Stormy Skies

My story takes a broader turn as every slice of life was being challenged.

Simultaneously through the fog, our finances and maternity benefits slipped, further magnifying our uncertainties, stresses, and widespread concerns. Largely at my own error, it crushingly intensified my guilt, anxieties and sense of helplessness.

Over the past several months, the holidays, birthdays and other joyous occasions were often ruined or spent in tears. I lost count on the times I have bawled uncontrollably on the floor, not sure what else to do and feeling utterly out of control. I had never experienced a panic attack before, when I found myself suddenly shaking and hyperventilating, all I could do was lock myself in the bathroom, run a bath, and cry some more. Simply put, our world seemed in shambles.

All the while, my husband’s own stress began to manifest physically causing great worry and timely medical matters. Various relationships suffered, new friendships wilted before they could bloom. We mourned a loss in the family. Every new day that was off to a good start, eventually knocked us down, again and again.

         No marriage or partnership is immune to dire times, and I can see why having a baby, depression, or money troubles can lead to so many splits. Why true, deep love really needs to be the key to conquer all. Our marriage took its share of hits as well, as obviously we are both affected by all of these woes. Some setbacks propelled us harder than others, and some I wondered if we could come back from, but fortunately for us we have survived. Fortunately for us, we did marry for true love, soul mate kind of love, and the strength from that love is what gets us through the storms. In good times and in bad…

Nursing - "the healthiest way to feed your baby" - was a complete nightmare for me and something I had a very tortuous tough fight with. I gave it my best shot - and will spare us all the painful details (still upsetting memories) of vitamins and creams and prescriptions and blood and cracked nipples that could not heal and pumping and engorgement and not enough supply and a crying, hungry baby all the time and the extra work of supplementing and "lact-aid-ing" and and and - were 2 of the hardest months of my life. While I always anticipated I would might not make a great cow, and I was surprised at how much I  really loved the closeness and beauty of nursing, the anguish of those 8 weeks, and gut-wrenching emotion I felt when I finally had to stop trying to make it work because it just wasn't what was right for us, for all of our best interests, was one of the hardest things I have ever dealt with. Literally, broke my heart that I wasn't "equipped" to feed my own child. Nothing could prepare me for that, or how long that remorse would stay with me...
Have I mentioned the baby weight? Oh gosh. The baby weight. I am not delusional. Having my first child at 35, I was not expecting the extra pounds to just fall off like it does for some. I am not a wealthy celebrity-lite that has all the tools to drop 50 in 3 weeks. Nor am I an active addict or lean machine. I was tired all the time. And I had a baby and pets and a house to take care of. I was overwhelmed as it was, but I never foresaw the mountain that losing the weight became. Generally I am always pretty fit and although my weight fluctuates, at this stage o my life, I am content when I maintain my healthy-slender-ish average type frame. I gave in many years ago not to be obsessive about my body – been there, done that, for as long as I can remember (everything from being bullied and teased for being too thin, to drawing too much unwanted attention from men that I wasn't prepared for, to dipping my toes in eating disorders and watching every calorie, etc.) - and nothing good or healthy ever came from the actual  pounds being the focus.

At around 7 months pregnant, when my scale tipped way past where I should be, I chose to stop keeping track of the excess pounds, and to stop comparing myself to other moms that “only gained 20lbs” with their first!  Barf. My doctor assured me my baby was strong and well - isn't that was matters most? According to the numbers, I may very well have been carrying multiples. In fact, I was often asked "how many?" as strangers giggled at my sumo large size. Surrendering to the moment, to appreciate the miracle of life growing inside me, to the gratitude and blessing and honour of carrying my child, I decided that the rest (weight, swollen feet, stretch marks, heavy boobs, aching everything, and the glowering number on the scale) didn’t matter.

Sometimes we say things we don’t believe, and well, the state of my body really did matter. I feared I was lost forever. The new me was emerging as truly an entirely different person, and one I really didn't like much so far. I couldn’t ignore the awful, hateful feelings when looking in the mirror and was grossed out by the person staring back at me. Even 7 or 8 months after he was born and I was still carrying around an extra 30-40 lbs, it was getting harder to stay grateful. I became easily glum, and more and more frustrated. Getting dressed just to get groceries or walk the dog was a huge ordeal and ended with my clothes scattered everywhere, or not going out at all. 
I felt hideously overweight, unhealthy and discouraged, lethargic and defeated. Nothing fit, including shoes. My libido was way too shy and uncomfortable in her skin to respond to my husband's love and needs, or my own. I would try to get in the exercise I needed, but I could not maintain anything consistent and often end curled up like a broken-hearted teenager,  or the tormented young girl I once was, usually in front of the TV with hours of recorded programming. I would aim to stick to a salad and vegan-wannabe diet, but at some point or another, I would end up at the drive-thru, scoffing down a McChicken or baking cookies and eating half the batch before they had cooled. This all lead to feeling further disheartened.

