A Fine Line

July 7, 2011 by ·

Start to cut down, she said.
Just once a day do half
And keep taking a full dose
At midday and in the afternoon.

Okay, sounds easy enough I figured.
I want to come off this
So I found the centre line
Of the little orange pill and

I cut. Small pill made smaller.

But as it turns out there’s
A fine line between a full
And half dose, especially without discussion
Of withdrawal symptoms for this med.

It’s been two days, only two
With the morning dose halved, but
That’s all it took to start
Feeling as though something was off.

If only I had been informed.

As it turns out there is
Also a fine line between off
And on. Between feeling good and
Feeling the good start slipping away.

I’m not feeling good right now
But I’m willing to see if
Things improve, even though the voice
On the line offered no reassurance.

Someone who is supposed to help,
But actually makes things much worse.
That’s it. I’ve made a decision.
It’s the end of the line.

I’m taking a stand now, finally,
The newest in a long line
Of people who have said “enough”.
Enough. I deserve to be heard.

I’ve put my life on hold
For long enough. I no longer
Want the line between feeling “better”
And “not” to be so fine.

fine line
[I love Six Word Fridays – this approach stretches my writing style and somehow it’s easier to write stuff like this in that format. Thanks to Melissa for doing this and for all the great prompts. This week’s was “line”.]

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , , , ,

For Want of a Quarter

June 29, 2011 by ·

She stood outside the gates to the fairground, her calm demeanor masking the excitement inside. Clutched tightly in her hand was a single quarter –  the precious fee for a ride, a game or whatever treat seemed most worth the investment of her only coin.

When she got to the front of the line, she discovered it cost a quarter to get inside. She handed it over and, with it, her dream of an experience different from that of her everyday life as a young girl who worked on her family’s farm in the early 1900s.

***

I can assume she wandered the grounds taking in the sights and sounds, probably gazing wistfully at those who had the fare for something beyond the price of admission, but I don’t know. I don’t even know how the above scene played out – I’m just taking writer’s license – but I remember the day my grandmother told me this story.

It was a short conversation – simply recalling a memory. “I was so excited,” she said, “but it cost a quarter to get in and that was all I had so I didn’t get to do anything else.” She didn’t say any more – no complaints about the unfairness of it, no expression of disappointment. But to me, the mere fact of her sharing this story suggested all that and more.

I can’t remember what I said to her – some expression of comfort or sympathy, I’m sure – but I remember how I felt. Later that day I cried and cried over the thought of my Grandma as a young girl missing out on something she wanted so desperately. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I remember her as a strong, independent woman, but for some reason this one is always a part of my thoughts of her, and it always, always brings me to tears.

I didn’t grow up in an abundance of wealth, but my sadness was not because I related to her story. I went to private school – an average kid from an average family – and many of my classmates were like me, whose parents saved or sacrificed to send them there. My parents managed this and other things like sports and travel opportunities during very tough times, and to this day I still don’t know how they did it.

There were others who had more, of course, and I was aware of that. But never once have I felt like I missed out on anything. I have nothing that stands out to me as something I wish I could have done, if only we could have afforded it. So when I listened to my Grandma’s story it was with the heart of someone who had never felt that sadness.

That event, which had happened nearly 90 years before, affected her. It stuck with her. Perhaps in some way it changed who she was. It influenced her values and her sense of how a certain experience can make – or not make – a memory.

It has changed who I am as well, I think. It’s made me more aware of how precious childhood experiences are. It’s not about the money, it’s about the memories. And I know this because of the story of my Grandma missing one of hers for want of a quarter.

My Grandma and her horse, Chubby

***

This post is in response to an Indie Ink Writer’s Challenge prompt from Katri: “A story from the point of view of someone who’s never been sad.” This could probably be a really great fiction piece, but this is the story that came to mind, and the one I wanted to tell.

I challenged Flaming Nyx with “You have the power to change ONE person’s life for the better. Who do you choose and how would you do it?” Her response is here.

And speaking of Indie Ink, I’m so excited that one of my posts is featured there today. Please come and visit!

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: ,

Now You Are Three

June 13, 2011 by ·

Dear Connor,

Today you turn three. I can hardly believe it.

I know, that sounds trite. But as I write this on the eve of your birthday – with you asleep next door in your big boy bed (the one you insist on showing every single person who comes into the house, and the same one you never want to sleep in alone at night) – I feel a little bit stunned. Three years!

This is the first photo taken of you when you were born:

Looking back, it tells me so much of what I now know about you. You’re not a huge fan of being taken away from your mama. You know exactly what you think and aren’t afraid to express it. You’re sensitive to your environment, but if you want to be the loud one, nothing can stop you.

As well, the expression on your face is one I’ve seen many a time since:

Something has happened in the last few months. I don’t know when, exactly, but you stopped being a baby. I know you’re not a baby and haven’t been for a while, but until recently I had moments every day where I caught a glimpse of baby in you. Each time I held on tightly, knowing it was a fleeting gift.

I’ve only just realized it, but it doesn’t happen every day anymore. Hardly at all, actually. Even last week when you were sick you didn’t stay stuck to me in the same way you did when you were sick only a couple of months ago. You’re growing up.

And I’m growing up with you. Since I’ve been off work the last couple of months, I’ve been working on getting better and for a long time Daddy was taking care of you. He was doing all the hard stuff that I couldn’t do at the time, like getting up with you in the mornings and trying to get you to eat breakfast, putting you down for naps, doing baths and bedtimes. For a short and very scary time I wondered if I would ever be able to do those things. It seems so silly, but I couldn’t do them. I was too sick and I needed to take care of myself before I could take care of you.

