The Truth About Mental Health

May 17, 2011 by ·

Mental Health Blog Party

Mental health issues are scary, right? If you have one, whatever you do DON’T ADMIT IT.

That’s the common philosophy, anyway. Why do we think that? Because we think that by not acknowledging the issue it will go away and no one will ever know we’re not perfect? Because we don’t want people to see us as weak or somehow less?

That’s what I thought, anyway.

I used to think mental health issues were scary. After dealing with my own and talking to others, I now find them a lot less scary.

I used to think people would see me as weak. After being open about it, I’ve discovered the exact opposite.

Right now I’m on leave from work to deal with an ongoing and very stubborn case of postpartum depression. My son is three. That’s a lot of crap, people. A lot of tears. A lot of yelling. A lot of pretending things were okay when in fact they were less okay than they had ever been.

When I first went on leave, I didn’t know what to say to the people I work with so I copped out with “spending time with family”. When it turned out my leave was going to be longer than the month I had indicated, I decided to fess up.

So I sent a note to my branch (about 10 or so of those people report to me) and to some others I work closely with. It took me several days to work up the nerve. And about 18 drafts in my head. And a few very deep breaths before I finally hit send. It’s one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.

What I expected was responses along the lines of, “Oh, I had no idea. Thanks for sharing. Wishing you well.”

What I got back was so much more than that – nothing but absolute support and sharing of their own personal stories.

Since it’s Mental Health Day I thought I’d share with you excerpts of some of the responses I got. A lot of these say really nice things about me, which I share not to make me sound awesome, but because sometimes these comments only come out this clearly when we tell people something honest and difficult about ourselves.

Here’s what some of them said:

“… I think the part of me that tends towards an emotional sensitivity gravitated towards the sensitivity and authenticity that is part of your nature. I think you’re an incredibly strong and wonderful person and I admire so much not only the way you lead but what you express of yourself, which is enlightened, passionate and straight from the heart. You make it easier for me to feel comfortable being my true self.”

“…What was not a surprise, and rather consistent over space and time, is your courage and ability to communicate and share your thoughts on a tough situation. As always, I’m blown away by your gift, to speak openly about something that is difficult to discuss. So thank you for sharing your story. Although it is tough to hear coming from someone you know (and can’t help them fix overnight), I would prefer to try and understand than to not know ….or worse be told something untrue.”

“I’m giving you a virtual high-five for sharing your story with me. Wow. Your courage is amazing. I’m honoured that you would share.”

“You are very brave and I am honoured that you shared this with me. It is so important to rip the veil off of the entrenched stigmas that keep us believing that we are less than perfect if we can’t just rise above.”

“…thanks so much for taking yourself and your health & your needs seriously and for being kind enough to share a little bit with people who care. You’re a fabulous role model, and I wish you exactly what you need to heal.”

“BRAVO, Robin! It’s a huge thing to come face to face with this issue and to take the time you need to deal, process, feel better, etc. That you would share this with us is also a significant step, and shows that you are serious about your leadership, as well as your efforts to heal.”

“You are a brave and incredible woman, Robin.  I had no idea about any of this. That you came forward with your personal news is inspiring and really shows me, and all of us here, about what real leadership and self-preservation mean. And those things are what really matter.”

I know other people’s mental health issues – and willingness to share that information – are different than mine. I’ve seen some people share anonymously. I’ve seen some share selectively. I’ve seen some blow the doors open and just tell people without worrying about what they’ll think.

As for me, at first I didn’t realize PPD is what I was dealing with. And then I told no one, for a long time. And then I told a few people, some of them at work, because I was just not coping and when you’re completely losing it at work on a regular basis people are bound to suspect something’s up. I preferred them to know the truth than to think I couldn’t handle my job.

Then, in January, I started blogging about it. It was a whim, and I had no idea how public that would make it. If you read my first post, you’ll see that my boss found my blog before I had even posted anything. But I kept going. And I told a few more people. And a few more. And I talked about it on the radio. And then, after a long time searching for the right thing to do, I decided to tell my whole team at work.

I still don’t tell everyone I know. I don’t post my blog posts on my personal page on Facebook…yet. But I’m getting there. And you know what? Talking about it has been empowering.

I know not everyone is comfortable sharing stuff like this. But if you’ve been thinking about it, maybe this will reassure you that it might just be okay. If you don’t want to share, that’s okay too.

Either way, your mental health matters and there are so many safe ways to get support. You can start by reading the stories being shared during this Mental Health Blog Party and the resources linked to by the bloggers participating. One thing I know for sure is one of the biggest steps in feeling better is knowing you’re not alone.

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

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: , ,

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: , , ,

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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