I’m Not Alone, You’re Not Alone

October 3, 2011 by ·

I’ve never struggled with depression.

Except… Oh wait. There was that time in the last semester of my first year of university when I spent a lot of time in bed. A LOT. I stayed there and didn’t want to get up, though I didn’t think much of it at the time.

Then when I was in my 20s, I got sick of feeling sad and hopeless all the time and started logging things. What I ate, exercise, weather – you name it, I put it into a carefully crafted spreadsheet, and it was all mapped against my mood. Eventually the sum of the things that made me feel better – getting enough exercise, sunlight, eating well – led me to feel better overall.

Those times, I wasn’t diagnosed with depression. I never even had a conversation with a doctor about it. I always hated that label. Oddly, though, I remember being asked to fill out a self-identification form for a previous job. “Are you a visible minority?” No. “Are you Aboriginal?” No. “Do you have a disability?” A very small voice in my head piped up. “Does depression count?” I knew it was there, though I was never willing to admit it. (I checked no.)

 

The excerpt above is from an essay I wrote about depression that appears in anthology called Not Alone: Stories of Living With Depression, which is now available on Amazon. (I know! On Amazon twice in one week! I’m feeling lucky.)

The book is edited by Alise Wright who, in my experience since submitting my piece for consideration, is smart, kind, and funny.

Here’s one of the endorsements for the book:

“When our journeys take us down dark and unfamiliar paths, we don’t need leaders with all the answers; we need friends with open arms. Not Alone brings together the voices of many such friends in essays that are alive with wisdom, honesty, humor, and grace. What makes this book so powerful is the diversity of the stories shared within it. No two journeys through depression are exactly the same, and yet no one needs to travel alone. What a joy it is to see such an impressive assemblage of smart, talented, and creative writers speaking words of hope into the world!” —Rachel Held Evans, popular blogger and author of Evolving in Monkey Town.

Isn’t that great? It totally makes me want to read the other stories.

I never thought I’d be writing this openly about Depression (with a capital D), but this book is about exactly what I know, since starting this blog, to be so important: making people feel less alone.

[Read more…]

Filed Under: Better world, Happy things, Postpartum depression, Writing · Tagged With: , , , , , ,

Walking the TEDx Talk

September 11, 2011 by ·

Yesterday I presented at a TEDx event – the locally-organized versions of the well-known TED conferences. I’d like to share that experience with you and have been trying to figure out how best to do that. I was inclined towards a humble description of how it went, as in:

It went really well. 

It was a great experience. 

It was fun, and I’m really glad to have done it. 

You know what? Screw it.

Instead I will tell you this: I got up in front of a theatre full of people I don’t know – people from my local community who I might very well see on the street tomorrow – and told my story about postpartum depression and how blogging, with brutal honesty, about my breakdown not only helped me but helps others. I shared some excerpts from my posts here. I cried – not a little, a lot.

Here’s how it went: I got a standing ovation. And I am really damn proud of that.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the event and I certainly wasn’t sure about my place in it. I was honoured and totally excited to be asked to speak, and I was less nervous than you’d think about telling my story. What I did worry about was whether people would connect with it and whether I would be able to offer something for them to take away.

The organizers were supposed to give me time cues and they chose not to, so I went, er, slightly beyond my allotted six minutes. Judging by the response, the people – including men – in the audience who were crying, and the incredibly generous comments I got afterwards, I think I can safely say I managed to get my message across.

That’s not the only reason I’m proud of how it went. I’m proud because I did it in a way that was true to who I am. I knew I was going to cry – I couldn’t figure out any way around it. And I actually didn’t worry about it. My story, and my message that it’s okay to be a little bit vulnerable, it’s okay to remove our masks and be honest about our struggles, and that, in doing so, we might actually make the world a better place – that’s an intense sort of topic. You want people to be emotionally invested in what you’re asking them to do? Make them cry.

Making people cry wasn’t my goal, obviously. Making it okay for me to cry was my goal. Because that’s what happens when we open ourselves up to people and share the stories about the hard stuff and reveal that maybe – just maybe – we’re better off for having dealt with something difficult. We allow ourselves to be vulnerable. I was never okay with that before. I am SO okay with it now.

Those of us who put our words to these pages – who tell those hard stories and reveal our tears – know there’s beauty in the breakdown. We know we’re not alone. We know we will get support and that those who don’t support us perhaps just don’t understand.

