Archives for May 2011

3 years / 4 weeks + 1 whoa = 6 months

May 26, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

3 years = how long I’ve been dealing with postpartum depression and its aftermath.

4 weeks = the amount of time I asked to take off work when I couldn’t deal with this properly anymore.

1 whoa = a whole bunch of things, actually. I thought if I took a few weeks off work I’d have time to find my balance again. Instead I fell over. Mostly figuratively, but also literally one time. And I kept falling. So I’ve actually been off work for two months now. At times I’ve felt like I should be there, but there are a lot of things about my job that aren’t easy and I’ve had to accept that I just can’t do that job right now.

Today I saw my doctor again – not the mean old psychiatrist, but someone in my GP’s office who has been helping me through this – because I needed another doctor’s certificate signed. She knows how things have been going. Last time I saw her she said she thought it would be more like 3-6 months that I’d be off work. When I gave her my latest she seemed cautiously optimistic, but not prepared to tell me to put my suit back on yet.

A few days of better = good, but I know it’s not time to start counting chickens yet. I’ve learned that the hard way, many times over.

But that’s how I’m feeling too – cautiously optimistic. Maybe this medication I’m on that I’ve hated and that I blame for the worst 6 weeks of my life is actually starting to work. Or maybe it’s because mentally I said, “Screw you!” to everything outside of me and am finally able to start doing what I need to do for myself.

There’s no way to know which it is, so for now I’ve decided not to change meds. I can always do that later if I need to, but I’m not going to risk the fallout of a transition right now. I need to be okay for a while, and all I can do is get up and do a workout and get dressed and eat well and keep writing and cross my fingers that I will be okay.

So I got that doctor’s certificate to give me time to do that. It now says 4-6 months, though who knows how long it will really be. It might be shorter. It might be longer, though I doubt it (and really hope not for that would mean the return of Bad Things).

How do I feel about this? Not sure. I’m just taking it a day at a time and trying not to worry about how many days that will add up to.

PS I was nominated for Circle of Moms Top 25 Mental Wellness blogs. I won’t harass you every day for three weeks to vote for me, but you can if you want to. 🙂

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: perspective

Fledgling Friday – May 27 edition

May 26, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I know. I screwed up last week and forgot to post this. Mea culpa. Last week was not good.

This week, however, has been much better. So please join me again, my newbie- blogger friends, and link up a post to share. Your happiest recent post, perhaps. 🙂

Filed Under: Fledgling Fridays · Tagged With: community, spreading the love

Smashed to Smithereens

May 25, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

A few weeks ago I was on a meandering stroll through the Internet, clicking on links in tweets and following paths through blogs until I could no longer remember where I’d been or where I’d started. And yet I ended up where I was apparently meant to be: Bad Words, reading the heartbreaking story about the birth of this woman’s son. I wanted to know what happened next, so I kept reading. I clicked on a few of her links, and learned something about the deaf community that was really eye-opening for someone who has always thought “hard of hearing” was the politically correct term.

And then I noticed an odd little word in the navigation at the top.

“Whoa.”

Not the type of thing you usually see in a blog’s navigation, so I clicked on it and read what was there.

Yeah. Whoa.

“Do you have a day?” the page asked*. “Before this day, you were just you… Until it happened to you. Suddenly you weren’t you anymore. You were that person that the unimaginable thing happened to.”

Not me anymore? How did it know?

“Did you rage against it? Being an other?”

Did I rage against it?! Yes. Yes, I did.

“Did you beg and plead and pray to The Universe to make it not be? Were you certain that if you demanded that it not be, if you begged, plead, prayed hard enough, The Universe would hear you and change your life back to what it was?”

Ah, The Universe. The Universe and I are on very good terms. Or not, depending how you look at it, for The Universe did not change my life back to what it was.

“Did you admit defeat, shed the delusion of control and leave yourself at the mercy of The Universe?”

No. Why? Should I?

