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

Finding Twilight

May 22, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

The sun is setting and the world is getting quiet. All I hear at this time of day is a faint whispering sound, as though the city knows it’s time to wind down.

In the gloaming, the light is different. Alive. If I can catch a quiet moment, where the evening sun streams through the blinds, I feel joyful. Grateful. Alive.

The light and the magic it brings with it is short. But it’s there if you can look long enough to notice it.

Then the sun sets and it’s truly twilight. Dusk. Then dark.

I cherish the peace darkness brings. I don’t miss the light – it will be back tomorrow.

At dusk, my brain quiets.

In the darkness, my body holds off on waging war and my muscles relax.

I find clarity. I notice things. I can remember what normal feels like.

A few weeks ago I became an insomniac. This normally would have driven me crazy but I loved the time it gave me to think and write and read. I went from a 9 PM-bedtime person to being awake at 2 AM and wondering why I never thought of doing this before.

It seemed natural to me.

It gave me more quiet alone time than I’ve had in the last 3 years.

I couldn’t do that forever, though. It wasn’t really healthy, and sleeping in later isn’t good for my mental health either. But I wanted that time. So badly.

I got called on it. After a stern comment from my family doctor, I agreed to work on normal sleep patterns again.

It’s worked. And it’s been okay. I know it’s better for me.

I was really and truly never a night person, though not really a morning person either. I always felt like there ought to be another adjective available.

One thing this struggle has brought me is a better understanding of what I need to do for myself. What brings me peace. What I can hold on to when I think I won’t make it through the day.

Turns out there is another adjective, and it captures what I’ve come to understand. I’m not a night person or a morning person.

I’m a twilight person.

———

Just a comment on the gloaming, because – though the dictionary seems to disagree with me – there’s a difference to me between twilight and the part of the day just before that when the light comes alive in one last burst before the sun sets.

As I was writing this I couldn’t think of the word. I asked Twitter, and we combed through every synonym but that. I finally got it and, in telling those who had responded so they didn’t remain stumped, many said they didn’t even know the word.

The gloaming has always been a time of day that I wish I could bottle up and release when I need that magic and light. It’s this:

So I challenged my Twitter word-hunter friends: write something about the gloaming. I hope some of them do write, and I invite you to join in. I might write one as well, because this post is about twilight, not the gloaming – so maybe I should capture that too.

If you do write about the gloaming, please come back and let me know that you did. I would love to read it.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression ·

Confessions of Confused Identities

May 21, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I have two identities. On Twitter anyway.

I have two Twitter accounts. One, my “professional” account, I’ve had for two years. I use it to share information about communications – the field I work in – and connect with others who do similar work. I was a Twitter atheist at first – not that I didn’t believe it existed, just doubted its usefulness. But I came to love it and learned so much, both related to my particular field and beyond. For a variety of reasons, however, I haven’t used that account much in months (except for a few days ago when our team won an award – gotta tweet that).

The other, of course, is the account I use that’s associated with this blog. My “mama” persona. I haven’t connected this account with the other, because I’m not sure I really want those people to know all this other stuff about me. Not right now, anyway.

Problem is, it’s not all that hard to mix up accounts. Twice now I’ve tweeted a post from this blog on the wrong account. Both times I figured it out pretty fast and deleted the tweet, but no doubt some saw it before it disappeared. In fact, I know one person did – someone I work with (though not someone I’ve met as he lives in another region) – because he responded to my tweet.

Double extra special problem? The erroneous tweets were on two of the worst possible blog posts. One was way back when I wrote about how I don’t consider myself to have a mental illness (a term that sits wrong with me, even still, despite bring perfectly willing to talk about – and write about – mental health). Great – that’s exactly the way I would like to introduce this piece of me to my professional community.

The other Twitter identity mix-up was yesterday when I wrote a long rant about my psychiatrist appointment that pretty much revealed all the stuff I don’t want people I only know professionally to know about me.

