grief and, with a sickening scraping of flesh against rock, I fell. And I hit the ground, hard.
So hard.
So painfully, achingly hard.
I thought I would die. I wanted to. I could no longer breathe. I could no longer find the will and I thought the sky was black. That there was no light. No way out.
But, the night sky is never truly black. Pinpricks of light, millions upon millions of miles away, peek through the velvet blackness like little rays of hope, telling us that there is light somewhere, that there is a way out. That we are not alone. That we are not dead.
After Michael was born, I had the "baby blues". I never thought much of life post Bobby and Maya, because I was in a haze of NICU PTSD, where I was just happy to have living babies, at home. When they were babies, I rediscovered my joy in running, and life was good. Really good. I got pregnant with Michael, I was shocked, I was running, and things were still good. And then he was born.
I was tired. I was overweight. I couldn't really run as much as I wanted, although I still did. The blues waxed and waned. Sometimes, I felt really down, but a lot of the time was just 'okay'. I was tired. I was homeschooling. I was coaching. I was writing. I was just really busy.
And then I got pregnant with Lucas.
My response to Michael was "Whoa!!! There are 2 lines!" My response to Lucas was shock and, then, I cried. I loved him, no doubt of that. I was happy that my body was working. But I was also, in spite of refusing to acknowledge it, going through the start of prenatal/antenatal depression. Because I did have some lingering "blues" from Michael's pregnancy, I think that it was easy to just think that I was tired and overwhelmed. Even as a doula and childbirth educator- even knowing the signs- I made excuse after excuse.
When Lucas was born, I remember feeling like I had to show that I was strong, that I had overcome. C-Section on a Monday afternoon, home on Wednesday morning. Superwoman. I've got this! I'm an old hat at this baby business!
And then came the nursing... The nonstop feeding frenzy that left me broken and bleeding and tired.
And then the lack of sleep (that still continues) that left me in a fog.
The teething (At 10 months old, he has 6 teeth and 2 on the way... Sweet Lord, have mercy!) that made it feel I could do nothing to ease his pain (or my own).
Things were rough at Christmas and, in January, after Peter had begged and all but ordered me to have tests run or, at the least to call my doctor, I had blood work that showed rheumatoid factor. My joints had been swelling and hurting to the point that I could barely move at times; the doctor warned me that RA or lupus could be to blame and, I suppose, I won the lottery in that it was "only" RA. Because of my age and other factors, I opted to try a gluten and dairy free diet to try and eliminate inflammation over drugs. I told myself that if, in 6 months, I still felt awful and was still battling what I refused to admit was postpartum depression, I would reevaluate.
But it wasn't just feeling physically like death warmed over. Emotionally, things were all over the place, and they were usually awful. Living with a child on the autism spectrum has its struggles. Living with a child who has some anxiety issues (like her mom) has its struggles. The terrible 2s that have moved into the terrible 3s have struggles. Life with a baby is full of struggles. Add in homeschooling, when you barely have a grasp on dishes and meals, and it feels monumental.
I wasn't running.
I wasn't writing.
I, simply, wasn't.
And one day, on the day before Lucas would turn 8 months old, on May 27th, when I'd felt like I had been climbing out of the pit, I suddenly was flat on my back. I can't even remember what the final straw was, but I was done.
In my emptiness, I had a plan. I put Lucas and Michael to nap. Peter got ready to take the kids to the pool. And, as soon as he left, I found the bottle of pain medication from my C-section. I wrote a note. I decided to take the bottle, and then lay down with Lucas. He would stay asleep, I reasoned, if I was next to him, and Michael would definitely sleep until Peter came home. Even if he didn't, his MO was to come into our bed, so he would just come to me until then. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. My hands shook so badly that water spilled and I had to clean it up. Then, I couldn't get the child safety off. When I finally did, the door opened and Peter came in. He'd forgotten the goggles for the twins.
I threw the bottle in a bag, lest I get caught in the act. I actually remember telling him goodbye and, in a way, it was almost like he knew... Like he didn't want to leave.
But he did leave.
And I fished the painkillers out of the bag. Throwing them in had caused the child safety lid to reset, but before I could open it, Lucas cried.
