Hello, Inspiration – Father’s Day

June 19, 2011 by ·

I haven’t posted in a couple of days. Confession: I feel like I’m slipping. A rough few days and I feel like the swirl is coming back, so I’m just trying to hold it off.

I’m going to save my planned inspiration post until I can feel it again and express it properly. In the meantime, some thoughts on Father’s Day.

I know some people don’t have dads – my parents have both lost theirs. I know some dads aren’t perfect. I know some moms out there are doing it on their own for one reason or another.

It sounds silly, but this blogospheric community has made me really realize how hard Father’s Day can be for some people.

I’m blessed in the dad department – both with my own dad and the wonderful dad my husband is.

This might seem like a downer, but I’m actually inspired by those of you who don’t or can’t rejoice in Father’s Day. You’ve shared stories of bad relationships with your fathers. You’ve commented that you don’t have a relationship with your father at all.

Some of you have lost your fathers. Some fathers have lost their children.

Some of you have amazing and wonderful dads but just don’t get to see them as often as you’d like.

Whatever your situation, your strength and honesty inspire me.

I feel lucky to know others who do whatever you need to do on Father’s Day – celebrate it, ignore it, rail against it, or take the time to remember your dad and hold him in your heart.

So to all of you who have lived with the hard stuff, and to all the fathers and father figures out there who spread love and joy and caring, I wish you a Happy Father’s Day, whatever that looks like to you.

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Filed Under: Hello, Inspiration · Tagged With: , , , ,

On Death and Doubt: A Letter to My Darkest Fear

April 22, 2011 by ·

When I embraced motherhood, I accepted fear as part of the role. I feared being a mother would be hard, that something would happen to my child, that, with all I have to give, it wouldn’t be enough.

For a while I was succeeding at pushing these fears away. Then, suddenly and without invitation, on a day when it all felt like too much,  you appeared – a deeper, darker fear.

Like a true villain, you waited until I was alone in the house – alone and feeling vulnerable – and then you came in. You entered silently and with no warning. And you attacked.

You stood in front of me and told me it was too hard. That I, in fact, can’t do it. That I will never be able to.

You closed the blinds and sucked the oxygen from the air. You became a physical presence and, momentarily at least, a part of me. With your hand on your hip and your finger in my face you told me I’d never be able to handle this role and there was only one way out.

For the briefest of moments, I thought you were right.

But you are not right, and you are not a part of me.

And you did not win.

The temptation was not nearly enough.

The effects on others would have been far too great.

I have revealed your presence to others and I’m no longer alone with you. The bottles of pills have been removed. Your suggested path to peace is not an option I will choose.

And yet you’re still here. I feel you dancing around my consciousness as I go about my day. In the quietness of the evenings I see you sitting in the chair in the corner, and when I wake up in the mornings I see you there still. You barely move, as though to suggest that overwhelming me takes little effort. You merely flick your barbs at me, each tiny movement filled with contempt.

You’re never going to get better.

Deep down, you don’t want this life and you know it.

You’re ruining him. He sees you as weak.

Run away. Find an apartment where you can live alone and not have to deal with any of this anymore.

You’re going to have to make a choice. This bubble of support is going to burst soon and you’re going to be left alone in a heap on the floor.

You want this fixed? You want it to all go away?! Just take the easy way out and it will be done.

You put all my fears into one tidy package labeled “the way out” and you threw it at me. When I let it fall to the floor you didn’t retreat. You attacked again, telling me my choice meant I’d be stuck with a life I can’t handle.

How dare you? You think the easy way out is something I’d ever choose? You dare to assert that I can’t do this role? And do it well?

I’m here to tell you that you underestimated me. You underestimated all of us, for I am not alone in this. There is another option. A different path. A way out.

The only way out is through.

See that door? I’ve gone through it and I’ve locked it behind me.

Your path, your presence, is not an option. You are not welcome to stay with me any longer.

Do you hear me? I’ve rejected you. So consider me gone and move on.

____________________

This post is non-fiction and written in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club: “Write a letter to your deepest, darkest fear.

This is the story that has been waiting to come out – constructive criticism is welcome, but please be kind 😉


 

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

Four Weeks

April 18, 2011 by ·

Two weeks and three days ago, I started a week of vacation. Just a random little break after a busy few months.

Two weeks and two days ago – a Saturday – I had a breakdown. A day that was finally – truly finally, in the etymologic sense, i.e. in a final manner; conclusively or decisively – enough. Enough. I was staring at what might have been the end and I’d had enough.

One week and six days ago, I asked my boss for a leave of absence. It has taken me this long – nearly two weeks – to admit this here. Emotionally it feels like admitting defeat, even though intellectually I know it doesn’t and I haven’t. My fingers have hovered over these keys, waiting for the words to admit to this as one of the latest pieces of my story. The other admission will follow when it’s ready, but for now I need to get this out.

I am taking time off work because my PPD is not under control and I’ve had enough and I need to fix this. There. I said it.

