global mental health

I’m back from the annual Marda Loop Justice Film Festival, hosted by our church here in Calgary. Jem and I went to watch a film called Hidden Pictures which takes a look at global mental health. It was directed by Delaney Ruston, who shares snapshots of the faces mental illness can take on in countries around the world. You can read more about it and watch a trailer here: http://www.hiddenpicturesfilm.com/

Let me tell you first of all that it meant a lot that my husband wanted to come to that film with me. Christie and I are planning to do a series of entries on the best and worst ways to support someone with a mental illness. Showing concern and interest--enough interest to educate yourself about mental illness--is one of the best ways to support someone. Educate yourself, and keep an open mind about it. My husband is an incredible example. Before he married me, he did not have personal experience with mental illness, and he certainly could have come with a lot of preconceptions, and yes, even stigma. But he showed so much grace and empathy and understanding. There were many times I was surprised to hear him voice more clearly than I could have what I was thinking. He kept an open mind, chose to believe that I was still the same woman he married, and was able to see the illness for what it was: an illness, and no choice of mine.

Jem and I came away from the film with a lot to think about, and I came away with a lot of blog material!

This film highlighted the fact that mental illness is not just a first world problem. I've encountered this attitude, one that says essentially: “Your mental disorder is just a 'first-world problem'—the type of pseudo-problem rich people in rich countries like to complain about because they have no other reasons to complain.” That attitude hurts. And it’s just plain wrong. Delaney travels all over the world, including India, South Africa, China, and France, and she finds people suffering with severe mental illness everywhere. I think this shows once again what doctors are telling us: that mental illness is biological, and not just a mental and cultural construct.

Another significant point for me in this film was Delaney's visit to South Africa, where she met a woman who had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. When this woman initially experienced distressing symptoms, her first reaction was to go to a local healer. Traditionally, many Africans interpret every event or situation in life as having a spiritual cause. If an individual gets sick, they wonder who might be jealous of them, who might want to put a curse on them. This South African woman understood her illness in the context of evil and curses. She went to a traditional healer for herbs and incantations that would stop the curse, but it didn't help. Her symptoms only got worse. She finally decided to seek medical help. The effect of the medication she received was immediate, she said, and she is today symptom-free.

Sometimes I think we need what seems to us the blatant errors of another culture to help us see our own cultural blind spots. In Africa, mental illness is overly spiritualized. Often, those with mental illnesses are ostracized, fringe individuals who make easy targets for accusations of witchcraft.

We might not realize it, but our culture, particularly our Christian church culture, also tends to over-spiritualize mental illness. We may not look for the witch who cursed the sick person, or accuse the mentally ill of witchcraft, but we see mental illness as essentially a spiritual problem. A person with an illness like diabetes or cancer will have the freedom to talk about their illness without being judged for being sick. Their church friends will pray for the doctors to have wisdom, for the medications to work, for healing. A person with severe depression on the other hand often faces disapproval and blame, and suggestions that they could be free from depression if they only trusted God more, or read the Bible more, or prayed more. The mentally ill receive prayer not for healing, for treatment, for restoration of the chemical brain balance, but for spiritual deliverance.

When I was first in the hospital for an eating disorder, I was told that I might be under demon oppression. The story I believed was that the obsession with food and weight loss was sin, and I needed to repent and be forgiven. This story filled me with constant guilt and made the recovery that much more complicated. The better, truer story, the story my family and the medical community graciously told me again and again was that I had fallen ill, I had no control over it, and I needed to heal.

This time, when panic attacks, OCD and an anxiety disorder set in, the story told to me was similar: worrying is sinful. Fear is not of God. You are not trusting God as you ought. You clearly don’t believe that He is sovereign and in control. You have allowed the sinful attitude of worry to control your life.

This is not the full or true story of mental illness! Thankfully I and my husband Jem were a little more ready to tell myself the fuller story this time. No, fear and worry are not of God, but we live in a fallen world. The surge of strange hormones and chemicals from the pregnancy had set off the balance in my brain, and filled me with fear and panic. The terrifying experience of a horrendous bout of fever and dehydration during pregnancy, away from my husband and any medical safety nets I was used to had also affected my brain, and I believe left me dealing with some Post Traumatic Stress. It was not my choice to live in fear, but this, as with any other struggle or pain, is an opportunity for me to learn to trust God more.

I had to fight hard for faith. While fear and guilt flooded, I clung to the cross of Christ. And I prayed for healing and sought medical help, just as Christians affected by a variety of illnesses have done for centuries.

Yes, chronic anxiety is a spiritual issue, but only to the same extent as any illness, or any factor of our lives is spiritual. We are spiritual beings, living in a world full of spiritual forces. But as Jesus and Job teach us, sickness is never a necessary indication that we are being disciplined for sin, nor that we are lacking in spiritual disciplines. The Church is far more likely to acknowledge this idea in the face of "normal," "physical" illnesses. The very term "mental illness" suggests that it is NOT physical, and people assume that anything "mental" can be controlled by the spirit of the individual. While we are spiritual beings, we are also physical beings, meaning our spirits and minds are all tangled up in our bodies. So yes, mental illness is mental and spiritual AND physical.

