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: , , ,

Escape, Part 2

April 5, 2011 by ·

[See part 1 of this story here.]

Checking into a hotel is normally a fairly simple process. Except when your brain has had a spaz and screws you over in the process.

This night in a hotel was courtesy a gift card I got for Christmas 2009 and hadn’t used yet. (I know, dumb. You’re welcome to slap me.) I looked at two websites in trying to find the hotel’s reservation number – the first was a hotel booking site and the second – the one I wanted – was the hotel’s site. I found the number and called to book the room, giving the friendly man on the other end of the line my credit card number when he asked for it to hold the room. At no time during this conversation did he say he was going to charge the card or that it was non-refundable. <Insert ominous music here>

I discovered my brain spaz when I told the woman at reception I’d be paying with the gift card. She informed me the room was prepaid through another company so I couldn’t use it.

I distinctly remember looking at the hotel booking site and discarding it. I distinctly remember looking at the hotel’s site – the branding, the hotel features, the drop-down menu with the property I was looking for. I have no idea how I screwed it up but this was absolutely the last thing I needed. I didn’t want to have to argue about it. I didn’t want to have to sort it out. And I didn’t want to suck it up and just pay for the room and use the gift card later.

I called the company and informed them I didn’t realize I was booking through another company, that I never agreed to have my card charged and that I certainly didn’t agree to – in fact, wasn’t informed about – a non-refundable booking. The oh-so-helpful response? “But it’s non-refundable.”

Force down panic, repeat story. Demonstrate full will of a mama struggling to hold her shit together instead of completely losing it in a hotel lobby:  “I DON’T CARE. FIX IT NOW.”

Last weekend was just too much. What was originally intended to be a nice break had become, truly, an escape. I need to go somewhere and close the door behind me and not talk to anyone. I need to figure out what’s going on in my head that’s allowing these waves to keep crashing over me, totally unexpectedly. I need him to fix it.

He fixes it.

The woman at reception must sense I’m on the edge, because she upgrades me to a room with a king bed and a harbour view. And then, embarrassingly, I do start to cry.

Once I get into the room things are better. I drink Coke with ice in a wine glass and that alone makes me feel like I’m somewhere else. I read a bit, write a bit, breathe a bit. I listen to music. When I’m feeling more calm, I throw on my workout gear and get sweaty. I pull up one workout on my computer and when that’s done I do another one. Exercise is a sure thing, every time, and when I’m done I feel like me again.

The rest of the night was heaven – a carpet picnic, a hot shower, pajamas and cozy socks. A conversation with a dear friend who called to make sure I was okay on my own. A delicious chocolate dessert while I sat at the desk looking out at the lights coming on around the harbour. A solid sleep in a bed with fluffy covers and puffy pillows.

I am grateful for this. I am. I can afford to do this for a night and I have a husband who is not only supportive, he tells me to go. I have a laptop I can take so I can read and write and stay connected.

I sat there that night and took deep breaths and felt that gratitude wash over me. But behind it the usual tension was still there – a tightness in my shoulders, a twitchy foot and a brow that remained furrowed so that in the morning I woke up with what appeared to be a permanent crease in my forehead.

The events of Saturday, including a call to the psychiatrist at 10 at night, led me to what I sincerely hope is rock bottom. Things cannot continue like this – it’s been over two years. Almost three. I’ve taken so many steps that seem like the right ones and it doesn’t feel like it’s getting better.

Maybe this new medication will kick in (please oh please) and things will start to improve. But it’s clear to me now that I need to take charge of this. I need to do something different. I need to do something more.

So that’s what I’m going to do. As of this morning, the wheels are in motion. Stay tuned.

 

 

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

Escape, Part 1

April 3, 2011 by ·

He knows I’m leaving. And what’s worse, he knows something’s wrong even though he hasn’t seen the meltdowns. And he’s not going to let me just pack my things and leave.

He pulls cotton balls out of my cosmetic case and when I take them back he reaches into my drawer and tries to grab a handful of Q-tips. He’s got that runner’s stance – feet planted, knees bent, ready to take off as soon as his chubby little hands have a firm grasp on the paper sticks.

“Please, honey, be helpful. I’m trying to pack.”

I can actually see him prepare to crank the defiance up a notch.

“Why don’t you go see Daddy for a minute?”

Please. PLEASE. I need to leave. It’s just for one night and I need to leave because yesterday was awful and I’m crashing and I just…need to leave. Please.

“I don’t want to see Daddy! I want Mummy!”

Tears stream down his sweet baby cheeks. His arms stretch up towards me.

I pick him up and he hugs me tight. His head is tucked snugly into me and he’s holding on like a baby monkey whose survival depends on staying close to his mother. I pause, overwhelmed with love for him, and wonder how something so beautiful could have turned my whole world inside out over the last couple of years.

Having heard his wailing, my husband comes in.

“Why don’t you go with Daddy?”

“I DON’T WANT DADDY!”

He’s breaking my heart, but Daddy, ever resourceful, can fix this.

“Why don’t we go have a peanut butter snack?”

