First Day of Preschool

September 13, 2011 by ·

I thought I wouldn’t be emotional dropping Connor off for his first day of preschool, I really did. (You’d think I hadn’t met me, wouldn’t you? I’m a crier.)

Now, I’m not saying I did cry. But it’s possible I had something in my eye and had to sneak to the back of the classroom and go into the bathroom to get it out.

I blame the damn classroom, actually. It looked like a classroom. I was thinking he was just going to preschool, so what’s the big deal? It’s not any different than dino camp, right?

Right.

Except we got in there and it totally looked like a classroom and I realized my big little boy is going to school.

It didn’t help that he was nervous. We had some cuddles before the door opened and then when it did and all the kids started going inside, he wanted up. And I didn’t want to carry him into preschool. I thought for a minute we were going to have a meltdown right there outside the building, but I got smart. I convinced him to take my hand and give his other hand to Daddy. He went for it, so we all held hands and walked into preschool together.

It’s too bad that speck of dust got in my eye and I had to regroup in the bathroom.

first day of preschool

Official first day of preschool picture

 

with mom on the first day of school

With Mama

finished first day of preschool

After. (Apparently he was hungry.)

 

He had a great day, as I knew he would. This kid is made for preschool.

 

***

Linked up with:

And with:

 

Let's BEE Friends     Wordish Wednesday

 

Filed Under: Happy things, Motherhood · Tagged With: , , , ,

Walking the TEDx Talk

September 11, 2011 by ·

Yesterday I presented at a TEDx event – the locally-organized versions of the well-known TED conferences. I’d like to share that experience with you and have been trying to figure out how best to do that. I was inclined towards a humble description of how it went, as in:

It went really well. 

It was a great experience. 

It was fun, and I’m really glad to have done it. 

You know what? Screw it.

Instead I will tell you this: I got up in front of a theatre full of people I don’t know – people from my local community who I might very well see on the street tomorrow – and told my story about postpartum depression and how blogging, with brutal honesty, about my breakdown not only helped me but helps others. I shared some excerpts from my posts here. I cried – not a little, a lot.

Here’s how it went: I got a standing ovation. And I am really damn proud of that.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the event and I certainly wasn’t sure about my place in it. I was honoured and totally excited to be asked to speak, and I was less nervous than you’d think about telling my story. What I did worry about was whether people would connect with it and whether I would be able to offer something for them to take away.

The organizers were supposed to give me time cues and they chose not to, so I went, er, slightly beyond my allotted six minutes. Judging by the response, the people – including men – in the audience who were crying, and the incredibly generous comments I got afterwards, I think I can safely say I managed to get my message across.

That’s not the only reason I’m proud of how it went. I’m proud because I did it in a way that was true to who I am. I knew I was going to cry – I couldn’t figure out any way around it. And I actually didn’t worry about it. My story, and my message that it’s okay to be a little bit vulnerable, it’s okay to remove our masks and be honest about our struggles, and that, in doing so, we might actually make the world a better place – that’s an intense sort of topic. You want people to be emotionally invested in what you’re asking them to do? Make them cry.

Making people cry wasn’t my goal, obviously. Making it okay for me to cry was my goal. Because that’s what happens when we open ourselves up to people and share the stories about the hard stuff and reveal that maybe – just maybe – we’re better off for having dealt with something difficult. We allow ourselves to be vulnerable. I was never okay with that before. I am SO okay with it now.

Those of us who put our words to these pages – who tell those hard stories and reveal our tears – know there’s beauty in the breakdown. We know we’re not alone. We know we will get support and that those who don’t support us perhaps just don’t understand.

I’ve seen this countless times on other blogs. My friends’ blogs. Your blogs. I’ve seen you share stories about hard things I never would have suspected had you not written about them. I’ve seen you be bravely, beautifully honest and then, just when I think all your cards are on the table, you lay down your hand and say, “This is what life dealt me. It’s not the hand I’d have chosen, but there’s no point hiding it so I’m going to play. I’m going to stay in the game and play, and if you care to read along with me I’ll share my strategy and you’ll see that you can win even when you get dealt a bad hand.”

That’s why I believe bringing together writing and technology is more than “blogging” and think those who dismiss what we do here underestimate the power of this art. This art has the power to break down barriers and borders. It has the power to make life better. It has the power to make lives better.

You know it, and I know it.

And I think it’s an idea worth spreading.

[Update: The video of my talk is now available.]


This is our very last week to make an impact for Be Enough Me 4 Cancer. Last week we had 45 people link up an enough-themed post in our Be Enough Me for Cancer campaign and I’d love it if you’d help us boost that number again. For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day. The link-up remains open for three days. No blog? No worries. You can also comment on the post or on the Just.Be.Enough. Facebook page with your own story and be counted.