So please, if you know someone who is mentally ill, tell them the true story. And if you have been diagnosed with a mental illness, tell yourself the true story. An illness is never someone's choice, and a mental illness is not an indication of an underlying spiritual issue any more than any "normal" "physical" illness.

THE DOCTOR WHO SAVED ME

When I first met the doctor who would deliver my baby and walk me through some of the worst moments of my life I thought she was unapproachable, lacking in bedside manners, abrupt and superior. My prenatal care was done through a practice rather than by just one doctor or midwife. It meant that I saw all of the doctors only once or twice, and of all the doctors I had met, I absolutely did not want her in the delivery room. I found her to be rude, I felt like she ignored A., and talked down to me. When I found out she was the doctor on call when I went into labor I took a deep breath and said to myself "It doesn't matter, she's only here to catch the baby, just focus on the nurses." And in spite of my first impressions, I quickly realized that she was probably the best person to have walked into the delivery room early that morning.

She was encouraging right from the start and no matter what issue I have going into her office - whether it's a silly first-time-mom concern about the color of my baby's poop (yes, while there is more to that story, I'm ashamed to say I am that mom) or a much more real concern about my baby's lips turning blue, or about my depression - she always listens and takes everything seriously and checks everything thoroughly and never makes me feel stupid. She even called me two days after N. was born to see how I was doing. I'm guessing that's not typical.

She's also the one that made me realize just how serious my depression was. I remember worrying for days leading up to my appointment that she wouldn't take me seriously. That was always a huge worry for me: I felt that I might be blowing things out of proportion and someone was going to tell me that every mom feels this way, I would just have to deal with it. Turns out I was very much under-blowing. I explained that I was tired all the time, that I couldn't focus, that I would get frustrated, angry even, and be totally unable to cope. I told her that I'd been very close to hurting my daughter, and that I thought about suicide. After she consulted with the psychiatrist on call and pulled some strings to get me an appointment (I was later informed by the psychiatrist that I was "one of the lucky ones who gets to see a psychiatrist in three days"... somehow I didn't really feel lucky) she sat down with A. and I to discuss how to keep me and Baby safe. And suddenly I was exposed to the gravity of the situation. She told us I was not to be alone, ever, and certainly not alone with Little Nae. In fact, she even suggested that I was not to be up wandering the house while A. was sleeping. It was like being hit over the head with a baseball bat and sucker-punched in the stomach all at the same time.

I am a danger to my daughter.

It hit me hard and fast.

And it hurt.

But she didn't leave it at that. The three of us worked out a solution for the following week, and she wrote Adam a note so that he could take some time off. And as I cried in her office she told me "It's not your fault, we'll get you through this. You aren't a bad mother, I've never seen anything to make me think that you wouldn't do everything you could for your daughter. We just need to get this sorted out so that you can enjoy being a mom."

Today we talked about the medications and how they were working, I told her I wasn't interested in going off of them any time soon. The depression  has been awful for me, and I don't want to go back to that all-consuming darkness ever again. She agreed and told me that people with just a "little depression" (implying that mine was definitely not "little") should typically stay on the medication for six to nine months. She told me that I might want to consider staying on the Cipralex through my next pregnancy and postpartum period. I hadn't expected that, so we'll have to see how things go. While we were talking about the severity of my PPD here's what she said about depression, and I think it was very well put: "People think depression is just all in a person's head, but it's not. It's a chemical and hormonal thing. It takes over your life, it's all-consuming. There's nothing you can do, it just pulls you deeper and deeper."

So to anyone who might be going through PPD or other forms of depression, find a doctor who will listen to you, advocate for you, and truly care about your healing. It makes such a big difference.

One last thing... my doctor has a funny little quirk: She loves shoes... today she was wearing cute shimmery red heels with ribbon laced through them. I love it!

Packing Frenzy

We're packing today. I hate packing. For so many reasons, I absolutely despise packing. I don't like leaving a place I've gotten comfortable in. I hate saying goodbye. The finality of putting everything in bags and boxes is incredibly stressful. The list of things to do before leaving is always endless, never all ticked off, always of utmost importance.

And it drives me crazy when all my stuff gets jumbled together.

All the clean things touch the not-so-clean things, and the not-so-clean things touch the not-so-dirty things and the dirty things, and everything gets squished together into boxes and suitcases. Then the boxes and bags get dragged all over the floor, then outside, and then touch each other in the car, and whoever is packing handles it all and then touches door knobs and handles and shoes and hand bags and maybe even the baby's car seat, or the baby....

I do my best to keep on top of it all. I pack the 'dirty' stuff on its own, in disposable bags that can be thrown away at the other end. I arm myself with Ziploc bags: everything 'very clean' goes into its own Ziploc. But I don't have enough Ziplocs for all the 'just clean' stuff, so that ends up touching the 'not-so-clean' stuff. My frustrated mind accuses and whirrs excitedly: when I unpack, I probably won't wash my hands between touching the outsides of the plastic bags and taking the 'very clean' items out... or at least, I shouldn't.

And no matter how quickly I zip around the house or how frantically I talk and explain what can't touch what, or even how fast I do or don't wash my hands between all the categories of 'clean' and 'not-so-clean,' there is no way I will preempt every possible packing/touching faux-pas that my poor husband will, very innocently, make.