Over the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve started being mom again and doing some of those hard things that used to set me off when you didn’t cooperate. At first I had to talk Daddy into letting me do those things, to let him know it was okay and to assure him that I’d ask for help if I needed it. And we always had back-up. So many people have helped us over the last few weeks – I only wish I could repay them with something other than endless thanks and undying love. We owe Grandma especially for being here at times when I needed someone to do what I couldn’t do with my own child. Sometimes you just need your mom and I’m so grateful for mine. I hope I can always be there for you, for whatever you need, the way she is there for me.

We’re doing well, though, you and I. Which is not to say everything is easy, just that I can handle the hard stuff better now. And my darling boy, sometimes you are a holy terror. I can’t tell you how many times someone in public has commented on what a handful you are. If only they knew. I could do without the screaming fits and the meltdowns over seemingly insignificant things, but I know that’s part of who you are – a passionate, expressive person. (And you get that from me but don’t tell Daddy I acknowledged that.)

The past three years have changed my life in ways I never could have imagined, and for a long time things were so hard I wasn’t sure I’d make it through. I know what happened to me was hard for others as well. Your dad is really annoyed that I didn’t get the help I needed soon enough. In one way I’m sorry too, because it meant he had to deal with a lot of things I wish he hadn’t had to. I can’t change that now, but I do know how much he loves me and I know how much I love him because we’ve been through this together.

Mostly, though, I really don’t resent what I’ve experienced. It was awful – don’t get me wrong – and it’s not over yet. But I’ve learned so much from it – about you, about our family, about myself and about life. I now know just how much love and support we have, and that’s a powerful thing.

My experience with postpartum depression has also taught me that every one of us has something to give. We all have ways of helping someone. Of changing someone’s life, even. A few people have helped change mine, and I hope I can do that for someone else.

I have found new passions and new sources of inspiration that I never would have found if it weren’t for this, and no one can ever take that away from me. This insight is one of the biggest gifts I hope to offer you – to live your life fully, to do what you feel you’re meant to do, and to love and be loved in the process.

I will love you always and forever,
Mama xx

Filed Under: Letters to Connor, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , , ,

Stripped Bare

May 30, 2011 by ·

Last week I went to a writer’s workshop for a parenting magazine. I’d like to submit an article so figured it would be nice to hear more about the magazine and what they look for.

At one point during the discussion I looked around the room. The 20 or so participants made for an eclectic group – various styles reflecting various personalities – but for some reason I found myself noticing earrings. Not the studs or the subtle earrings, but the longer ones, chosen to complement an outfit. They weren’t even flashy. I just noticed them.

The next day as I got dressed found myself thinking about those earrings. I haven’t worn earrings in months. Two, to be exact – not since I took time off work. I almost always wore earrings at work, sometimes hoops, sometimes longer ones, sometimes a flashy pair. The flashy pair came out if I was having a good day and wanted to bling it up or if I was having a bad day and wanted to pretend things were happy and shiny. On average days they stayed in my jewellery box.

Earrings are just part of who I am. Even on weekends, I often used to pop in a pair of small hoops. But not right now. That morning I thought about putting on a pair of earrings and, for a reason I don’t really understand, it actually made me uncomfortable.

I think it’s part of what I’ve been doing lately – stripping away the layers. Things I’d tried to avoid have been exposed. Things I wanted to be there that weren’t have been illuminated by the light as merely shadows.

This process has been mostly figurative, but that night in that workshop I noticed those women’s earrings for a reason.

When I get dressed in the morning I wear very little in the way of adornment. I don’t normally wear a lot of makeup, but lately I’ve worn only mascara. That’s it – my face is free of anything else.

I wear my wedding band, which I never take off. My engagement ring, which I love, is tucked into its velvet bed with my other rings.

I wear a simple, silver bracelet given to me not long ago by a friend because it reminds me of how strong she is, and of love.

And I wear a chain around my neck. It’s not a necklace. It’s a chain, like the kind used for military ID. At the moment it holds two things: a dragonfly pendant and a key. I have ordered a bird pendant similar in style to the dragonfly, and with that my chain will be complete.

The dragonfly represents my identity as a mother. When I was pregnant with Connor I saw dragonfly images everywhere, including on the business cards of the midwife I chose (not for that reason, but it certainly seemed like more than a coincidence). It reminds me that being a mother is part of who I am. A welcome part. A chosen part. A part that has never been taken away, even though the struggle that resulted made me rail against this piece of my identity for a long time.

The bird represents my evolving identity. The things I have accepted about myself. The parts I’ve embraced, even though they weren’t what I expected. The parts I’ve let go. The bird (have you noticed my header?) represents someone who is determined to take this battle and turn it into something meaningful.

The key is a gift from my sister. It is a wish for happiness. It reminds me of love.

At night I sleep wearing this chain. During the day, it stays tucked inside my shirt. Not because I don’t want to show others this representation of me – just that it’s not for others. It’s for me. For now it’s my ID tag – a subtle presence resting against my chest that reminds me of who I want to be.

DragonflyOld Key

Filed Under: Postpartum depression ·

3 years / 4 weeks + 1 whoa = 6 months

May 26, 2011 by ·

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:
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