Yesterday I turned a page in the book that is my life.
It has felt, at times, as though this book was ripped from my hands and tossed carelessly aside, with no regard for its protective cover and certainly no respect for its contents.
I’ve watched, helpless, as the wind blasted through and whipped the pages, tearing some and removing others entirely.
I’ve set it aside, hoping by some miracle that it will be intact when I next peek at it.
I’ve tried to cover this book, to bind it, to patch its holes.
I’ve accepted it will not be the same book it once was.
I’ve given it to others, asking them to use their professional skills to mend it and make it stronger, better, beautiful again.
It’s bound now, but in pieces. Some parts of the spine were damaged in the process and will forever bear those scars. The pages are all there, though perhaps not in quite the right order. Some are tear-stained. Some reveal the evidence of having been torn out, crumpled, and then rescued and returned to their place in the tale as acceptance of what is.
This book that is my life is still my book and it still contains my story. A different story than what I set out to create, but it’s still mine – accepted and embraced – and I will no longer allow others to dictate the chapters to come.
I’ve turned the page.
***
Yesterday, after three years of struggling with postpartum depression and three months of being off work, I stopped waiting – hoping – for others to write the story for me. Because I wasn’t happy with how the plot was developing.
I want to rant about how medical professionals are supposed to listen to you, keep you informed and allow you to advocate for yourself. I want to rail against another’s perception of me that is entirely untrue, and made worse because it is uninformed. I want to counter each one of those untruths and say, See? This is what I’ve done to make myself better. This is who I am.
But I won’t. Because it’s risky and because it doesn’t matter and because I am in charge of my story again.
Yesterday I released the pause button. I saw my therapist and got validation from someone who has been with me on this path for nearly eight months. I decided, firmly this time, not to work with a doctor who is making things worse instead of better. I went instead to my family doctor, who listened and actually heard me. She saw me for who I am and what I need even though her absences from her practice have meant she hasn’t been as involved in my care.
I stated what I want to do, I listened to her advice and we – together – decided on next steps.
She made me feel it’s not just me.
She gave me options.
She gave me trust in myself and faith in the possibility of what might come next.
She looked at my son and said, “He’s perfect.”
She told us, her questioning of it subtle but clear, that someone – a person who has never met our son – suggested we get him assessed. We emphatically said no. We – his parents – are not concerned that he needs to be “assessed”. He’s high energy and spirited and challenging at times. He’s also three. But yesterday he spent the better part of an hour in a small room, while his mom and dad talked with a doctor about something we all desperately need help with, calmly and patiently playing with a Mr. Potato Head. He was amazing, and my mama heart was filled with pride and love for him.
I wanted to take that evidence and show this…person who my son is. He was amazing. He is amazing [and he just came into the room and brought me flowers ♥]. The fact that I find it hard to deal with him at times is my problem, not his. We are not going to make this about him.
In my book, yesterday’s story is about getting the right help. It’s about people who listen. It’s about finally getting someone to say, yes, you can go back to work and trusting that I know whether I am well enough. It’s about my husband who sat next to me, supporting me while I talked (almost) without crying, and then took us out for ice cream afterwards.
And it’s about a little boy, for whom I have so much love it makes even the hard parts of my story worth it and who makes me feel that maybe – just maybe – I’m ready to do it again.
As for tomorrow, the page is still blank. The rest is unwritten. But I hold the pen.