And that, my friends, is why I hate packing. 

I Am Slowly Going Crazy....

I just re-read that title... I should be offended at myself! ;) It's just that I've had that song in my head all day. If you aren't familiar, it's a little Sharon, Lois and Bram song from my childhood:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pygwaX2VNzQ

Now you have it in your head! You're welcome.

It's one of those days... My precious, darling, baby girl did not get the memo. She did not get the memo that it was the end of daylight savings time (C'mon, Kiddo, an extra hour of sleep would have been wonderful!) She also did not get the memo that it would be a snow day. We got 30+ cm of snow (that's about 12 inches for you Americans) here since yesterday, and it's still falling (although much less now). So taking her outside is pretty well out of the question. Our stroller is pretty amazing, but I'm not sure that even it would manage in that amount of snow. 

So little miss ball of energy has been unstoppable today! She managed to break a glass bowl put nicely out of her reach, dump a glass of water all over her lunch, the solution to which required putting her safely on the floor, where she proceeded to spread her sticky-icky hands all over my freshly washed floor. And then she learned to climb!

So we moved on to sorting Mom's recipes... yeah- that didn't last very long either:

Now she's napping and I just finished shoveling those 30 cm of snow off our sidewalk. Today I am grateful we do not have a driveway! That was the wettest, heaviest snow I have ever shoveled, I think.

Okay, so the point of this post wasn't just to share cute pictures of my daughter and a silly song. The point is that - while the day isn't over and it is possible I'll melt into a ball of anxiety later this evening (that still happens)- I'm functioning at a high enough level to deal with N.'s antics and I have the energy to shovel all that snow. My cheeks are pink, my arms are sore, but my heart is glad in my Lord!

Gentle, Gentle

We always tell our babies "Gentle, gentle."

Deep breath.

Please be gentle.

We want this to help others, so we have to let it go.

Maybe the worst tragedy of struggling with battles like these would be if NOTHING good ever came of it. Knowing our God, we are certain that will not be the case (Romans 8:28). Hopefully this blog will be part of the good.

Christie here: I've been thinking about letting this blog go for a while now. I've let the net out slowly, first with A. then J., then the rest of my family. It seems as though the general consensus is that I should make this public. I'm shaking a little bit inside, but I know how much something like this - support from someone going through the same situations- would have helped me, so here I go.  If you can only read a little bit here are three posts I think would sum up what I've been going through for the last several months. These are my most vulnerable posts. Gentle, gentle.

1) The Why
2) Yet another breaking point
3) Ambivalence

J: My battle was never really a secret: the panic attacks were too obvious, the constant terror too clearly etched on my face and in my body language. I discovered that more people understood than I expected, and that it doesn't help myself or anyone else to keep my struggles secret. I didn't tell everyone, but if someone asked how I was doing, I was honest about it. Many people were helpful. Some were not. Many had been through something similar, and recognized the look on my face, the tension in my body. Others did not understand, but tried to understand, and offered their help. I was tremendously blessed. I want to pass some of that blessing along to others, and hope to do that through this blog.

My introductory post is here:

1)It's Me, Not OCD

And although it's a bit long, if you want to know how my brain works on OCD, the following would be the best post to read:

2) Fish and Fear

Also, take a look at our All about us page for a little more information on who we are and a quick summary of what our journeys have been like.

Blessings from both of us!

Fish and Fear

I've been writing a lot lately about victorious living. I'd definitely prefer to write about the good stuff, but honesty demands a fuller picture. This is a rather long post. If you are at all curious about the way my mind works, or what it's like to live with OCD, or rather, to live getting over OCD, this is my attempt to give you a deeper look. I also touch on ERP (Exposure Response Prevention), the treatment that has allowed me to get past some of the fear-paralysis. But if you aren't interested, or if you're too busy just now for a long read, I'm not a bit offended. So, with that caveat, here goes:

A few days ago, I decided to face one of my fears and cook up some fish. Yes, fish--the stuff the Japanese and Dutch and Swedes and Norwegians all eat raw. I'm horrified of anything raw; don't ask me why: I know that ultimately, the fear is irrational, but irrational or not, I'll still find reasons, and writing about them only solidifies them for me. I’m also aware of the risk that someone else with contamination OCD might be reading this, and would not need more reasons to be afraid of stuff! (Having said that, if you are in the worst throes of contamination OCD, and you aren't supposed to even be on the internet right now, please don't read this. Contamination OCD is notorious for piggy-backing on anyone else’s hint of a suggestion of a fear).

Anyway, I took on the fish challenge. I'd had quite a bit of success taking on challenges in the kitchen: dealing with raw veggies, cooking potatoes, eggs, ground beef, steak. This ERP (Exposure Response Prevention) isn't easy and doesn't change things quickly, but with lots of practice, I've been seeing changes in my levels of anxiety.

Here, just a quick explanation of ERP (Exposure Response Prevention). Basically, the idea is that actions determine belief. If I act like I'm terrified of something, I'll believe that it really is dangerous. It's strange, I think I always assumed it was the opposite: that beliefs determined actions. But I've discovered lately how very potent the causal connection is between action and belief. The more I clean and avoid things "just in case" it could possibly cause disease, the more completely certain I become that it will. So instead, ERP is me forcing myself to face the fears, do the dreaded, and practice living AS THOUGH I believed that these things are not, in fact, dangerous.