 

Filed Under: Be enough me, Better world, Happy things, Hello, Inspiration, Postpartum depression, Writing · Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Badges and Black Holes: The Gifts of PPD

September 5, 2011 by ·

PPD badgeA couple of weeks ago I quietly changed the badge in my sidebar. If you scroll down you’ll see my warrior mom badge on the right, which used to say, “I’m surviving postpartum depression. You can too.”

No more. Now it says, “I survived.”

I waited a while to make that change, even though I wanted to swap my badge out as soon as I felt remotely normal. But I’ve previously thought I’d kicked PPD to the curb and it turned out that (really) wasn’t the case. Call it prudence, call it superstition – whatever it was, I wasn’t prepared to jinx things by updating that badge too soon.

I’m now ready to declare this battle won. Not that I don’t still have tough times; thanks to my fellow warrior moms I know it’s not that simple. I know sometimes I’ll get smacked down and have to get myself back up again, and that’s okay. The beauty in all this is that I know it now, so I’m prepared for it. And I consider that knowledge a gift. Jackson Pollock | Composition

I didn’t understand the value of being able to identify my emotions until quite recently. I’ve always been an emotional person but looking back I see my emotions as Pollock-esque splatters of paint thrown on the canvas of life, an expression of something perhaps not everyone understood.

Now I’m creating my art – my life – in a different way. The outcome is less a splatter and more a rainbow, with different lines of the arc of my life representing different pursuits that come together in a much more brilliant – and recognizable – whole. (Make no mistake, though. I will never be the sort of person who colours inside the lines.)

I know there will be some dark and cloudy days but now I can identify them and, as with a weather forecast, know they will be temporary.

The one bit of darkness that stubbornly refuses to disappear is what I call black holes. My experience with postpartum depression has left me with gaps in my memory. As previously noted, when my husband said, “I was in an abusive relationship for a year” I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Even still, I have absolutely no recollection of how I treated him during that time.

C’est la vie. I can – will have to – deal with it. He has. We have, together. It is what it is and remembering wouldn’t change it.

What I do find disconcerting is these black holes popping up in my day-to-day. In the Before, I was organized and could keep everything in my head – my appointments, my to-do list, my grocery list. Now I have a calendar AND a task list AND reminders set for everything I’m supposed to do. If I don’t create those reminders – and, sadly, sometimes I forget to do that too – I don’t remember. Even with a list I go to the grocery store and often come home without toilet paper.

And don’t even get me started on my sense of direction. I never had much of one to start with, and now I’m easily getting lost twice a week. In my own city. Thank goodness I’m able to laugh at myself.

All I can say is I sincerely hope these black holes are temporary. If not, I suppose I can always become an emotionally unstable painter and hope some people will consider me a genius.

***

Speaking of postpartum depression and remembering things (or not remembering them, as the case may be), I’ve got a guest post up at The Koala Bear Writer today. I met Bonnie at a local writers’ workshop and she kindly asked me to share some information about PPD on her site. I’m happy to be over there today sharing what I think people should know about PPD (based on my experience, anyway). I’d love it if you’d come and visit, and while you’re there please say hi!

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , ,

Back To Life, Back To Reality

August 31, 2011 by ·

Truthbomb: This transition is tough.

Overall things are great, but I’m at the point of desperately hoping it stays that way. After being on sick leave for 4 1/2 months, I went back to work on August 15, starting part time and gradually increasing hours. The first week was fine. I worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and felt really silly leaving at noon. Same schedule the second week, same “it’s fine” feeling, except by Wednesday night I was wickedly cranky. Normally I would have ignored it – chalked it up to a bad day or PMS or something – but I know not to do that now. So I put on my sleuthing hat (with thanks to Yael for this technique) and started examining what was going on.

I knew returning to work was going to be challenging in some ways. I have less time with my boys and more time with bureaucracy. (In case you can’t tell this about me, I’m not good with bureaucracy.) I miss my boys. I also have less time to write and less time to read. I miss all of you.

I knew going in those things would be my reality. What I didn’t anticipate: Missing down time at the end of the day. I haven’t been going home at the end of the morning because Connor still naps and I don’t want a barking dog to wake him up, so I’ve been going to Starbucks or the library or the gym for a bit instead. But Connor is used to having me around, so of course when I do get home he wants me to play with him. I thought I would want to do that. I really did. But sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just want time to catch up on blog reading. (Oh hi, guilt! How I’ve missed you…) And if I don’t play with him RIGHT AWAY, he starts with the undesirable attention-getting behaviour, like hitting me or running full speed at me and body checking me. (Speaking of cranky…)

It doesn’t help that it’s taking me well over an hour to get him to go to bed at night. The constant escorting him back to his bed is getting really old, especially since standing sentry outside his room means I’m not getting anything else done, like tidying, making my lunch, or anything else that’s generally good for my mental health.