It’s just a little something special my brain does at times to make me feel just that wee bit extra crazy.

↑ ↓ ?

PS Doh! I just realized I forgot Fledgling Friday again this week. Sorry, Fledglings. Thursday and Friday were not good days and I just didn’t remember.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression ·

Yesterday Seems Far Away

May 20, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I don’t even know what to write today. Yesterday started with sunshine, productivity and some quiet while C spent the day with my parents. I posted about hope. And instead I got smacked down.

The appointment with the psychiatrist was a really awful, no good, totally sucky appointment. I came very close to walking out after about 4 minutes. We started off wrong and it got worse from there.

When someone asks how I’m doing, I don’t know what to say. You’d think it would be easier with someone who is supposed to be a professional and who is supposed to be listening and helping me get better.

She managed to make me feel worse.

Maybe I should have led with something more blunt. Like, “The last six weeks have been the worst of the past three years.” But instead I waffled. So she started asking psychiatrist questions.

Are you suicidal?

No.

Apparently that means I’m doing better.

Are you taking your medication?

Sigh. YES.

How’s your mood?

When? Right now? Yesterday? A week ago? I don’t know how to answer this question. I’ve gone from feeling like a relatively normal person – normal for someone who tends to be emotional, anyway – to feeling every emotion you can name in the past six weeks.

How am I?

Overwhelmed.

Stuck.

Tired. Physically and emotionally and… I’m just tired.

I’m having anxiety attacks like I’ve never had before, and I don’t know how to fix it. Ativan does squat. It always happens when I’m at home alone and all I can do is phone my friend and say, “Help me.”

All I want is for someone, something, to help me. I feel like I should get that tattooed on my face. HELP ME.

Are you taking the clonazepam? she asks.

And then criticizes me for how I’m taking it. As if taking the 3rd dose two hours earlier is going to make the dinner hour easier to cope with.

Take it two hours earlier, she says, and then if you need another dose around 8:00 you have my permission to do that.

Your permission? Wow. Thanks SO much. That’s probably going to do the trick. Except, oh wait, by 8:00 my son is in bed and I’m usually okay. But still, thanks.

How about the trazodone?

I’m not taking it anymore.

She scribbles notes.

It was making it impossible for me to function, I explain. And then I fell down the stairs and that was that.

When were you taking it? That late sometimes? Well no wonder you fell down the stairs.

I had taken it early the time I fell down the stairs, I explain. And that fall was over 12 hours later.

She appears to not hear this. It doesn’t fit with her assessment of how this should work.

It’s the antidepressants I’m really concerned with, I say. I don’t think this is working.

Stay the course, she says.

My husband interjects. This is the worst I’ve seen her, he explains. She had one good day but the rest have been really hard. He tells her some of the stuff I’ve said to him. The stuff I can’t say out loud without crying.

It sounds like you’re doing better, she says. One good day is great, but you probably exhausted yourself doing too much.

I didn’t, I say.

No, the day after, I mean. It was probably too much and you tired yourself out the day after.

No (as I try to remain calm). That day felt normal – really, truly normal. The way I’m used to feeling. The next day was fine. It make me feel like I could actually see my way down this path.

But that tends to happen, she insists. You feel good one day and you do too much and then you tire yourself out.

She’s not listening.

She’s getting defensive and if she is at all adept at reading body language she’ll know I am NOT IMPRESSED.

Do you want me to refer you to the mood disorders clinic?

What does that even mean? And why? Because you’re sick of me? Because you think whatever problem I have doesn’t fit within your “specialization?”

Fine, I say. At this point it seems like my only option.

And since it seems like a lot of your problem stems from your son’s behaviour, you should get him assessed. If he has a short attention span, maybe that can be addressed.

Sure. Fine.

Do you feel like you want to run away?

Yep. Sometimes. Sometimes all the time.

Don’t run away. If you feel like you want to run away you can go to the Jubilee hospital.

