Art Therapy

July 9, 2011 by ·

I’d been on the couch all morning, still battling the fine line between better and not, and not was winning. Only the clock ticking closer to 11:30 pushed me toward reality.

The logical part of my brain was urging me up. You have to get up, it said, before he gets home from dino camp. Just GET UP. Don’t succumb.

I knew it was right, but I ignored it. I played the usual game – you can’t, or you don’t want to?

Neither? Both?

I know. I need to get up and get dressed. There’s only so long you can sit on the couch wondering what the hell is wrong with you and trying desperately to hold back the tears.

I finally tweeted myself off the couch, had a shower, got dressed and came back downstairs.

The list of things I could do – should do – was long. But the couch won.

When Connor came home it was with a burst of energy, bringing life back into the living room. A bouncy ball, retrieved from his dinosaur egg pinata, flew around in a flash of orange. He was revved up, full of leftover excitement from his day camp activities and bursting with anticipation of backyard camping that night.

When he’s excited he’s physical and loud. I sat on the couch, paralyzed, sensory overload taking over all rational thought.

It’s too much.

As though physically pushing in the clutch, I forced my brain to switch gears. You need to eat something. You’re due for a med dose.

I stood up, focusing on making sandwiches. I can do that and then retreat upstairs, I thought.

But I was back in the company of those who understand, no longer alone where letting the tears fall leads to a flood I can’t control. The dam broke and the tears were set free.

I’m sick of the rug underneath me going very suddenly MIA. I’m sick of the tears. I don’t know if this is worse than the anger and irritability, but it feels worse. I never used to feel this way. I’m in it – this black hole of depression – and I don’t know how to get out.

After all this time, my husband understands. He gives good hugs and he’s willing to be the voice of reason.

“I know. But it will be okay. It will.”

When? When will it be okay?! It’s been THREE YEARS.

A small voice.

“What’s wrong, mama?”

I don’t even know how to answer this anymore.

“Mama is sad”? But mama is sad way too often and that’s not how I want him to think of me.

“Mama is sick”? But I don’t want him to worry.

In the end I was saved from having to find a response.

“Here’s a picture. I made this for you.”

He brought it home from camp. It’s a dinosaur, I assumed, but I asked anyway.

“It’s an airplane!”

Oh.

Not a dinosaur? Or are the dinosaurs in the airplane? Do you think dinosaurs even fit in airplanes?!

I can still play the silly mama.

He paused, deep in thought.

“Maybe little ones do.”

That he took the question so seriously, answered so earnestly, made me laugh. In so many ways three is such a perfect age.

And then he said it.

“It will be all right, mama. Put this picture I made you on the fridge and it will be all right.”

Then he was gone, having turned away to help make sandwiches, focusing very carefully on lining up the bread just so.

But I couldn’t see, because my eyes had filled up, the tears spilling over in gratitude and love for his wisdom, his sureness, his caring.

I put the picture on the fridge – I don’t even know which way it’s supposed to face, but I placed it high enough that he can’t steal it away – where it has stayed. And he was right.

At the end of the day, things are closer to being all right.

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

Run and Hide

May 5, 2011 by ·

The first time I ran away from home I was 36 years old. This is what happened two weeks ago.

***

The inside of my head is screaming. I can’t be here. I already had one escape and it was 24 hours of sanity in the midst of a mad merry-go-round with a cackling clown taking up all the space in my brain and preventing me from finding an exit. That escape helped, but not enough. Mostly just made me realize how much I need some space to think.

Being on leave from work to deal with postpartum depression is good. Having a toddler around the house who is my trigger is bad, hence the inside-the-head screaming.

My husband understands that I need to be away for a bit and we talk about options. They’re all possible, and yet not what I need.

I feel trapped. I’m back to imagining what it would be like to live in a condo by myself. Finally, I decide to ignore my credit card balance and spend the money for another night in a hotel.

And then it comes. A message from a friend, one who doesn’t know how much I’m dying to run away but who happens to appear at exactly the right moment.

I’m going to be away for a bit, she says. You’re welcome to use my apartment if you want a break.

I come very close to crying with relief.

She drops off keys on her way out of town. I still hesitate. Can I leave my husband to be on toddler duty alone for however long I decide to escape?

Yes, he says. Really, you can.

What if I leave and decide I don’t want to come back? I worry about this.

I hope you don’t, but if you do we’ll deal with it. He has faith when I don’t.

So I leave.

***

I walked into my friend’s apartment feeling like I was intruding, but all that was there was peace. It was everything my toddler-dominated house is not. Clean. Quiet. Decorated the way I’ve always imagined my home would be if I lived by myself.

Luxurious white bedding suggested hours of uninterrupted, guilt-free sleep.

A couch with a soft blanket provided a space to sit or write or watch TV.

The kitchen made it clear I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and that no one else would be there to ask for a snack and then not eat it.

I walked into the bathroom to set my cosmetic case down and hung on the wall was something that made it clear I was in the right place:

I spent one night there and felt much more my keep-calm-and-carry-on self. I came home over Easter weekend when my siblings showed up from out of town. When they left, I went back to my friend’s place and didn’t know when I’d be home.