Not only was I not doing what was best for my spouse, or me but most importantly it wasn’t great for my son or the energy in our home. And we know that negative energy can be felt a mile away...

         

 Mixed in there with all the bad, there were some good days of course. Highs and lows. All I could think of was that I felt a lot like those paddle things with the ball stuck on a string. I would get pretty far sometimes, but undoubtedly would come smashing backwards, bruising more each time. Soon the bad clearly outnumbered the good, and that’s when we reckoned there was a real, more serious problem. 

...read more, next post...how things started to turn around...

PLG ~ JKF

Rewind

...continued from last post "Back to the Future - Here I go again"

Let me start at the beginning. 

My son is almost 1 year old, and it has been the best and the worst and the most joyful and the hardest year of my life.  Everything I am, have done, want to do, attempted, not attempted, my entire being, all of my dreams, my guts and glory, came into question as I exited from years of various procedures, operations and treatments, braces after age 30 that resulted in a whole new smile,  plus the 10 months of pregnancy which ended via C-section and emerged as a person I knew I wanted to be, but could hardly recognize. Figuratively and literally. 

“Give it time,” people would say. “Ask for help,” the shows would advise, but ask for help from whom? Help with what, exactly? Going to the bathroom for me? Since there were days I was glued to the couch for over 4 hours and had to hold my bladder...Make me produce more milk so that nursing my little baby wasn't such a horribly difficult process with medications and vitamins and creams?

Trusting that I had come out on top of bad times, fought depression and the like before, I felt I could, would beat this too on my own, so I trudged on, doing my best or half of my best, or all the best I could for that day, just to make it to dinner, or see the other side of yet another restless night. All the while I was slowly and steadily worsening from the inside out, sleep deprived, alone a lot of the time with this new person I had created, desolate.

It has been a fight with myself for endless months, and every layer of the battle are so intertwined that I was beginning to think it might be possible that my life would just never become what I dreamed it would be. I wondered if it was just time to accept that that was the case, and that I had ruined all I ever wanted – my new little family, the loves of my life, my health…my ability to get things done, to write and to be happy. Maybe my glass had never been full and I have been a fool all along?

The irony is that my life already is my dreams. I am living my dreams. Sure there are goals yet to reach and parts that are missing, faded away or have been edited entirely, but all in all, so far my life has unfolded how I always hoped it would. I am exactly perfectly where I need to be, with my partner/prince and our miracle baby boy. I am alive. I am writing. I have a home and food and abilities and talents and people that care about me. I am so very blessed. 

(http://www.youtube.com/user/JKForfait)

That is the thing with postpartum depression. At least it was in my case. A lot of the darkness comes from nowhere and it doesn't make sense. Everything just hurst and requires too much energy. Whilst I fell completely-head-over-heels-madly-all-consuming in love with my son the instant he was conceived, and it has only grown stronger every minute since he was born, everything else in my world felt as though it were hanging by a thread. 

I wasn’t diagnosed until close to 7or 8 months in, and even then the label didn’t seem right. I love my son and love being a mom. We had tried for years and years so clearly he was very much wanted and I didn't miss my pre-mom life at all. I never imagined or wanted anything to ever come between us, and I have not once felt disconnected from him or that he wasn't/isn't  the brightest light I have ever seen (like many women do suffering from PPD do,)...so how could this be PPD? 

But it was. It still is. And facing it as such did start to bring together the strewn pieces of this new puzzle. I had already admitted to having the blues, but that was normal for me every year, seasonally affected by the shortened, colder, cooped up days of winter. 

It was different this year though.

Far gloomier, sadder and deeper. I still felt like I couldn’t clear the fog in my head,  my heart hurt and my shoulders carried the weight of it all. My postpartum was finally diagnosed after repeatedly scoring alarmingly high results on symptom quizzes with my Public Health Nurse. 