He agrees and I hand my baby monkey to his daddy. I take a deep breath and finish packing, all the things I need for a night in a hotel. Alone. I’ve got workout gear and cozy socks. Healthy snacks and Coke. A decadent, completely self-indulgent dessert. I intend to do nothing. Not go out for dinner, not walk along the harbour, not go to a movie by myself. I intend to lock myself in the hotel room and never come out think. Write. Figure out what to do next. I can’t get there fast enough.

With my bags in my car I head down the highway. The hotel isn’t far – maybe 15 minutes from where we live. The Sunday afternoon traffic is light, but every car is an obstacle. I keep missing lights – they change from green to yellow, taunting me. You’re not free yet.

A white van is plodding along at 10 kilometres an hour below the speed limit. Come ON! I change lanes and pass him.

Just two more blocks, across the bridge and I’ll be there. And then I see it. A sign, its yellow lights flashing: “Lights flash when bridge is up.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I round the bend and see that the railway side of the bridge is going up, but the vehicle lane is still open. Maybe I’ll make it.

The light goes red.

I can feel every nerve in my body twitching with the need to get into a quiet room with a door that locks behind me. I can see the hotel from here – mere metres from the end of the bridge. It’s so close. I’m so close. But I wait. I have no choice.

So close

I manage to breathe long enough to realize I’ve never actually been this close to the bridge as it’s going up, even in over 30 years of living here. It’s interesting to watch, actually.

And luckily it’s fast. Bridge goes up, boat goes through, bridge comes down.

About 300 metres past the bridge is the entrance to the hotel property. The lane curves left through a narrow driveway that’s surrounded by cherry trees in full bloom. I see lights wrapped around the trees trunks and wonder if it’s a de-Christmas-ing oversight or twinkle lights for nightly ambiance. Probably the latter.

I made it. All I have to do is park my car and talk to another human long enough to hand over a card in exchange for a room key. A simple conversation that will lead me to the silence and solitude I long for.

Unfortunately the conversation isn’t so simple after all, and I have another, potentially challenging, hurdle to jump before I find peace.

To be continued…

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Shrink Me

March 14, 2011 by ·

A few weeks ago I had a conversation with my therapist that went something like this:

Me: [crying my eyes out and using up all her Kleenex]

Her: “I don’t think your meds are working… I’m going to suggest something to you and see if you have a response. Well, you’re going to have a response, so I’m just going to say it and then we can deal with your response.”

Me: [waiting. I think I know what she’s going to say.]

Her: “I think you should see a psychiatrist.”

I have a response, all right. But it’s probably not what she’s expecting. It’s not, “Hell, no!” or “Thanks but no thanks” or even “I’m not sure what I think about that.”

My response is, “Yes, please. (Can I go right now?)”

We talk about it some more and I tell her about how I actually requested a referral to a psychiatrist a year ago – one that was recommended by a friend who’s a nurse – but I didn’t “meet the criteria”. The same criteria, incidentally, that prevented me from getting in to see this very same counsellor (pregnant or a baby under 12 months) until I ponied up the cash to pay for private visits. She recommends a different shrink and suggests I talk to my doctor about a referral. Interestingly, both of the psychiatrists recommended to me – both of them women – have a reputation for having a fairly brusque bedside manner. <sarcasm> (I can’t tell you how much this reassures me.) </sarcasm>

I agree to talk to my doctor and again work up the nerve to call and make that appointment. When I get there, I’m feeling pretty good so the conversation goes a little sideways. I describe how my ultimate goal is to feel well enough to get pregnant again and the result is that she agrees to talk to the first psychiatrist – the one my nurse friend recommended – about what is referred to, in a fabulously clinical way, as a “pre-conception appointment”.

It takes a month to get the news that this shrink has agreed to see me. In the meantime, I go from feeling pretty good and going back to my doctor to discuss weaning off medication to feeling a little less good to realizing going off meds is perhaps not such a good idea.  (Chutes and ladders, anyone?)

As of now I’m still keeping that cliff in sight while trying desperately to figure out what’s around the corner.

As part of that orienteering effort, I sat through another session with my counsellor today. Sobbed through it, actually. Something’s not working and I’m stuck in the swirl, as she calls it (an apt metaphor, because I liken it to a merry-go-round I can’t get off). I sniffed and sniveled, wailed and wept, and blurted out all the stuff that’s going through my head. Stuff I can’t shut off no matter how hard I try. I listened to everything she had to say and when she asked how I felt about her assessment of what’s good enough, what’s normal, what I can control and what I can’t I thought, “I understand all that. I know it to be true but I can’t make myself believe it.”

I see the psychiatrist on Thursday, and that’s probably a good thing. I have no idea what to expect. She might be abrupt. She might wonder how this crazy woman who clearly is in no shape to be considering another baby got through her doors. She might not actually hear me – might just change my meds or up my dose or something else that might work…or might not, because it’s not really addressing my issue.

But she also might help me – perhaps by changing my medication to something that will work, perhaps by suggesting another resource, or perhaps by reiterating something I already know and am just not letting myself hear.

Whatever she does, at this point all I can do is hope it helps.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: ,
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