The goal with ERP is to stay with the feared object or activity until anxiety decreases to a manageable level. For me, this never happens in a single cooking session, so I will have to re-visit fish probably a dozen or more times before it stops causing me horrendous anxiety. That's life with ERP.

The practice session was brutal, and I have to admit, I did not do very good ERP. First, I spent hours on the internet trying to ensure that the type of fish my dad had bought was in the lowest mercury category (seeking assurance on the internet is one of the worst of my obsessions). At the time, I don't think I really realized I was seeking assurance again, but once I had visited about a dozen sites that all said opposite things about my fish, it finally clicked that I was doing it again. So I got my hubby to take over. He found one reliable site, and confirmed that this fish would be fine. ERP-wise, I probably shouldn't have even checked. What's one little meal of fish slightly higher in mercury than the lowest possible…? But sometimes ERP has to go in stages....

Anyway, once I'd determined that this fish was actually going to get cooked, I had to thaw it. The package said to thaw it in the fridge for 4-6 hours. Typical for my OCD, I had to follow the directions exactly, so I put the frozen fish in the fridge precisely 6 hours before I wanted to get it into the oven.

Well, 6 hours later it wasn't anywhere close to thawed. My mom pointed out that she always thaws fish on the counter, but of course I couldn't, because the package said to thaw in the fridge! There it is: OCD is all about RULES.

Since it was frozen, I had to handle it to break it up. It would only be the second time I'd touched raw meat since before the OCD flared. I took a deep breath, turned the tap on BEFORE I got my hands fishy, and got it over with. A few minutes later, after I'd dried my hands, put the fish in the oven, adjusted my apron, and gone on to chopping vegetables, the panicked thought hit: "Did I really wash my hands? Or did I do it well enough? And even if I did, what if some germs from the fish splashed up onto my arms while I was washing my hands...?" This kind of thing is perfectly run-of-the-mill for my brain on OCD. And it is exhausting, agonizing. But I've learned that the only way to deal with it is to at least pretend to ignore it. So I kept chopping vegetables. But I was crying and shaking, and there were no onions in sight. I wept through the rest of the meal prep, but I kept going. I dreaded the time when I'd have to pick up my baby, wondering if there was nasty toxic fish juice all over myself, but I didn't run for the shower. I just kept cooking and crying. Then the fear turned a slight corner: what if I do run for the shower? I've done all this ERP work, and I am so close to breaking down, quitting, changing all the towels and aprons in sight, and going to have a shower. But if I do, all this hard work and anxiety would be for nothing. But if I don't, I'll be even more anxious.... But if I do, this won't ever get any better.... And on and on....

By the time supper was supposed to be finished, I was exhausted and as tense as a bad sewing machine, and the fish still wasn't cooked. It was in the oven, sitting in a liter or so of liquid from thawing. At this point, I got offers of help from several directions: my mom, my dad, my hubby. But I couldn't even answer; my mind was frozen as the fish had been. When I get anxious, I can't think, I can't talk, I can't even comprehend what people are saying to me. So I just kept going as best I could. My mom suggested pouring the liquid off the fish so that it would cook faster, but I was terrified, certain that there was no way I could do that without splashing raw fish juice everywhere. So my mom did that for me.

Dinner was finally on the table, and my little lily had to be picked up. I did it, somehow, and even nursed her after supper without changing my clothes. That was a couple weeks ago, and she did not get sick!

But I haven't tried cooking fish again.

Eggs, laundry, a newly crawling baby, packing, PMS, and a road trip would be enough challenges for the next little while....

Happy Ebenezer Thanksgiving

I love Christie's Thanksgiving post. You've just got to read it: Dedicated to God. She's broken and mended, heart-breakingly honest and victoriously joyful.

I also have a very  belated Thanksgiving post.

During our Ebenezer celebration day (see Raising Ebenezer), we took some pictures. It was all about remembering and commemorating how far God has brought us. I thought I'd post a few of these, so that you too, can see and celebrate. I can take no credit for any of this--it is all God. To some of you, these pictures will seem insignificant, though perhaps very cute. But these everyday scenes represent tremendous freedom for us. Thanks be to God!

Jem and I made a carrot cake together. All the carrots, grated and oozing bright juice:

A few months ago, I would have been horrified if someone even brought a carrot, or any other vegetable for that matter, into our house. And baking, with eggs? Forget it! But Jem and I actually baked our carrot cake without arguing about the spread of germs around the kitchen.

Then, we took our baby girl to the park. 

Now, if you can possibly imagine, there was a time when sitting down on anything in public would have been a huge inner struggle for me, never mind enjoying a public playground. The first time we finally brought lily to a park, I took along baby wipes and wiped out the baby swing several times, then wouldn't let Jem throw the wipes in a nearby garbage can for fear he'd somehow accidentally touch the garbage. 

(This picture is actually from last month, when the weather was warmer. Forgot our camera the most recent time, but we take her to parks often now. She loves the swings.)

Here is our little lily, enjoying a swing, quite public and quite un-wiped: 

pure enjoyment

We wanted to have a picnic lunch outside, but the neighbours were burning something or other and the smoke was a bit unpleasant. So, we picnicked on the living room floor. Notice please the lack of picnic blanket,

the food directly on the floor...

and even, the baby directly on the floor!

