There I Was

Having a panic attack and a depressive episode rolled into one bad trip I had no intention of taking in the first place. My depression has now shifted into Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), and I basically told my therapist, "I'm done. I don't want to do this anymore."

"This" meaning dealing with things in my life, in general.

So my husband took me to a psychiatric hospital. And I voluntarily checked myself in. I was put on a ward where every woman had a different story, a different severity of symptoms, and yet we were in the same boat. First of all, if you're thinking something along the lines of Girl, Interrupted (I was), none of it was like that. And if you're thinking about places celebrities go to be pampered back to health, it was not like that either.

We were a group of a dozen women with different stories, yet these stories resonated with me, and we somehow all became a sisterhood. We GOT it. We had group therapy and I remember one woman talking about her marriage, her children, her life, and a huge flood of relief came over me. I wasn't alone. I wasn't weird or high maintenance. My concerns and feelings were valid.

And because we were all there for each other, supporting one another in it all, I went up to that woman afterward, looked into her teary green eyes, and thanked her wholeheartedly. I told her how much her story meant to me, that we were together in our emotions and thoughts. We hugged.

Y'ALL. WE HUGGED.

I am not a hugger. But I gave the most, and most sincere, hugs, that week. And before I went home,  I hugged her again. She was older than me, and I told her that she helped me so much. I appreciated her and the fact she was willing to be there for me. There are not many times when I can think of someone really being there for me. There for me in a way that helped, that calmed, that supported.

I hope we can still be in each others lives. Que sera sera.

If my husband didn't hate tattoos that would be my next one. That is something I want to know, deep in my bones.

Que sera sera.

It's November?!

November already? Really??

Honestly, even Halloween was barely a blip on my radar. I don't know when I went from normal-anxiety-level-I-deal-with-daily to HolyShitI'mNotTalkingToAnyone. But it happened and it happened fast. Thank goodness my husband picked up the slack (I felt so bad for ditching), and took BB trick or treating. At least as a quick homage, I put on some very dark purple lipstick. Which requires sandpaper to remove.

But I pull off Gothic so well.

Really, though. I get so many suggestions on how to remove stay-on matte lipstick and all that has ever worked for me is a wet, hot washcloth and vigorous scrubbing for a bit. And then my lips look all red and angry, and I no longer pull off any look, unless "is that contagious?" is a look.

But November! New month! I've been concentrating on months as new rather than waiting the whole year. Sometimes it feels a little overwhelming, but the trick is to set goals and if you aren't where you want to be the next month, then have the same goals. Until you get there. Wherever there is. Even if *there* is "I got out of bed just to get this energy drink."

My goal for this month is positivity. Like attracts like, and I want to attract positivity. So, self care is a must (difficult when you kind of just want to go to bed at 8 pm). And treating others with kindness (I'm from Texas. That's what we're known for. And Bar B Q). And generally try not to fall into the same traps. Avoid arguing if you can, but if you have to take a stand, do it from a place of love. Writing, journaling, blogging. Creative outlets instead of bottled emotions you keep hidden because you don't want people to hate you.

That's just me though. I'm the kind of person that feels like people hate me because I'm anxious or depressed. Mainly because what should be my support group views mental disorders as issues you could fix if you wanted to or just excuses to avoid things. It's almost 2020 and people are still stupid. Who knew?

Ooo, that last sentence was very much on the negative side. Um ... it's 2020 and some people need me in their lives to show them that mental disorders are actual illnesses instead of something I want to have because ice cream.

#stressedmom

Does anyone else get the feeling that they aren't doing enough? I see all of these Pinterest pins on DIY projects to do with your children, how to "strengthen" your bond, how to parent positively.

And of course, people say that comparing yourself to a standard that is hand picked for online usage is a crappy idea, but you still do it anyway? And feel like you're coming up short?

That's me. I have a standard MOM in my head that I try to reach and uphold at all times. And it's a very high standard. And it's fucking exhausting. I don't have time to do any chores, because I spend it with my son, cuddling, playing, napping. So my house is a wreck. Which stresses my husband out. And do you know what my MOM says? Stressed Momma and stressed Daddy equals stressed son.

Ok, MOM. Pick a fucking path and follow it. Chill out. Or deal with unhappiness.

Oh shit. Well, that's that question answered, isn't it?

To all the MOMs out there. Try to let go a little. Try to be happy for them. Try to show them chores and include your child/ren in them (or don't. My son tells me no.) Try to be a happy person for the other people whose happiness matters.

Wait.

Fuck that. Be happy however you need to be happy and the rest should follow...

EXPERIMENT TIME!!!! I'm going to try happy. As much as happy I can be. For a week. Let's see if I can do it, and see if anything changes. One week. Starting ...Now!

OK, Real Talk

I'm not sure what I thought this was going to go. For one thing, I had depression. I had depression before I was a mom, even before I was a mommy-to-be. I thought, well I might have postpartum depression, but it will be my depression plus a baby. That's do-able.

That's not do-able. Postpartum Depression is the shittiest thing my mind has ever come up with. I had very little energy, and a baby that needed all of it. Nights, in the beginning, were hell, so I slept whenever was possible. As BB got bigger, he still needed energy. He needed a responsible parent who somehow could convey that he was loved no matter what, and he needed to be fed REAL FOOD, and he needed friends.

Where the hell was I going to find time to write a blog? As soon as he went to sleep, I went to sleep. I was messing around with different medicines to try to control my depression and anxiety and insomnia, so my already low energy reserves was going toward keeping my head above water, whilst making sure my husband felt he was getting attention and my child was growing into a normal, non-evil BB.

And now, 3...years...later...

I want to put a goal down. Something I feel I can keep. Something that will make this blog seem useful instead of a waste of whatever time I, and you, have. 