I asked my boss for some time off and he said yes, which I knew he would because that’s the sort of person he is. He’s always been supportive, and especially so since a little over a year ago when, after hiding it for a long time, I tearfully told him I was cracking up. When I finally admitted to my struggle with postpartum depression, he understood and has let me do what I need to do.

Despite that support, asking for time off was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to ask for from a boss. Thank God for instant messaging, because I cried through the whole conversation.

A couple of days later I went to see him to do a hand-off of some of my work. He kindly agreed to let our team know I was going to be away. He even gave me the words when trying to figure out what to tell people made it feel like I couldn’t breathe. I chose the cowardly approach and he told them I was spending time with my family.

I suspect everyone knows it’s a crock. I’ve had several “I hope you are well” messages and I honestly don’t know how to respond. I am less well than I have ever been in my whole life.

In writing about my experience with PPD I have embraced honesty. I have told friends and family. I have been a guest on a radio show to talk about it. But I cannot bring myself to tell my colleagues – 10 or so of whom report to me – why I am not at work. Yet.

I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It weighs on me. I want it to be okay to admit that I’m struggling with depression – the postpartum sort or the capital D sort or whatever. I want it to be okay for those on my team to know that sometimes things other than work matter and we need to set work aside.

I also dread returning to work and facing the “how are you” questions from people who are very well meaning and genuinely caring but who don’t know if I’m dealing with cancer or a mental health issue or carpal tunnel syndrome.

Credit: szczel on Flickr

For now, however, I have let it be. I will deal with the why at the right time, whenever that is. When I saw my doctor and told her what had happened and how I was feeling, she asked how much time I thought I needed. A month, I said. Four weeks.

She paused and looked at me. Then she ticked the 1-2 months box on the doctor’s certificate and told me to come back in two weeks.

“We’ll see,” she said.

We’ll see.

 

I’m linking this post up with Pour Your Heart Out at Things I Can’t Say because, for some reason, it makes me feel better about saying it.

Update: Yes, it was longer than four weeks.

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

Oops, I Did It Again

April 16, 2011 by ·

Three days ago, I realized I was about to run out of meds. This happened in May of last year and it was a very, very, very bad thing. So, shaking the bottle of pills, I counted. Enough for three days. But Connor was sick so I didn’t do anything about it.

Two days ago, I was vaguely aware that I was going to have to sort this out, but I was sick so I didn’t do anything about it.

Yesterday, I got up, finally feeling a little bit better, and called the pharmacist. They had a handy little refill-your-prescription-by-phone option, so I pressed all the right numbers, confirmed I had no refills already prescribed, and chose to have them contact my doctor for a renewal. Beep, beep, boop and back to bed.

Not 10 minutes later the phone rang.

For some reason I don’t understand – and wasn’t lucid enough to question – they have my doctor, and therefore my prescription, associated with a hospital in another city. Translation: they can’t sort out the refill, so I need to see a doctor, whether one of my own or at a clinic.

So much for the easy button.

I called my psychiatrist’s office. She’s away until next week. I called my GP’s office. They closed early and were referring people to walk-in clinics.

Hmm.

I wasn’t feeling well enough to figure out a solution so I left it until today.

First stop, the pharmacy. I explained my predicament and asked if they could give me enough to last until I see my shrink on Thursday. He seemed quite prepared to do that until he looked at my file and realized I had only been on this particular med for about a month. Which, from what I can infer, would have led to all kinds of bad pharmacist karma despite the fact that abruptly ceasing anti-depressant medication can create the previously-experienced and above-noted very, very, very bad thing.

Fine, walk-in clinic it is.

I tried four before I found one that was open at 2:00 on a Saturday. I got in quickly and explained to the quite young, very kind and not entirely unattractive doctor – who generously pretended not to notice that I hadn’t had a shower – what I was looking for. To his credit, he didn’t just write me a script – he asked some questions about what else I was on and how it was working. When I told him he got a pensive sort of look but agreed to give me enough to get me through the week and said he’d leave it up to the shrink to determine if this is the right approach. I wanted to hug him for making me feel like I’m not crazy.

So the crisis has been averted and I’ve got meds again. But I’ve really got to stop doing this.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: ,

Waiting for the Words

April 13, 2011 by ·

People tell me I’m brave for sharing my experience.

I’m not feeling very brave this week.

People have said they’re in awe of my honesty.

Sometimes I’m scared to be honest.

My story has taken a turn and for a week now I’ve been trying to find a way to share it. This turn has two parts and both need to be told. I need to tell them. I started to write one – the really hard one – and the other came out. The first is apparently not ready. I’ve tried to coax it, to assure it the telling will be okay, but it’s not ready.

I’m not ready.

The second is now in draft – a jumble on the page. Its format doesn’t do it justice. There is weight to this decision I’ve made – both the heavy weight of admission and the powerful weight of potential.

This part of my story needn’t be poetic but I need to tell it the right way.

I’ll wait, and it will come.

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