And yes, that's my baby, eating her cheerios off the carpet!

Once the smoke outside cleared, we took a woven grass mat my parents brought back from Africa, and sat out on the grass to enjoy one of the last warm-ish fall days. Little lily loves being outside. 

I don't know how clean the mat was. But I figured the germs would be dry and dead along with the grass. ;-)

...

While we were sitting outside, I did some drawing. I've been enjoying pencil sketching in the last few months. I don't have a lot of time for it with a baby to take care of! But when I do get the time I've found that drawing is like getting outside for a breath of fresh summer air. I breathe freedom and clear thoughts during the hours spent drawing. The obsessive thoughts leave me alone for a little while.

As part of my ERP (Exposure Response Prevention. I'll write more about that in future posts), I've tried drawing feared objects or situations. It takes quite a lot of self-control to sit and stare at something that seems really scary, in fairly close proximity to it, or even to handle it enough to set up an interesting composition. I've found that it does eventually help to lower my anxiety around that specific object or scenario. So, here I decided to draw my dad's gardening shoes and paraphernalia:

Once my parents came home, we got ready for a date, and left lily with two very pleased grandparents.

On the drive into town, the sun was setting and the sky was magnificent. The sunset wasn't just behind us to the east, but in front and all around us as well. The whole sky was blazing hot pink. This picture is really pitiful, but I had to try!

No way to do that sunset justice through photography

Jem took me to the best restaurant in Moose Jaw, and we had their special--crab legs dipped in hot butter. Wow.

See?!  I can eat with my fingers now! Sea food, no less! And I even used their public washroom to wash my buttery, fishy hands afterward.

Jem gave me a beautiful gift that evening. Here's a picture of it! One of the most beautiful things I have. It matches my engagement ring! He told me it is to remind me always that God is our Ebenezer.

Here I wear my Ebenezer!

Note my hand is quite smooth! Just as a point of comparison, here's a picture of my hands at one of my worst points, all swollen, red, raw and cracked from too much scrubbing (the picture really doesn't show how very bad they were):

So there you have it--our Ebenezer celebration. Some of you who have suffered through a mental illness, or any illness for that matter, may recognize the need to celebrate the small, and big, advances. I believe this is a very good thing to do, that as children of God, we ought to celebrate often and lavishly His work in our lives.

Thanksgiving is here, and what a perfect time to do just that.

Thanks be to God!

Dedicated to God

Okay, so Thanksgiving was a couple weeks ago now, but this was tucked away in the drafts, not quite finished until now.
 
Happy Thanksgiving!

We're heading home after a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend with both sides of our family. It's not very often that in-law families spend much time together (at least that's the case with our family). Typically we see my family or A.'s family, but not both at the same time. But this Thanksgiving  was kind of special. We decided to dedicate our daughter in the presence of both sides of our family at my mother-in-law's house. We even managed to get almost everyone there either physically or by Skype and Facetime.

We had a lovely meal prepared by my wonderful mother-in-law and were able to visit and catch-up a little bit with both sides of the family. Then we had a little brief ceremony (N. was mighty cranky, of course), led by my dad, to dedicate our daughter. I also wrote this little letter to her:

Dearest N.,
   Our sweet girl, our joy, our pleasantness. We are so blessed to have you in our life. It seems so appropriate that we should dedicate your life to God on a day dedicated to thanksgiving. We thank God everyday for your bright smile, tinkling laughter and huge, wonderful personality. You have, on more than one occasion been a bright light on a dreary day. I pray that as you grow God will use you, and all of your wonderful little personality for his glory.
   Dear N., understand that we will make mistakes: We will expect too much and notice too little. But, I pray that with God's help we might be able to show you his unending, never-stopping, never-giving up, always and forever Love and that you will know that love and show it to others.
   Over your crib reads part of this verse from Ephesians 3: 14-18

"For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, that according to the riches of his glory he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being,  so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith—that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. "

This truly is our prayer for you. We believe that, as you understand and truly grasp God's love, his goodness and grace, his joy and peace will flow out of you. You just won't be able to stop it. May God bless you, our sweet little girl.

 This weekend was important for another reason, too: It was a bit of a milestone for me. At my lowest I remember thinking about this weekend and desperately wanting to be able to be there to dedicate her life to God. I didn't think I would be able to make it any longer, though, and so I had made a plan to end my life that weekend. It was morbidly ironic, and I recognized that, but I just doubted my strength to make it through. But the weekend came and went with hardly a thought about death. So I have much for which to be thankful; my daughter, my husband, our family, my life - spared but for the grace and sustenance of our Lord - and so much more...

Christie

Raising Ebenezer

The other day, my husband Jem and I had a celebration. We have much to celebrate: walks outside, fall leaves, haircuts, hollow tree trunks, playgrounds, music, picnics, carpet, grass, garden tools, shoes, grapes, carrot cake, sea food, finger food, a fancy restaurant, grape tomatoes, the library, cuddles on the couch... all things that just a few months ago, OCD had not allowed me to enjoy or do.