I’ve seen this countless times on other blogs. My friends’ blogs. Your blogs. I’ve seen you share stories about hard things I never would have suspected had you not written about them. I’ve seen you be bravely, beautifully honest and then, just when I think all your cards are on the table, you lay down your hand and say, “This is what life dealt me. It’s not the hand I’d have chosen, but there’s no point hiding it so I’m going to play. I’m going to stay in the game and play, and if you care to read along with me I’ll share my strategy and you’ll see that you can win even when you get dealt a bad hand.”

That’s why I believe bringing together writing and technology is more than “blogging” and think those who dismiss what we do here underestimate the power of this art. This art has the power to break down barriers and borders. It has the power to make life better. It has the power to make lives better.

You know it, and I know it.

And I think it’s an idea worth spreading.

[Update: The video of my talk is now available.]


This is our very last week to make an impact for Be Enough Me 4 Cancer. Last week we had 45 people link up an enough-themed post in our Be Enough Me for Cancer campaign and I’d love it if you’d help us boost that number again. For every 20 linked up posts, Bellflower Books will provide a memory book to a woman fighting breast cancer through Crickett’s Answer for Cancer, and help bring a smile to courageous women giving it their all, every single day. The link-up remains open for three days. No blog? No worries. You can also comment on the post or on the Just.Be.Enough. Facebook page with your own story and be counted.

 

Filed Under: Be enough me, Better world, Happy things, Hello, Inspiration, Postpartum depression, Writing · Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

On the Move: Being a Theta Mom

August 26, 2011 by ·

Yes, I’m elsewhere again today, trying on a different hat. Yesterday I was scary, which was really fun, and I appreciate all the kudos for writing honestly about how hard it is to have a newborn.

If you’ve been around here before, you’ll know I’m all about telling it like it is.

If you’re new here, well, I’ll just send you right to the really hard stuff as an example of just how honest I’m willing to be. (And also, hi! Welcome.)

Yes, being a mom is great. But sometimes it also sucks. I figure we should be able to talk about that.

Heather created her site to be about the real deal when it comes to talking about motherhood, and my reaction when I first found her was, “Sign me up!”

Today I’m really happy to be guest posting over there about – what else? – blogging and the benefits of brutal honesty.

Come and visit!

Filed Under: Guest posts, Hard things, Motherhood, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , , ,

Postpartum Rage: My Story, Part 2

July 20, 2011 by ·

Part 1 is here.

My sweet baby wasn’t the only one who experienced my rage.

When my son was almost 18 months old I came very close to losing my marriage because my husband, by that point, was bearing the brunt of my anger and he’d had enough. He also knew more about my anger towards my son than I was aware of.

Hidden away, in a folder I don’t look at, I have an email from my husband in which he told me if I couldn’t get things under control he would leave and seek sole custody.

He’d have had every right to. And I wouldn’t have fought it, because I couldn’t have had even partial custody of my son and I knew it.

I had tried everything else. I had asked my husband to help me and when he said he felt like he couldn’t I felt abandoned.

I had gone instead to a counsellor, but it didn’t help.

I had enquired, casually, on several occasions at my doctor’s office, about medication. But I was so afraid of it. I was so afraid that even with my husband’s ultimatum it took me two months to finally get a prescription for antidepressants.

Once I got on medication things got a bit better. It took the edge off at least. But I was on a low dose and it didn’t do enough and I didn’t know enough to know I wasn’t better.

A year later, almost to the day, my husband and I had a rager of a fight precipitated by a tough time getting our son to sleep. We stood in our garage and yelled at each other. We screamed. And my husband is not a screamer.

I felt like he didn’t understand (and he didn’t but neither did I, though that’s a whole other post). I didn’t realize – couldn’t see – what the past 2 1/2 years had been like for him.

I thought that was it – the end of our marriage, the end of my family, the end of my experience as a mother.

I cried more that night than ever before in my life.

I thought I was going to have to walk away, so I stepped up to leave the garage. I had only taken a single step when he said it.

“I was in an abusive relationship for a year.” His voice full of anger, hurt, and fear.

I paused in what was both a split second and a whole lifetime, during which I went from wondering how I didn’t know this about him to realizing he meant me.

He meant me.

I walked out of the garage. I came very, very close to leaving the house and not coming back because I couldn’t imagine staying with someone who thought that about me. I had no idea what he was talking about, because I hadn’t seen it. All I could see was my own struggle.

There are large parts of the year prior I don’t remember at all. I have no recollection of how I treated him, but I have no doubt it was badly.

(Does he still think I was abusive? This question has been plaguing me for months. No, he says. We both went through something really awful but he knows it wasn’t intentional or something I could control.)