Like it or not, I could no longer deny that I was suffering from depression. Albeit giving my symptoms the name postpartum felt shameful and disappointing, and in some ways only added more to my guilt and angsts, it helped me understand why I had to try so hard to find my positivity within, why everything seemed ultra hard and overwhelming, why nothing made me laugh (except my son) the way it use to. Ultimately, thankfully, it has been a major stone in my foundation to recovery and taking back my life.

It gave my puzzle a name.  On more days than not, just getting a shower, or typing an email, planning dinners or going for a walk seemed nearly impossible. Justifying and defending myself to myself, or to my spouse only triggered more of the same dark emotions, endless crying, utter exhaustion, etc. 

Depression really does hurt, a bitter pill to swallow (no pun intended) and there is no shame in it. But left ignored or untreated can really destroy a person, shattering their world around them. 

...read more, next post...

PLG ~ JKF

Back to the Future...Here I go again.

I'm back.
I wasn't sure that I would make it, but I did.
I know it's not over yet, but man oh man do I feel a million times better; reassured, positive. Me. Back to stay. Dare I say, new, improved, and better than ever! ... I hope... A work in progress, of course but at least I am back on the b/right side. I know you have heard me say similar things in the past, what between my long road of fertility struggles, other friendship dramas, work layoffs, healthy issues and marital challenges, it proves a constant story of ups and downs. As such is life, no?
      Yes. When we fall, particularly eternal optimists types like myself, it can be a difficult, unclear, murky path back. I when I fall, I go down hard with a boom, usually slamming my head once or twice on the way. Being an extremely silver-lining, half-full kind of gal, I can only speak for myself; when I can't get up on my own, I see it as a very deep personal failure that questions everything I believe. When my glass is cloudy and suddenly running on empty, and it gives me the impression that I have no control. The darkness, hollowness and disparity can be intensely terrifying, and override just about every aspect of my life.
     

That is not to say that depression, other mentally stressful or difficult times are any less challenging for say, glass-medium-full type folk, but when it is your nature to smile and see the best in everything pretty much 90% of the time and in 90% of scenarios, when things get so bad, you can't muster the glimmer of a smile or even a smize with your eyes, the decent can quickly become a nasty spiral of self-contempt, disappointment, trepidation, dread, anxiety, and all the other obscure feelings that sinking comes along with. Every day is a battle, every hour is fight to stay afloat, to keep your head above water and tread just a little while longer. There comes a point where that little while longer is just too long, unbearable, and unreachable. 
      I am no expert, certainly not of the medical kind, so I can only tell you about my own experience with depression, post-partum, and in my case, with what became the cherry on top, discovering I have Hypothyroidism. 
      My expedition with these illnesses has come at a very timely exploration of the subjects; as it would appear every show (like: Dr. Oz, Katie, Doc Zone, and Ellen to name a few,) have covered one of them, including overused medications thereby prescribed, in great detail and evaluation recently.  Heck, even a film about depression and mental illnesses is released, called, appropriately, "Call Me Crazy."
      Or might I just be ultra sensitive and it looks that way? As though everywhere I turn, something is being directed at me so that I will snap out of it, be reassured that I am not alone. Or maybe it is the voice of God and the signs I have been deeply praying for to get me thru. Whatever it is, something worked. Something hit a nerve, spoke to me, and has awoken my true spirit. I am climbing out of my sinking pit. 
      And it was not the anti-depressants, which I had been prescribed, which I never took. That Rx may very well have been the official turning point, however. A serious wake-up call: *ring, ring, things are really going too far*. 
      It prompted my stubbornness, and my Aries Bull readied her horns. I re-prescribed my own Placebo, consisting of:
 a) Putting things back into perspective, 
 b) Some serious thought and mind control, and 
 c) Checked myself!  And my deteriorating determination. 
      Through it all, I prayed. I prayed a lot. To my God. To the Universe. Even to Jesus and Mary and deceased people I believe are in Heaven. I started reading the First Testament when prayer wouldn't come or I was too exhausted, or I felt exasperated, just to grip something outside of my batty brain and all her negativity. Some passages bore no relevance or were completely contrary to what I connect with, but others were exactly what I needed. 
      Clinging to my faith (my once again renewed faith,) was both humbling and therapeutic. It helped a great deal to a) put things into perspective. It made some of my largest obstacles and worries seem so minute in the bigger picture, which helped with c) checking myself. And so on. 
      Somehow it has worked. It's only the start of the week, mind you, but the clouds have cleared, outside and in. 
read more, next post... 
PLG ~ JKF