We called it our Ebenezer celebration day. You know the old hymn, "Come Thou Fount." The second verse begins with:

"Here I raise my Ebenezer.
Hither by thy help I've come;
And I hope by thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home."

Tucked back in 1 Samuel, there is a story of a battle between the Israelites and the Philistines. It was not an absolute victory. It was not to be their final battle with their enemies. But it was significant, and Samuel needed to commemorate it. He set up a rock, a monument, and called it, "Ebenezer," which means "Rock of Help." "So far," he said, "God has helped us" (see 1 Samuel 7:12b). It would stand as a lasting memorial of God's power to help, and evidence that He would help again.

Ebenezer--Rock of Help. I have arrived. I do still fee like I'm still in the battle, like Israel with the Philistines, and I fear fresh outbreak of war each day,...

Yet, God has subdued my enemies. They hold no power over me. Niether the fear, nor the anguish of anxiety, nor the fear of fear is victor. Christ is Victor, and with Him, so am I.

"Looking deeply at our royal lineage, we see that we are of the highest royal line.... We need rush nowhere else to get it. We mainly need to attentively relax and dissolve the amnesia that obscures our true identity" (Tilden H. Edwards, quoted in Benson and Benson, 1989, p. 69).

It takes courage to attentively relax in the midst of what I still experience as a raging battle. It means I let down my guard a bit. It means I celebrate partial advance, and risk being embarrassed later by apparent defeat, retreat. But if I don't celebrate, if I don't commemorate, I miss the grace along the way. I miss the process by which God makes me who I am created to be.

So child of God, don't forget who you are. You are not your fear. He brought this pain into your life to make you "more than conqueror" (Romans 8:37). Embrace the pain--it is your enemy's weapon turned against himself. Pain, the enemy's sharp sword, glittering, raised by Christ in your conquering hand. God raising you up in victory.

Here I raise my Ebenezer. "So far, God has helped me."

J

IT'S ME, NOT OCD

Hi, it's J here. This is my first post for this blog, and I'm really excited about doing this project with my sister. When she asked me to join her in this blog venture, I felt so honored, and so loved. A philosophy professor of mine used to say that "love is a collaborative art project". I am getting to experience that truth-metaphor in so many dimensions with Christie.

I've been thinking a lot about what I should say in my first post. Where do I start? I could start with the birth of my baby, my little lily. I could start with my vow to protect her. I could start with my debt to my husband's tenderness, and firmness. I could start with the sushi we had three days after lily was born that caused me so much anguish. I could start long before her birth, with the paralysis of fear, the panic attacks, the guilt and depression. I could start with the scary stomach bug picked up overseas, being pregnant and frightened and burning up with fever in a foreign country, with no reliable doctor around that I knew of, no pharmacy, no midwife, and no husband. I could start with the false pregnancies and false hopes and false starts. I could start with the possible miscarriage. I could even start over a decade ago, with an eating disorder and long bout with depression. I could start with an uprooted and uncertain childhood.

But no matter where I start, no matter how far back I go, I won't be able to explain how I got where I am, who I am or why, because I am a lot more than the sum of my characteristics and experiences.

I had to discover the depth and complexity of identity in order to get over an eating disorder. I had to realize that I had been looking for my identity in the sum of past experience. I'd always been "the skinny girl," so I had to keep on being it, and be perfect at it: the perfect skinny, which in my mind was a particular number on the scale. I had to realize that was not my identity. I could not be "the skinny girl" any longer, not if I wanted to be the joyful fellowshiper with God I knew I was meant to be.

Perinatal depression, anxiety and OCD were like a bottomless vortex, sucking me in whole. Every aspect of my life and identity narrowed to one swirling point of fear. I am struggling to the surface slowly now, and it's still scary, often agonizingly so. Along with all the pain and fear and questions, there is a dark, confusing undercurrent--the question: "Who will I become now?" I don't know who I am anymore. I'm not the brave, adventurous missionary-type I thought I was--I wanted to be. I'm not the fun-loving, totally cool mom I dreamt of being. I'm not the spicy, spunky wife.

I can't help but wonder, am I a germophobe? Am I a neat freak? Am I OCD?

And I know the answer is the same as it was when the battle was with an eating disorder: NO! That is the illness, the tormentor, the enemy. I must not and will not be branded by it. OCD is not me.

So perhaps, I must again find out who I am NOT in order to find out better who I am--"some glimpse, some revelation, some wisdom, some authority to tell [me my] right name and [my] true destination."*

I'm like Jacob, wrestling and struggling to be blessed by my true name (Gen 32:24-31). The struggle bent and re-shaped his life forever, and it will do the same to me. He became "Israel"--"God-wrestler," limping through life, forever marked and reminded of that night, night of striving, fruitlessly pouring out strength, fruitful only in the final defeat.

Thinking about the story of Jacob in Gen 32, and about my struggles lately, I wrote this prayer in my journal:

"O Lord, You have touched me and thrown my life out of joint. Bless me now, Lord! Bless me by my true name, my true meaning. What do I mean, Lord? Please begin to tell me now, as the sun rises slowly. And not just who I am, but who are You? Who do I wrestle with? What will You do to me? What mark will You leave on me, unmistakably Yours, to forever brand me, forever identify me only in relation to You."