That stay turned out to be for three full days. I left for an appointment and then came back and spent a full 48 hours holed up there, blinds drawn, hiding. I finally emerged to get some groceries – across the street and back again, filled with anxiety until the door closed behind me.

I spent the time writing. I read – a lot. I took deep breaths. I cried it out. I bought fruit and forced myself to eat it. I allowed myself to eat ice cream.

I stayed up late, when the world was quiet and dark. Then I took my sleepy time pills and crashed for 12 hours at a time.

By the third day, I knew I needed to leave. I had realized I could stay there forever – not in that apartment, but in that dark place where I stay in my pajamas all day and shower at 9 p.m. Where I avoid going to sleep because I’m not ready to do all this again another day. Where every night I take a pill that knocks me out for so long that I don’t have to.

Coming home, I was ready to deal with whatever the toddler threw at me – literally or figuratively. I knew it would be challenging and I was prepared to deal with it. Or at least I thought it was.

He was practically manic from my return and we had a bedtime battle that dumped me right back into the depths of anger and despair. Turns out those triggers are deeply embedded in me and it’s going to take a lot more than three days of self-reflection to put a damper on my response to them.

But I rediscovered a part of myself in that apartment – a part I knew was there but couldn’t coax into the light. My friend thought she was just giving me keys, but what she actually gave me was a path out of the darkness.

Love you, M. You saved me during a time I really needed it and I’ll never be able to adequately express how grateful I am for that.


Mama’s Losin’ It

Prompt 2: That time you ran away from home.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · 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: , , ,

I Suck at Saturdays

March 12, 2011 by ·

Here we are again, Saturday stretching in front of us. Husband is working, I’m sick, kid is…bouncy. I know I need to be better about Saturdays – make plans so we have something to do. But again I haven’t done that and again I’m not motivated to try. I’m tired, it’s raining and the last thing I feel like doing is going out in public. Especially with a two-year-old.

He decides he doesn’t want to nap. I try for an hour, maybe longer, to no avail. He’s gone from asking to go to bed to flipping around, falling off the bed, hiding under the covers. This is not a good sign.

Eventually he says, “I’m done.” So am I. I give up.

Downstairs again, we eat lunch. Or at least I eat lunch. He has two bites of soup and decides he’s had enough. I can’t muster the energy to care.

We try the nap again. No go.

The good news is I haven’t lost my patience with all of this, as has happened on so many weekends before. The bad news is I have someone breathing down my neck about it.

“He’s obviously tired and now he’s going to be hungry. Why don’t you try harder?”

“Because I’ve already tried – twice now – to get him to nap. He’s not going to. And if he’s not going to eat now he’ll eat later.”

“He’s going to get bored, though. Why don’t you go out?”

“Where would we go? It’s raining, and I don’t feel like it. I’m dying for some time to myself.”

“You had that on Thursday, remember? You took the day off and sat on the couch in your pajamas all day.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“You have a two-year-old. This is how it is now. Everyone else can do it. Why can’t you?”

“I don’t know. But it’s been over two years of this same shit every weekend. Why can’t I do this? I’m sick of this. So sick of not being able to be a mom like everyone else.”

The phone rings.

“It’s your mom.”

I’m tempted to not answer it. I suspect she’s seen my tweet and is calling to see if I need backup. I don’t need it the way I’ve needed it on other days, though I’d happily have someone else come and distract him for a bit. But if I answer the phone and say yes it’s an admission that I can’t do this.

Screw it. I answer the phone.

She comes over. My dad, on his way home from downtown, comes over. While they play I do laundry and tidy up a bit. The productivity helps my mental state.

After a while, they bundle the kid up and take him and the dog to the park. Alone in the house, the dialogue starts up again.

“Your mom did this with four kids, you know.”

“Believe me, I know. I’m sure she wonders what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not like it was before – where they have to come so I don’t throw him out the window – but I’m still not where I want to be. I just don’t know how to make other people understand it. I don’t understand it.”

“So just suck it up. He’s your kid, you’re his mom, and it’s your job to take care of him. Entertain him, stimulate him, play with him.”

“Sometimes I don’t want to.”

“Oh for God’s sake. Your husband does this every day! He manages to find things to do so they have fun. He doesn’t just sit there and wish he had the house to himself. What’s wrong with you?!”

I’ve had enough. I call a halt to the stream of self-criticism.

“Hey! Think back to what weekends used to be like! I’m doing better than I used to. I didn’t have any ‘I can’t do this!’ moments today. Yeah, sure, ‘I don’t want to’ isn’t a whole lot better but at least I’m not having a meltdown. And besides, I’m sick. And I’m tired. I’ve got a really wiggly kid sleeping on me every other night and work has been busy and we’re waiting for God-knows-what to happen on Monday AND I’ve got stupid family stress. So just give me a break!”

For once, the other voice is silent. Thinking. Reflecting.

I still suck at Saturdays, but I suck less than I used to.

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