I immediately went to him and tried to soothe him back to sleep, but no amount of singing, kissing, or nursing did the job. He was awake. He was happy and smiling and laughing. He looked at me with his big, blue eyes, and I just broke down into sobs. I'm surprised I didn't wake Michael.
I almost missed seeing those eyes again.... Kissing those cheeks again... Hearing his laugh again.
I almost missed Michael's sweet little voice when he sings
or Maya's sense of wonder when she discovers something new
or Bobby's never failing ability to snuggle you just when you need it most.
I almost missed all of those things.
My postpartum depression never presented as hurting the children; if anything, it was the opposite. They were on the pedestal and I just wasn't good enough. I could never be good enough. No matter what I did, I always fell too short. Peter was a better parent. Hell, anyone was a better parent. I was just a space filler. I sucked at motherhood. I was a terrible teacher. I was an awful runner (could I even use that word anymore?) I was unhealthy. Unworthy.
This battle was ongoing, even though most people on the outside had no idea. I was still volunteering for this and that, doing this and that, hosting this gathering or that. No one knew that I was barely hanging on. No one knew just how low I was. And I couldn't tell them. I couldn't tell them just how bad it was. I was afraid and I don't even know what of. Of being considered weak? Of being considered the failure that I thought I was?
When Peter got home, I told him what I'd done. In typical fashion, there was no guilt; he simply took the pills. I don't know where they are; I don't even know where the Advil is. We sat and talked. I cried. I confessed how awful of a mother I was, how terrible of a wife I was, how I didn't deserve my family and that the world would be better without me. I told him that I was still battling my eating disorder and that it had a hold of me in a way that felt worse than before. I told him that I was broken and scared. And he held me while I cried. He didn't try to tell me that I was wrong or tell me all the ways that the world would be different without me. Instead, he just told me that he loved me and asked me what I needed.
I'd like to tell you that, immediately, things became 1950s sitcom perfect, but they didn't. Yet, they've gotten better. One day at a time.
Three weeks ago, I started running daily again. After 5 months of being GF/DF, my joints aren't swollen and there isn't the intense pain that I'd had for months before. Running feels good again. Tonight, after my 2 mile speed run in anticipation of my 7 mile long run tomorrow, I sit here feeling good. Feeling brave.
I'm eating better. I'm finally in a place where, although all of my decisions aren't the right ones, I can see the choices in food and can weigh out the right answer (even if I don't always take it). I'm making sure to make time to run every day, whether it is a short "speed" run, an average 3-5 mile run, or my weekly long run. I'm training for a race again. I've dropped some things and started some new projects, and they are things dear to my heart. I'm writing again. Homeschooling (or Unschooling, as it were) is back on track and I'm able to focus on the kids. I'm not perfect. I still make mistakes. But I'm trying to view them as learning opportunities for all of us.
I'm talking to people who understand: Peter, my BFF, folks who "get it" or understand what I'm feeling and can offer advice or support. I'm asking for help. For the summer, a friend's daughter is "mother helping" twice a week most weeks to give me time to just sit and get some writing done or make sure Lucas gets a nap (he's a crappy sleeper and a horrendous napper) or just mop the floor without little feet showing up while it's wet.
I'm not out of the pit yet. But help came from the darkness and a rope was thrown down. I'm still climbing. It's a slow journey up, but I know I'll get out, and that's not something I knew before.
I feel like I've been sleepwalking for the last 10 months. I've missed so much that I was present for. It's only been the last few weeks that I feel like I'm really and truly awake.
Every single day, I'm making the choice to continue to open my eyes. Regardless of what happens, each moment is such a gift and I don't want to lose a second.
---
If you think that you might be suffering from postpartum depression or if you can't (or won't) put a name to how awful you are feeling, there are resources available. You can find anonymous help at http://www.1800ppdmoms.org/ and http://www.postpartum.net/. Many hospitals also have lines that you can call to speak with someone. While my PPD didn't present as wanting to harm my children, if you feel that your children may be at risk, please reach out to a friend, neighbor, family member, or even your local police department, and find a safe place for your children until you are able to get help for yourself. You are not just a mom; you are the mom. You are worth more than you know, and not just because you are an irreplaceable mother. You are worthy in your own right; please seek out help if you need it. Don't wait until it's too late.