“And once you let it all fall away, did you flick that last bit of rubble off your shoulder, plant your hand on your hip and wonder who you were going to be on the other side of this? Did you tell The Universe it could go ahead and have its way with you?”

Hand on hip – check. Wondering who – check. But oh dear. I hadn’t let anything go. I was afraid of the rubble, frankly. What if it buries me? What if whoever I am doesn’t come out from under it? But…okay. I’ve started listening.

At the end the page asked (in italics because it’s important):

“Do you want to go back in time and whisper to your former self:

Don’t worry. It’s going to be ok. It’s going to suck. You’ll be smashed to smithereens. You’ll be built back up again. You’ll be more you than you’d ever imagined. It’s going to be ok.”

Smashed to smithereens. It sounds like a sudden occurrence. A single blow. For some people I imagine it is, but for me it’s been a long process. More than three years (and probably longer if you count other parts of my history) of issues and illness chipping away at the rock of my core. There is rubble already – jagged, tear-stained rubble – and for weeks now I thought I’d flicked it all off. I have flicked some of it away. I’ve had crews come, without being asked, to help me lift some of the larger pieces. But it wasn’t gone. And then I found more including the most recent rock slide, which I didn’t see coming.

I’ve been smashed to smithereens all right, but in the last few days I’ve hauled out my industrial-sized broom and swept away some of that rubble.

I won’t lie – I’m afraid some of it will come back. Or that there’s yet more rubble to fall.

But after begging and pleading and waiting for the Universe to just fix this already, I’ve started to accept the process. And the next part of it has to start with me.

I have shed the delusion of control – over some things, anyway – and have left myself at the mercy of The Universe. We’re back on better terms now – things are coming across my path when they’re meant to and I’m taking note of those signs.

One such sign was these words of whoa, for which I thank Tulpen, both for writing them and for allowing me to share the effect they had on me.

So yes, I want to go back and whisper that to my former self. Because, for today at least, I think it’s going to be okay.

*These excerpts are just that – parts of a raw, powerful, in-your-face whole that I encourage you to read in its entirety.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: community, gratitude, perspective

Comforter

May 24, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

“I don’t want to sleep in my new bed!”

“Why not, honey?”

“It’s too old.”

He has a thing about things being too “old”. When we converted his crib into a toddler bed it was “too old” even though it was clearly a new set-up with new bedding. “Old” just means “I don’t want it.”

“It’s not too old!”

My excited voice.

“It’s brand new and you have new bedding just for you and everything! You even helped daddy build it!”

It’s actually the double bed from our guest room with a frame bought at a second hand store, but he doesn’t make the connection past wondering where that bed went.

“No it’s not. It’s old.”

He has such a sad face. Such a sad voice.

I know what he’s feeling. He wants to be close to mama and daddy. He’s not comfortable with this.

But it’s time he learned to sleep in his own bed.

Each night at bedtime, one of us will climb into his new bed, read stories, and get him settled for sleep. We lie with him until he’s asleep, a necessary step at this point.

When he’s asleep, we sneak out.

I’ve looked back at him as I walk out – he does look like a small boy in a big bed. I get this overwhelming rush of love because he’s my baby. But it’s time. Besides, he’s an octopus and everyone will sleep better if the octopus sleeps in his own bed.

Inevitably, sometime before midnight (and often much earlier) he will get up. Come to us.

“I want to sleep in your bed.”

For months we alternated – one night with dad in our bed, one night with me in the guest room. We needed the sleep.

For the last few weeks we’ve been sleeping as a family. We’ve loved having him – I’ve woken in the night and watched my boys sleep and have felt so blessed – but even in a king bed it’s sometimes too much with him in there. He sleeps like a baby monkey clinging to his mother. (And I happen to be that mother.)

That night, I escorted him back to bed. Lay down with him until he slept again, then started planning my escape. But there’s no leaving. In the middle of the night his mama-presence radar is on high alert.

