On Motherhood and Losing Yourself

April 27, 2011 by ·


Losing a piece of yourself seems to be part of becoming a mother, almost like a rite of passage. The problem is, following a rite of passage people often expect you to be wiser and acknowledge your readiness for your new role. You’re given access to knowledge or tools you didn’t have before.

When you become a mother, all you get is coupons for diapers, a free can of formula (whether you intend to formula feed or not), and unsolicited advice from people who are a generation or two out of touch. You might get a bunch of pamphlets pointing you to local resources and telling you things like how to bond with your baby and when you can expect certain milestones to happen.

What they don’t tell you is that feeling like you have NO IDEA what you’re doing is normal. Or that the sleep deprivation might feel like it’s going to kill you, but it probably won’t and will (eventually) end. Or that if you don’t feel overwhelmed with love for your baby, that’s okay too, and if it lasts for a while and you really feel like you can’t cope you might want to ask for some help.

As a matter of fact, none of the pamphlets I skimmed through or the books I read or the prenatal classes I attended told it like it really is. Which is:

You will lose a part of yourself when you become a mother.

You probably won’t be able to do all the things you’re used to doing, at least not at first, and your husband or partner shouldn’t expect to either.

You will likely be transformed by this experience in ways you could never imagine and no one could ever accurately describe to you.

Some of those changes will be great. Wonderful. Magical, even. Some might make you feel like you’ve figured out the meaning of life, even if it’s 3 a.m.

And some of those changes will be hard. Really hard. It doesn’t matter if you’re a cashier or a cook or a CEO, being a mother will be the hardest job you’ve ever had.

That was certainly the case for me. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea just how hard it would be. Some of the changes were absolutely not okay with me but it’s difficult, I discovered, to convince a newborn who won’t sleep to see reason.

I realize it’s not this hard for everyone. For me, postpartum depression (unrecognized and undiagnosed for 18 months) made it almost impossibly hard. I absolutely lost myself and have battled for almost three years to find myself again. It turns out the person I was is not coming back, and I’m finally learning to be okay with that. To embrace it, even.

When I started blogging and was trying to choose a name for my blog, I wanted to acknowledge that the crazy, raging, anxiety-ridden person I had become after having a baby was not who I wanted to be. That person was a stranger to me, and to my husband, who took the brunt of a lot of my exhaustion and anger. That stranger was a big part of me for a while, and will always be a part of who I’ve become. But it’s time to say farewell.

As she slowly ceases to be part of who I am, I watch her go. I send her acceptance and gratitude, both for what she’s taught me and for retreating when asked, but I don’t wish to see her again. I’m ready to accept what I’ve lost and embrace what I’ve gained instead.

Farewell, stranger. I wish you well.

Path

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: , ,

Stolen Joy

April 8, 2011 by ·

At first I didn’t even realize it was missing.

“The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new.” – Rajneesh

I had never had the experience of being a mother before, so I didn’t know exactly what it was supposed to be – I just had my own expectations.

“Being a mom is the most rewarding experience you can ever have…You get to birth them into the world. Raise them right, see them grow…The first time they wrap their little arms around you and give you a tight hug… it is just all so wonderful.” – post on Yahoo! Answers

The first month I thought it had been given to me – the amazing experience of being a mother. I sensed my motherhood in his tiny hands, wispy hair and beautiful baby cheeks. I thought we had it figured out.

“Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Early in the second month, things started to be different. It wasn’t the start of my battle – I now realize that started much earlier – but during this time the thieves came and, bit by bit, stole from me.

He was fussy. He took a bottle for a while (freedom!) and then refused outright for months (despair). He didn’t sleep. He screamed and then he screamed some more.

I cried when he cried. I lay awake at night totally unable to sleep. I yelled at my husband. I went to play dates and pretended everything was fine but felt like an imposter.

“Nothing else will ever make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own.” – Marguerite Kelly and Ella Parsons

Why was this happening to me? Where did it come from? This was not the experience of motherhood I wanted to have. I didn’t want to be angry, frustrated, and sad. And so resentful. Resenting my experience of motherhood consumed me for months.

I look back on those days with love for him – so much love – but not the joy I had expected. The joy of motherhood had been stolen from me. Postpartum depression took it away.

“No one can go back and make a brand new start, my friend, but anyone can start from here and make a brand new end.” – Dan Zadra

Eventually, I accepted that things weren’t just going to get better. I had to ask for – and accept – help and after I did things got better for a while. And then worse again. Over nearly three years I’ve battled a series of ups and downs – waves that crashed over me again and again and finally coughed me up on the beach, spent.

“And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” – JK Rowling

I’ve seen rock bottom – a place in me I thought didn’t exist. Thoughts I believed were for others to think, not me. I stared in the face of the easy way out and chose not to take it.

I have a child. I am a mother. This is my experience – the good and the bad.

Because of something I didn’t see coming, something that is not my fault, the experience of motherhood I wanted was stolen from me. And now I’m taking it back. It’s time to rebuild.

This is what joy looks like

____________________

This post is non-fiction and written in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club.

Someone has stolen something from you (or your character). Something of tremendous value. What will you do to get it back? Or will you give up?

Write a post – fiction or non-fiction. Word limit is 600.