So hard.
So painfully, achingly hard.
I thought I would die. I wanted to. I could no longer breathe. I could no longer find the will and I thought the sky was black. That there was no light. No way out.
But, the night sky is never truly black. Pinpricks of light, millions upon millions of miles away, peek through the velvet blackness like little rays of hope, telling us that there is light somewhere, that there is a way out. That we are not alone. That we are not dead.
After Michael was born, I had the "baby blues". I never thought much of life post Bobby and Maya, because I was in a haze of NICU PTSD, where I was just happy to have living babies, at home. When they were babies, I rediscovered my joy in running, and life was good. Really good. I got pregnant with Michael, I was shocked, I was running, and things were still good. And then he was born.
I was tired. I was overweight. I couldn't really run as much as I wanted, although I still did. The blues waxed and waned. Sometimes, I felt really down, but a lot of the time was just 'okay'. I was tired. I was homeschooling. I was coaching. I was writing. I was just really busy.
And then I got pregnant with Lucas.
My response to Michael was "Whoa!!! There are 2 lines!" My response to Lucas was shock and, then, I cried. I loved him, no doubt of that. I was happy that my body was working. But I was also, in spite of refusing to acknowledge it, going through the start of prenatal/antenatal depression. Because I did have some lingering "blues" from Michael's pregnancy, I think that it was easy to just think that I was tired and overwhelmed. Even as a doula and childbirth educator- even knowing the signs- I made excuse after excuse.
When Lucas was born, I remember feeling like I had to show that I was strong, that I had overcome. C-Section on a Monday afternoon, home on Wednesday morning. Superwoman. I've got this! I'm an old hat at this baby business!
And then came the nursing... The nonstop feeding frenzy that left me broken and bleeding and tired.
And then the lack of sleep (that still continues) that left me in a fog.
The teething (At 10 months old, he has 6 teeth and 2 on the way... Sweet Lord, have mercy!) that made it feel I could do nothing to ease his pain (or my own).
Things were rough at Christmas and, in January, after Peter had begged and all but ordered me to have tests run or, at the least to call my doctor, I had blood work that showed rheumatoid factor. My joints had been swelling and hurting to the point that I could barely move at times; the doctor warned me that RA or lupus could be to blame and, I suppose, I won the lottery in that it was "only" RA. Because of my age and other factors, I opted to try a gluten and dairy free diet to try and eliminate inflammation over drugs. I told myself that if, in 6 months, I still felt awful and was still battling what I refused to admit was postpartum depression, I would reevaluate.
But it wasn't just feeling physically like death warmed over. Emotionally, things were all over the place, and they were usually awful. Living with a child on the autism spectrum has its struggles. Living with a child who has some anxiety issues (like her mom) has its struggles. The terrible 2s that have moved into the terrible 3s have struggles. Life with a baby is full of struggles. Add in homeschooling, when you barely have a grasp on dishes and meals, and it feels monumental.
I wasn't running.
I wasn't writing.
I, simply, wasn't.
And one day, on the day before Lucas would turn 8 months old, on May 27th, when I'd felt like I had been climbing out of the pit, I suddenly was flat on my back. I can't even remember what the final straw was, but I was done.
In my emptiness, I had a plan. I put Lucas and Michael to nap. Peter got ready to take the kids to the pool. And, as soon as he left, I found the bottle of pain medication from my C-section. I wrote a note. I decided to take the bottle, and then lay down with Lucas. He would stay asleep, I reasoned, if I was next to him, and Michael would definitely sleep until Peter came home. Even if he didn't, his MO was to come into our bed, so he would just come to me until then. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. My hands shook so badly that water spilled and I had to clean it up. Then, I couldn't get the child safety off. When I finally did, the door opened and Peter came in. He'd forgotten the goggles for the twins.
I threw the bottle in a bag, lest I get caught in the act. I actually remember telling him goodbye and, in a way, it was almost like he knew... Like he didn't want to leave.
But he did leave.
And I fished the painkillers out of the bag. Throwing them in had caused the child safety lid to reset, but before I could open it, Lucas cried.