What? That makes no sense to me. If I’m suicidal, the hospital makes sense. But if I show up and say hi, I want to run away from my family, what are they going to say? I’ll tell you what they’re going to say: Honey, almost every mother wants to run away at some point. Coming here to our hospital environment that smells like old people and serves really bad food – where, with your luck, you won’t even get a bed by a window – isn’t going to help that.

But what do I know? My title is not “psychiatrist.”

She summarizes: So, stay the course. Stay on 200 of Zoloft. Take your Clonazepam at 4 pm, not 6. Get exercise every day. But not boot camp! If you can do boot camp you can be at work.

This woman clearly doesn’t know anything about me. And I’ll bet you 10 bucks she’s never done a boot camp class in her life.

She continues: I’ll refer you to the mood disorders clinic. And you’ll talk to your GP about getting a referral for Connor.

This is our cue to leave. “Thanks,” we say. “Take care,” she responds. “Come back in two weeks.”

These sound like the most ridiculous suggestions anyone has ever uttered.

We’re not available in two weeks, so we book for next week even though I don’t want to go back.

We walk out the door. My husband takes my hand.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

No. I’m not okay. It’s as though this whole visit was meant to prove that there are more layers to rock bottom than I’d have thought possible.

And then we go home and over the course of a bad-toddler evening things get worse.

I’m sick of this. I want to write about something else. I’m ready for my story to be different.

——

I’m not this pathetic all the time, honest. I just need to get this out. As I started to draft this I got an email from my littlest sister that was beautiful and helpful and contained one more reference to the ongoing theme of change that seems to keep popping up. I’m going to get dressed and get past this and write a post about it that will hopefully demonstrate that I’m wise and in control and I know that this is all leading to something meaningful. Because it is, and while I don’t know exactly how to get there I know I will.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: rants

Tomorrow Is Another Day

May 19, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Yesterday, I blogged for Mental Health Day. And then in a fit of bravery, I posted the link to that post – and therefore to my blog – on my personal Facebook page, admitting what’s going on to another group of people.

And you know what? Today the world is still turning. Nobody called me crazy (at least not to my face.)

I was so scared to do that for so long, but it’s okay.

Throughout the day, there were reminders everywhere of how important mental health is. I mean, I’m aware of this all day every day, but yesterday was different.

I had an appointment with my therapist that was kind of hard. There’s something quite separate from my PPD that I’m struggling with right now, and she encouraged me to work on that. I don’t want to. I don’t even know how. I’m afraid that if I open that door it will be like opening a closet that’s been stuffed full of junk for years and years. Right now it’s only open enough for me to see what’s in there, but if I open it all the way the piled up junk is going to rain down on my head. I don’t feel ready to open it, but I might tomorrow. Maybe.

Then we were at friends’ last night for a barbecue, and Connor’s visit ended with a rather spectacular demonstration of Really Terrible Behaviour, so he was whisked home by dad. The good news is that while this incident caused a boatload of adrenaline to pump through me, I didn’t actually lose it. At other times I might have wanted to throw him across the yard, but that particular demon didn’t appear that time. Small steps.

Yesterday I also talked to some friends about depression – one who lives with it too and one who is struggling but finding it hard to let us help her. I want so badly to help, but I don’t want to push her either. (I’m still thinking about you, Ms. L. Take some time, but don’t hide for too long.)

The nightcap was a chat with my husband about this afternoon’s visit to the psychiatrist. I’m expecting her to tell me she wants me to stay on this medication for another two weeks. If she does, I’m also expecting her to tell me what that will help at this point. I don’t think it’s working and if I have to have one more anxiety attack or one more I-don’t-think-I-can-do-this-another-day sort of day, I’m going to take this precious medication and throw it out the window.

So yesterday I thought and wrote and talked a lot about mental health. Now I’m heading out to my appointment hoping someone will offer something that will give me a break for mine, because tomorrow is another day and I want it to be better.