*Emily Griffin, quoted in Disciplines for the Inner Life, by Bob Benson, Sr. and Michael W. Benson, p. 24. (I've been going through this devotional book lately. It is mainly a compilation of readings from well known, and not so well known, Christian writers. I will likely make reference to it in other blog posts). 

Headaches, hospital, and hope

So I thought I should give a bit of an overview of my stay in the hospital, and then I should be able to move on to newer and (hopefully) better things. I'm sorry if it seems jumbled, there's lot to talk about, but I'll try to make it short-ish.

Like I mentioned before, I got a headache the week I was hospitalized. I really do believe that this was one of the major stresses that made staying at home impossible. I've had these headaches since I was little. They tend to come when the weather is changing (spring and fall) and last for several weeks. They aren't continuous, but rather I'll get 8 or more a day that last for 30 minutes to several hours with headache-less breaks in between. Previous to baby N. I would hole myself away for the worst of my headache days and function at a low, but manageable level. Doctors always told me they were "stress" headaches - because school starts in the fall, so I must be stressed, and exams are in the spring, another stressor. I've known for a long time that they can't possibly be stress headaches, but try telling that to a doctor. Luckily for me there was a family medicine resident working with my psychiatrist who seemed to take a particular interest in my case. He spent two hours with me gathering my history and symptoms. After doing a bit of research, he suggested trying Indomethacin, a powerful non-steroidal anti-inflammatory (NSAID) kind of like ibuprofen. I was skeptical, to be honest. I'd tried ibuprofen, usually to no avail, and I'd also had Toradol (another NSAID) during my time in the hospital that also did very little to help my headache. But with the first dose of Indomethacin I noticed a significant improvement in my headache. I woke up a few times that night, thinking to myself "Hey! I don't have a headache! That's kind of awesome!" The next morning I found the resident and thanked him wholeheartedly for this wonder drug. Later he told me he didn't think it would work. He told me he was trying to rule out some really rare headache types that respond particularly well to Indomethacin. He made a provisional diagnosis of Paroxysmal Hemicrania. I never imagined getting such a good treatment, let alone a diagnosis, but honestly I don't really care what they call it, so long as I can function at home.

Getting my headaches treated was wonderful, but there were other things that helped greatly during that time. For one thing, my mom came to help out while I was in the hospital. A. had to be working so it was so nice to know that my baby was being well taken care of by someone I trusted while I was away. And she was amazing. N. loves her grandma, and by the end of the week would reach for her, even if I was in the room (that hurts a little, Babe!). My mom would bring N. to me twice a day to nurse and visit and did an amazing job of making me feel loved and cared for and a little less guilty.

N. was a little light in my day. I looked forward to seeing her, which was a nice feeling. Often, in the evenings I would still get anxious, I would dread going home and I would feel like taking care of her by myself would always be impossible. But I loved those visits with her. She would smile and laugh and play with me and bring me such joy and pleasantness to bleak and difficult days.

They let me set up N.'s playpen in my room at the hospital. She didn't particularly like being cooped up, but it was so nice to have her around.

A. was also wonderful. Even though he was working for the majority of my hospitalization, he visited me as often as he could, made me laugh and held me while I cried. I couldn't have done it without him. I wonder what the nurses thought of our family's dynamics, though, because whenever A. was around my mom and baby weren't, and whenever they were at the hospital, A. wasn't. Trust me, we all get along great - it was just a bit of a a scheduling nightmare.

I talked to my siblings and my dad a lot during that time. They prayed for me and read to me and distracted me when I was at the edge of anxiety or bored out of my mind.  I also got texts, well-wishes and prayers from all of my in-laws. I'm so blessed to have married into such a wonderful family. They were all so encouraging and hopeful. A friend who had also suffered through PPD came to visit me, and my best friend called from Oxford to see how I was doing. Being at the hospital was so hard, but I was also so encouraged by everyone around me.

There's so much more I could talk about: Specific things people said or did that were helpful, things that I learned about myself, verses that were particularly encouraging, and ways I learned to help manage my depression. So I will continue to try to put these in writing, as I have time. For now though, I think my baby might be waking up from her nap.

Ambivalence

In order to be admitted to a hospital as a formal patient, two physicians need to fill out and sign an Admission Certificate (Form 1). Typically the first is the emergency room physician and the second is a psychiatrist (that isn't always the case, but is how it worked for me). The ER physician's certificate was quick and not overly specific. The psychiatrist's certificate, on the other hand, read like this:

On the following facts observed by me: Postpartum depression for several months, no apparent trigger but has been feeling like harming herself and her child. Some ambivalence about hospitalization with risk of harm on discharge.

 On the following facts communicated to me by others: History of depression, becoming worse, now with thoughts of killing herself and harming her 8/12 baby. Describes dissociative episodes. Does not feel safe leaving the hospital.

Two words stuck out to me as I read this Certificate in the days that followed: Ambivalence and dissociative. I'll talk about the idea of dissociative episodes at another time, but for this blog post I want to focus on the word "Ambivalence."

I would like you to understand that the word ambivalence epitomizes my struggle with PPD. It is my ambivalence towards every part of my life that makes this depression so incredibly hard, confusing, and frightening.