I immediately went to him and tried to soothe him back to sleep, but no amount of singing, kissing, or nursing did the job. He was awake. He was happy and smiling and laughing. He looked at me with his big, blue eyes, and I just broke down into sobs. I'm surprised I didn't wake Michael.
I almost missed seeing those eyes again.... Kissing those cheeks again... Hearing his laugh again.
I almost missed Michael's sweet little voice when he sings
or Maya's sense of wonder when she discovers something new
or Bobby's never failing ability to snuggle you just when you need it most.
I almost missed all of those things.
My postpartum depression never presented as hurting the children; if anything, it was the opposite. They were on the pedestal and I just wasn't good enough. I could never be good enough. No matter what I did, I always fell too short. Peter was a better parent. Hell, anyone was a better parent. I was just a space filler. I sucked at motherhood. I was a terrible teacher. I was an awful runner (could I even use that word anymore?) I was unhealthy. Unworthy.
This battle was ongoing, even though most people on the outside had no idea. I was still volunteering for this and that, doing this and that, hosting this gathering or that. No one knew that I was barely hanging on. No one knew just how low I was. And I couldn't tell them. I couldn't tell them just how bad it was. I was afraid and I don't even know what of. Of being considered weak? Of being considered the failure that I thought I was?
When Peter got home, I told him what I'd done. In typical fashion, there was no guilt; he simply took the pills. I don't know where they are; I don't even know where the Advil is. We sat and talked. I cried. I confessed how awful of a mother I was, how terrible of a wife I was, how I didn't deserve my family and that the world would be better without me. I told him that I was still battling my eating disorder and that it had a hold of me in a way that felt worse than before. I told him that I was broken and scared. And he held me while I cried. He didn't try to tell me that I was wrong or tell me all the ways that the world would be different without me. Instead, he just told me that he loved me and asked me what I needed.
I'd like to tell you that, immediately, things became 1950s sitcom perfect, but they didn't. Yet, they've gotten better. One day at a time.
Three weeks ago, I started running daily again. After 5 months of being GF/DF, my joints aren't swollen and there isn't the intense pain that I'd had for months before. Running feels good again. Tonight, after my 2 mile speed run in anticipation of my 7 mile long run tomorrow, I sit here feeling good. Feeling brave.
I'm eating better. I'm finally in a place where, although all of my decisions aren't the right ones, I can see the choices in food and can weigh out the right answer (even if I don't always take it). I'm making sure to make time to run every day, whether it is a short "speed" run, an average 3-5 mile run, or my weekly long run. I'm training for a race again. I've dropped some things and started some new projects, and they are things dear to my heart. I'm writing again. Homeschooling (or Unschooling, as it were) is back on track and I'm able to focus on the kids. I'm not perfect. I still make mistakes. But I'm trying to view them as learning opportunities for all of us.
I'm talking to people who understand: Peter, my BFF, folks who "get it" or understand what I'm feeling and can offer advice or support. I'm asking for help. For the summer, a friend's daughter is "mother helping" twice a week most weeks to give me time to just sit and get some writing done or make sure Lucas gets a nap (he's a crappy sleeper and a horrendous napper) or just mop the floor without little feet showing up while it's wet.
I'm not out of the pit yet. But help came from the darkness and a rope was thrown down. I'm still climbing. It's a slow journey up, but I know I'll get out, and that's not something I knew before.
I feel like I've been sleepwalking for the last 10 months. I've missed so much that I was present for. It's only been the last few weeks that I feel like I'm really and truly awake.
Every single day, I'm making the choice to continue to open my eyes. Regardless of what happens, each moment is such a gift and I don't want to lose a second.
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If you think that you might be suffering from postpartum depression or if you can't (or won't) put a name to how awful you are feeling, there are resources available. You can find anonymous help at http://www.1800ppdmoms.org/ and http://www.postpartum.net/. Many hospitals also have lines that you can call to speak with someone. While my PPD didn't present as wanting to harm my children, if you feel that your children may be at risk, please reach out to a friend, neighbor, family member, or even your local police department, and find a safe place for your children until you are able to get help for yourself. You are not just a mom; you are the mom. You are worth more than you know, and not just because you are an irreplaceable mother. You are worthy in your own right; please seek out help if you need it. Don't wait until it's too late.
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