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

Fluid

March 5, 2011 by ·

I had done everything. I had hung upside down off my couch. I had gone swimming. I had played music, shone lights, talked convincingly in my best soon-to-be-your-mama voice. I had even smoked my toe (which is not what it sounds like) and gone for acupuncture (I HATE needles). EVERYTHING. Except scrub the kitchen floor on my knees, because who wants to do that 9 months pregnant?

He was still breech.

Last stop: OB’s office. I had waffled, but only a little bit. I had heard how much it hurt, but I didn’t care. I was willing to try it to get this babe turned around so I could attempt a natural birth.

“External cephalic version” is just a fancy way of describing the process where a doctor, under fairly specific circumstances, grabs baby’s head and bum from the outside and tries to force him to flip around. I figured it sounded like a lovely way to spend a Thursday afternoon, so after getting the scoop from him on how it worked, how long it might take (not very) and how good my chances of success were (not very) we decided to go for it.

My husband and I gamely trotted out to the hospital and I had the mandatory pre-version ultrasound. I think it was my 6th. Yep – there was the little bugger, still not head down.

The tech did a bunch of wiggling and pushing and prodding with the ultrasound wand and then started making noises about fluid levels.

“There’s one big pocket over here,” she said, which apparently counted for however much it is when it’s not enough at that stage of pregnancy.

She prodded some more but ultimately decided to get the OB to take a peek.

More prodding, more squinting at the black and white monitor.

Ultimately, the word came down.

“You don’t have enough fluid to attempt a version,” the OB told me. “In fact, he probably needs to come out. If he weren’t breech we’d probably induce you, but you’ll have to have a c-section. Would you like to do that today or tomorrow?”

Gulp.

We picked “tomorrow” primarily because it was past 3 p.m. and I hadn’t eaten since midnight the day before and I was capital-S starving. Plus, you know, I wasn’t really ready to have my abdomen sliced open right then and there.

This day, this event, this conversation has stuck with me. What if I had gone home, chugged a whole bunch of water and checked again? Would that have made a difference? What if I had just said no?

The stories about being educated and having a say in your birth experience leave me both feeling empowered and haunted. There was a lot I didn’t know at that time. I, like so many women, skipped the c-section parts of my pregnancy books. I didn’t know anything about fluid levels, I just trusted my midwife and the OB.

I will always wonder.

Maybe drinking water would have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have. Maybe this is just the way it was meant to be.

In any case, I didn’t go home and drink water. I had one last lunch/dinner with my husband and my mom and went home to ponder what was coming next.

I should have just scrubbed the damn floor.

This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club:
“Water gives life. Water takes it away.”

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What’s Your Story, Morning Glory?

February 12, 2011 by ·

For my Secret Mommyhood Confession Saturday post I bring you this, my confession: I’m starting to lose sight of what my story is.

When I started this blog about six weeks ago, I had no preconceived ideas about what it would become. I had no real goals for it. I just wanted to get it out there. Tell the truth about my experience and hope that somewhere, some time, it would help someone.

Well, it helped me. I truly feel like a totally different person than I did six weeks ago. Oh, I know I’m not “better” – whatever that may mean now – but I’m better than I was and that’s partly due to writing about it.

I’ve also discovered that I like this – this telling of the story, this ability to frame my life in a certain way, this opportunity to be part of a different community. I really like it.

I’m still thinking through some stuff, but what happens if I don’t have this PPD story to tell anymore? What if it’s not so central to my daily life? I can’t just go back over the last two years and tell all the little, seemingly insignificant stories – the day I yelled, the day all I did was cry, the day I called my parents and told them to come and pick him up RIGHT NOW. Can I? Who wants to read that? Do I want to write that? Do I need to?

I don’t know.

But I don’t know what this blog is about without it. I don’t want to be just another mommy blogger. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) I want to have a purpose for all these dots and dashes I’m contributing to the wilds of cyberspace. And I want it to be more than self-indulgent self reflection.

I guess for now my story is still defining itself. And I guess for now I’m all right with that.

Filed Under: Writing · Tagged With: ,

Signs

February 6, 2011 by ·

Thurs., June 12, 2008

The last day… I should know by now that things don’t turn out as planned. We went in today for the version and after IVs and ultrasounds [the OB] decided fluid levels were too low and wouldn’t do it – baby probably needs to come out. We almost had this baby today but the hospital was really busy so we opted to come home and go back tomorrow.

I’ve been expecting a scheduled c-section for a while but it’s strange that it’s here. Part of me really wants to meet this bean and part of me wants more time. I’m not sure I’d ever really be ready though. These last few weeks have not at all been what I expected. I finally stop hating being pregnant and now it’s over.

I’m nervous about the surgery, though trying to believe the people who say it’s not so bad.

I’m also nervous about the fact that our lives are about to change in this major way that I can’t even begin to anticipate. All my reservations about doing this are coming to the surface, which I hope (and suspect) is just a night-before thing. I’m sure in a few days I’ll read this and have a bit of a laugh about how I had no idea about this amazing thing that was coming.

For now this is my last night as the me I have been so far.

This isn’t how I expected to be feeling. I’m not sure where it’s coming from (or why I’m writing it down…)

—————–

Hello, self? Why were you surprised that you ended up with postpartum depression?

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