That goal is once a week. One post. My thoughts and experiences with mental illness, child-rearing, married life, and spirituality. Yep, that last word was indeed "SPIRITUALITY".  Let's get crazy up in here! 

  

So, What Had Happened Was...

I broke my arm. 

No, seriously, my right arm, right above the elbow, the humerus bone (haha). It was less than funny. It hurt like a bitch. I remember being on the floor in the dark, kicking and screaming for my sleeping husband. What felt like a million years later, he tried to help me up.

"DON'T TOUCH, DON'T TOUCH ME!" Seriously, the kind of pain that makes you lose your mind and forget for a little bit what was happening next. We went to Urgent Care at 5 AM, where I got x-rays and a splint, then somehow some Orthopedic Surgeon was available RIGHT NOW and we had to go. It was not a small break, as my sister-in-law so eloquently put it. She should know. That girl has broken the most bones of anyone I know.

My arm had to remain immobile, completely, for weeks. How the hell does that work when your husband has a job to go to, and you have a two-year-old to watch? Well, thankfully, Husband is a computer programmer, so he could mostly work from home. We had to have the in-law's watch our child for 2 weeks. 2 WEEKS! Because you can tell a toddler Mommy has an owie, but he has no idea how to not touch the owie.

Those were some hard 2 weeks. Not just because I could see how stressed my husband was, but also because being without your child, while nice in small doses, was depressing. I missed him. He missed me. My arm still needed to be mostly immobile, but with a cast and a sling, I agreed my son needed to be home with me.

Currently, I have a brace, which is removable. I'm still supposed to manage my arm situation, but it seems a little less terrifying. I mean, when I first saw the surgeon, he was talking possible surgery (shocking, I know, coming from a surgeon and whatnot). But I have a severe allergy to hospitals and needles and anything that makes it to where I have to put up with lime jello.

My entire point with this post is to blame my non-posting ways to a broken arm. Yeah. That's why.   

Wagon Crafter

I've always taken my son on neighborhood walks, ever since he was a tiny baby in a pouch on my chest. Something about being outside always seemed to calm him, even when he was screaming his head off. But at some point, your baby gets too big for the pouch.

And even though he can walk, his "stay out of the road" instincts aren't that great. He's not quite tall enough to comfortably hold my hand, and I got a little leash, but soon discovered that he could still throw a tantrum on the sidewalk in full view of neighbors if I didn't let him go where he wanted: in front of cars.

So, next best thing. Foldable red wagon, with extendable handle, two cup holders, and three storage straps, plus the ability to zip down into a bench. The cremé de la cremé of red wagons. It came, I saw, I fucking conquered.

Basically, I got bored one day, so I ripped that big box open and pulled out instructions, parts, and the wagon itself. Then I went in search of tools. Hammer, wrench, and Phillips screwdriver all laid out, I glanced every once in awhile at the pictures in the instruction booklet, and got to work. 45 minutes later, et voila! A wagon that makes me speak French.

I don't know about anyone else around here, but there is something extremely satisfying in doing something with your hands and making a workable object that will serve a purpose in your life.

A few days later, and our first neighborhood wagon walk began. We pointed out trucks, cars and colors. I pointed out plants and garden decorations. I also was attacked by the traitorous wagon; it hit the back of my shoe. I went down to the sidewalk on my knee and forearm. My leggings ripped, my knee bled, but as long as I am not seriously injured, I tend to play things like that off in front of my son. No big deal. Mommy fell, Mommy got back up.

The next day - bigger deal. My knee hurt; my arm was very sore; and today, my upper back was sore as well. Nothing a little Advil plus Tylenol can't take care of. In any case, my son loved the ride. I loved the exercise. The sidewalk loved me. Good times were had by all.

It's Been So Long

I have suffered from depression for years. After a diagnosis at 14, I've struggled to find ways to cope and medications to help. After the Mac truck that was anxiety hit me at about 18, I thought I couldn't handle any worse. Rock bottom.

Lol nope!

I have a small degree in psychology, so I know that women who already suffer from clinical depression have a higher chance of suffering from post-partum depression. So my already horrible depression worsened. I didn't think it was possible. But it was. The proof was in the...fact that I didn't enjoy anything. I lost weight fast and kept it off. Let me tell you what the best diet plan is: be super depressed, therefore blocking your ability to enjoy food. You literally eat when your body says, "if you don't feed me soon, you might pass out."

So, now my son is 2 years old and I found a medication that is helping. I hope that it will continue to help until I can rebuild some neural pathways that are much healthier than my current ones. For example, yesterday something bad made me frustrated. When I was depressed, that would be something I fixated on: I'm frustrated, I'm frustrated, I'm frustrated. Then it would increase: I'm mad, I'm upset, the whole day is the worst.

But instead I told myself, "I'm frustrated, that was annoying. What can I do about it? Well obviously I need to find a healthy outlet for frustration. I feel like punching someone in the throat. Oh, that's even more annoying, etc." So my day wasn't the best, but before I used to think, THIS IS THE WORST, and now I think, IDEA: PUNCHING BAG!

Currently, I am upset. I laughed a couple of days ago, genuine laughter where I actually felt happy, for the first time in two years. And food tastes fucking delicious! Working out makes me feel accomplished and satisfied. But...

I MISSED the JOY of experiencing a true bond with my son. I played, I tickled, I tried to make him feel loved, but something in me wasn't letting me really feel it. For two years. I want to cry. I want to cry for him, because he deserved a mommy that was better than I could be. I want to cry because I missed so much in his life because I couldn't cope. And now, I want to get every last drop while I can. Because sometimes, a switch flips, and the medication no longer helps.

God, I hope it doesn't stop. I don't want to be HER; I want to be ME. I want to know and love and experience with my son. Please, just let this last [you know, just to whoever up there is listening].