I don’t remember what happened in the month that followed either, but I know I started to think about everything differently.

In December I started seeing a counsellor who specializes in postpartum depression.

In January I started this blog.

In doing so, I was able to work through a lot of what I was feeling and reflect on things that I had put behind walls because they were too hard to deal with. And my husband got a better understanding of what I was feeling, some of which was easier for me to write than say out loud.

In March I started seeing a psychiatrist who changed my medication, noting that the dose I’d been on for over a year wasn’t even a therapeutic dose. It wasn’t enough to help me properly.

Following that medication change I went through what have been the hardest three months of my life so far, much of which has been documented here. I’ve finally dealt with my anger in a way that makes me able to almost be the mother I thought I would be. It took a very large breakdown and a leave of absence from work to do it though, and I still have things to work on.

But as best as I can describe it, that’s my experience with postpartum rage. Those who haven’t experienced it won’t understand. They may judge me and throw hateful comments at me. But I had to tell this story because it’s part of me. It’s true and it’s real. And those who have experienced it will understand, and will feel less alone.

 

Note: I’ve had to close comments on older posts due to the amount of spam coming through. I so appreciate your comments and am always happy to hear from you by email.  

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

Postpartum Rage: My Story, Part 1

July 19, 2011 by ·

This post has been sitting in draft for ages. If you count a blank page as a draft, that is.

It’s hard to know what to say. This is a very touchy topic and I’ll have to admit to some stuff that I’ve admitted to very few people. Plus it’s sort of buried because I’ve dealt with it – for the most part anyway – and I don’t want to dredge it back up again. And also because there are things I actually have no memory of.

I want to write about this, though. Postpartum rage is part of my experience. And it’s a term that ranks high in the list of search terms that bring people to my blog.

I wrote about it very briefly before but I didn’t really say much about it. Just that I experienced it and that it’s actually a common symptom of depression. A lot of moms experience it as part of PPD.

But the subject of rage and anger after having a baby is coming up more and more in conversations with people. So many moms I know are experiencing this. I can’t fix it for them, but I can let them know they’re not alone. So here goes.

Imagine a time you totally lost your temper. When you were so consumed by anger you felt it as a physical thing, adrenaline racing through your body and blocking out all rational thought. When your first instinct, as though it were primal, was to throw something so it would shatter into a thousand pieces and break whatever spell had overtaken you.

That’s what it felt like for me for much of my son’s first 2 1/2 years.

I was desperately sleep deprived. I had no patience. Anger was my constant companion.

It raised its ugly head when I had spent hours trying to get him to sleep only to have him immediately wake up screaming.

It brought me to tears when he woke up every half hour at night and I was so tired I wanted to die and had no idea how I was ever going to get through the night, never mind the next day.

It added to the exhaustion of trying to cope with and comfort a fussy baby.

It made me want to yell and scream. Sometimes I did.

It left me feeling without hope when he smiled and cooed and all I could think was that having a baby had been a mistake.

For months the inside of my head was screaming because I was so angry and I didn’t know what to do about it. I couldn’t throw the baby against the wall or out the window, though the physical urge to do so consumed me.

I spent many days worrying I would hit him and yet at the same time was sure I wouldn’t. Except (oh my god I’m going to admit it) one time I did. It was light – just a smack against his thigh on a really bad day when I had nothing left.

It made him cry.

I stood there in horror. And then I scooped him up and held him to me and cried with him.

Even then, I didn’t know what was wrong with me. And I didn’t ask for help because I was so scared to admit what was going on.

Having an infant is hard. I just kept waiting for it to get better, but – for me at least – that didn’t happen.

As my son got older and started to lack cooperation at the worst possible moment – writhing around in a poopy diaper, for instance – I found myself wanting to pin him to the table and force him, bodily, to lie still.

It simmered beneath the surface all the time, a bubbling pot of anger that threatened, every day, to spill over.

When I couldn’t take it I would summon my loudest inside-my-head voice and swear – at the universe, at his crying, at mine.

I swore at my inability to cope.

I swore at battling the same things, day after day after day.

I swore out loud some days, to myself, through my sobs, as my tears ran over my words and the guilt and misery and hopelessness that came with them.

I felt massively ripped off in my experience as a new mother. I still resent it. It still makes me cry.

When I went back to work when my son was 11 months old, I thought it would get better.

It didn’t.

To be continued...

 

Note: I’ve had to close comments on older posts due to the amount of spam coming through. I so appreciate your comments and am always happy to hear from you by email.

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