He woke and I resigned myself to sleeping with him.

This is what we’ll do for now – alternate sleeping with him in his new “old” bed so he gets used to it.

He was restless that night, rolling and turning, sitting up and lying down again, trying to find the right position.

Restless child = wakeful mama.

Some time just before 5 am, he woke. Sat up and looked at me.

“I want a cuddle.”

He curled himself into me.

He seemed cold so I pulled the comforter over him again, tucking it around him. Moments later he kicked it off.

Then he took my hand and pulled my arm around him, tucking it under his warm body.

I understood. He might have new bedding, but in that moment his comforter was me.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: bedtime, family, love, moments, sleep

I’ve Got the Scattered Part Right

May 23, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I hate the sound the timer makes. Ticking relentlessly to the end. Loudly so as to prevent clear thinking.

I glance at it and see my time is almost up.

Come on, think. There have to be words for these categories.

Nothing? Fine. Think of words that start with ‘t’. Truck… Toad… Toilet… Tampon…

Oh for goodness’ sake. This isn’t working. Those don’t fit any of the categories. Okay, forget choosing words. Focus on the categories.

“Excuses for being late”

‘Threw up!’ There, that’ll work.

“Household chores”

Uh, towel washing? No, that sounds dumb. Okay, um…toilet scrubbing! Hey, ‘toilet’ fit after all!

“Things that bother you”

Um… Uh… Oh for crying out loud! Everything bothers me. Surely one of them starts with a T. Wait! Tina Turner! Double score! Except she doesn’t bother me, so does that count? Whatever. I can lie.

The timer keeps ticking.

“Foreign cities.”

My brain goes blank. I visualize a world map, but all I can picture is each country a different colour.

Come on, think of a city! Oh! Turkmenistan. That can’t be spelled right – it looks too simple. I think it has a ‘j’ in it. Turkmejnistan. No, that doesn’t look right either. Good lord! Stop wasting time. They won’t know how it’s spelled either.

“Things in the bedroom.”

Hee hee.

I giggle, but I’ve got nothing.

“Vegetables.”

That’s got brain fart written all over it so I skip it.

“Lunch food.”

Easy peasy! Tur…

CLICK!

Stupid timer.

***

My husband (the sporadic blogger) is an artist, and he rocks word games. I’m a word nerd, and I really, really don’t.

I don’t play Scrabble because I just stare at the tiles looking for words to jump out at me, then get lazy and put down words like “ant” that give me about 2 points.

Word jumbles? Can’t do ’em.

But I will play Scattergories. The tradition started years ago with a friend. She lives in another city, and when my husband and I visited we’d haul out the red box.

Our friend is pretty good. She comes up with good words, something for most categories, and often scores multiple points for nailing alliteration.

My husband has never, in my recollection, missed a category. He always has a word for whatever letter we’re using. And he scores multiple points on something in every round.

As for me, my paper usually looks like I had to pee in the middle of the round and forgot to come back.

***

The timer has spoken so we compare notes.

“A song that starts with ‘t’.”

My answer: Uh, er, couldn’t think of a song.

My husband’s answer: Tiptoe Through the Tulips by Tiny Tim.

Are you freaking kidding me? We’re two categories into scoring and he has seven points already?!

He gloats. He’s good at that.

Our friend starts singing the song, which doesn’t help my humiliation.

We keep scoring. My husband gets multiple points on several of the categories.

He gloats a little more, so I laugh at him for not only knowing the tulip song but who sang it.

My friend starts singing it again, so I laugh at her for knowing the words AND the tune.

And then we roll the dice and play again.

Quick, someone give me something you’d find in your fridge that starts with ‘R’!

***

Disclaimer: looking at list 6 now, it’s freakishly easy. Apparently I don’t do well under pressure, but either way I suck at the alliteration points. And my husband better not get too used to winning, because with the vocabulary and sharp mind Connor already has his dad’s going to have to bring his A game if he wants to keep winning.