What I also (stupidly) didn’t anticipate: Connor missing me because I’m not around as much. When I was getting dressed on Monday morning he asked me where I was going. When I told him I was going to work, the lip came out, started to tremble, and then caught his salty tears as they rolled down his cheeks. (Oh hi, working mother guilt! I’d forgotten how much of a bitch you can be.)

So instead of reading and writing and playing with my son on and off throughout the day, which was lovely (in the last part of my leave, anyway, once I got over that whole wanting-to-die thing), I’m at work. Work is work and, as I said when I first returned, it’s okay for it to be just a job.

In theory, anyway.

We all have things we don’t like about our jobs and even though I’ve loved mine for years there are things that annoy me. Of course there are. And it doesn’t surprise me that those things are annoying me more right now after some time away.

Anyway, it’s making me cranky.

Or maybe it’s just – as my sister pointed out – that I feel my superpowers are needed elsewhere. (Anyone want to hire me to write about the reality of motherhood and how to find inspiration after life has kicked you to the ground? I can be whatever you want – serious, poignant, funny, you name it. I can only draw stick figures but I’m willing to do that to add visual appeal to the material.)

None of this is meant to be a criticism of the organization I work for. It’s a great organization and, as far as bureaucracy goes, it could be way worse.

Still, this transition is tough.

Filed Under: Writing · Tagged With: , ,

Postpartum Rage: My Story, Part 2

July 20, 2011 by ·

Part 1 is here.

My sweet baby wasn’t the only one who experienced my rage.

When my son was almost 18 months old I came very close to losing my marriage because my husband, by that point, was bearing the brunt of my anger and he’d had enough. He also knew more about my anger towards my son than I was aware of.

Hidden away, in a folder I don’t look at, I have an email from my husband in which he told me if I couldn’t get things under control he would leave and seek sole custody.

He’d have had every right to. And I wouldn’t have fought it, because I couldn’t have had even partial custody of my son and I knew it.

I had tried everything else. I had asked my husband to help me and when he said he felt like he couldn’t I felt abandoned.

I had gone instead to a counsellor, but it didn’t help.

I had enquired, casually, on several occasions at my doctor’s office, about medication. But I was so afraid of it. I was so afraid that even with my husband’s ultimatum it took me two months to finally get a prescription for antidepressants.

Once I got on medication things got a bit better. It took the edge off at least. But I was on a low dose and it didn’t do enough and I didn’t know enough to know I wasn’t better.

A year later, almost to the day, my husband and I had a rager of a fight precipitated by a tough time getting our son to sleep. We stood in our garage and yelled at each other. We screamed. And my husband is not a screamer.

I felt like he didn’t understand (and he didn’t but neither did I, though that’s a whole other post). I didn’t realize – couldn’t see – what the past 2 1/2 years had been like for him.

I thought that was it – the end of our marriage, the end of my family, the end of my experience as a mother.

I cried more that night than ever before in my life.

I thought I was going to have to walk away, so I stepped up to leave the garage. I had only taken a single step when he said it.

“I was in an abusive relationship for a year.” His voice full of anger, hurt, and fear.

I paused in what was both a split second and a whole lifetime, during which I went from wondering how I didn’t know this about him to realizing he meant me.

He meant me.

I walked out of the garage. I came very, very close to leaving the house and not coming back because I couldn’t imagine staying with someone who thought that about me. I had no idea what he was talking about, because I hadn’t seen it. All I could see was my own struggle.

There are large parts of the year prior I don’t remember at all. I have no recollection of how I treated him, but I have no doubt it was badly.

(Does he still think I was abusive? This question has been plaguing me for months. No, he says. We both went through something really awful but he knows it wasn’t intentional or something I could control.)

I don’t remember what happened in the month that followed either, but I know I started to think about everything differently.

In December I started seeing a counsellor who specializes in postpartum depression.

In January I started this blog.

In doing so, I was able to work through a lot of what I was feeling and reflect on things that I had put behind walls because they were too hard to deal with. And my husband got a better understanding of what I was feeling, some of which was easier for me to write than say out loud.

In March I started seeing a psychiatrist who changed my medication, noting that the dose I’d been on for over a year wasn’t even a therapeutic dose. It wasn’t enough to help me properly.

Following that medication change I went through what have been the hardest three months of my life so far, much of which has been documented here. I’ve finally dealt with my anger in a way that makes me able to almost be the mother I thought I would be. It took a very large breakdown and a leave of absence from work to do it though, and I still have things to work on.

But as best as I can describe it, that’s my experience with postpartum rage. Those who haven’t experienced it won’t understand. They may judge me and throw hateful comments at me. But I had to tell this story because it’s part of me. It’s true and it’s real. And those who have experienced it will understand, and will feel less alone.

 

Note: I’ve had to close comments on older posts due to the amount of spam coming through. I so appreciate your comments and am always happy to hear from you by email.  

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , , , , ,
« Previous Page
Next Page »