Let me give you some examples:

- Life: This is what came crashing down on me that Friday night. I don't want to die. I didn't want to die. Believe it or not, I would much rather live. But that night, and many others before it, I also did not want to keep living. Living was too hard. Living requires motivation, concentration, energy, will. I just didn't have any of those things in that moment. Death seemed like the only answer to a series of questions about the point of fighting to stay alive. I do want to live. I want to see my daughter grown. I want to have many more "I love you" moments with all of those people most important to me. It's just that all of that fades so far away when depression pulls so deep.

-Being a mother to my baby: I love my daughter. Please, please understand that. I want what is best for her. I beg God for protection over her every night. And every night I sneak into her room to watch her sleep. So often, though, I have wished I didn't have to be her mother. Sometimes I wish she didn't exist. Not that she would die, not that I would go back in time, knowing what I know now and choose not to have her. No, simply that she would never have been. I am certain I am a terrible mother. I am certain I am making terrible mistakes. And she exhausts me. I barely make it through some days holding on to her bed-time like a beacon to the time I will have to myself, only to have her stay awake far beyond her usual routine. And I crumble. I don't want to do this. I just want to disappear. I don't want to be a mom. But please believe me when I say I love her with my whole broken heart.

- The way to heal: It's possible those observant readers have already picked up on this one. In this post I mentioned my psychologist encouraged me by giving me specific things I could do to help speed up my recovery, but in this post I wrote about how comforting it is to know that the depression isn't my fault, that there isn't anything I could have done to prevent it and that I will eventually heal. I've found this example of ambivalence in my life as a new mother time and time again. Someone will offer some (not-so-helpful-and-not-so-asked-for) advice and I get so frustrated because don't they know this isn't my fault? And in the next moment I'm trying to find one strategy or another to fix my depression. I think that I do need both: There are things that I can do, but I also need to be patient as I heal.

- Hospital vs. Home: This is the ambivalence the psychiatrist was talking about. I mentioned in my last post that I did not want to go to the hospital. I begged and pleaded and stalled and stalled before finally letting my husband take me. By the time morning came nothing had changed. I still wanted to go home. But I remember as nurses, social workers and doctors did their rounds that morning, they all talked about discharge... and I cringed. I didn't want to stay, but I couldn't imagine going home and I felt like they weren't listening to me. My husband came to the hospital to let N. nurse and I remember crying because nobody was taking me seriously. Then the psychiatrist came in and decided to hospitalize me. He told me he was going to admit me as a formal patient and I cried again. I didn't want to be there but I still didn't want to go home, either.

There are other examples, but I think that this gives a pretty good picture of what I mean by living ambivalently. Honestly, I don't really understand how I can feel so strongly in opposite ways. It really is confusing to want two things that cannot possibly exist together. It is frightening to want something that flies in the face of everything I have ever valued and everything I truly care about. And it is hard to go through such conflicting emotions, trying to sort them out in a mind that can barely comprehend those things known to be true. It's getting easier, though. I'm enjoying being at home (most of the time), I'm beginning to find the balance between patience and action, and I rarely think about death, or about blotting out my daughter from my life.

Yet another breaking point.

I haven't written in a while for two reasons. First, our computer died, making writing anything a little bit difficult (I didn't much feel like writing out a blog post on my iPhone). Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I was hospitalized for all of last week. I wrote a lot in my journal last week and so I'll share bits of what I wrote for the next little while. Please be aware if you do suffer from PPD or other forms of depression that this post may have some triggers that you may want to avoid.

September 22, 2013

I have been hospitalized as a formal patient. So the police will come looking for me if I try to leave. How awkward. We had a bit of drama Friday night that led to this visit to this hospital. I'm not sure what all contributed to it, but I know that I was stressed about packing and getting everything ready for the trip to Saskatchewan.

A. and I had decided earlier that week that I should go to visit my parents in Saskatchewan so that I could get a little extra TLC. I was having really bad headaches all week and, consequently, wasn't coping very well.

I was making up a packing list and a to do list before leaving and realizing that I had a lot to do. I was already getting anxious before this and it just made it worse. A. put my Clonazepam bottle in front of me, indicating I should take some, but I ignored him (to be honest that action erked me a little). A little while later, as my anxiety continued to mount, he got me a glass of water and put a Clonazepam in my hand (interestingly, that action didn't erk me) and I took it but I guess it was too late. I started to feel really agitated. I felt like I needed to get out of the house. It was such a strong urge - I just wanted to run. I remember repeating to myself "I have to go somewhere... go somewhere... I just need to go. Somewhere. Somewhere." And I just walked. I felt totally out of control. Unable to concentrate on anything but walking. Somewhere. About a block later I realized that A. had followed me. But I still couldn't stop. I was driven. 

Please, please, stop reading here if there is any chance a foray into my hopeless, depressed psyche could hurt you in any way.

I wound up near a pond in our neighborhood and I thought I might able to drown myself. The water would be cold, my clothes heavy, and I didn't have the desire to fight it. Maybe I could force myself to dive, then breathe... maybe it would be over soon. The street lights were dancing in the water's reflection and it looked really peaceful. So peaceful. "I'd like to be that peaceful," I thought. And I walked towards the water.

But A. was there and he figured it out. I remember saying "You should go back to be with N., I'll be fine. I promise, I'll be fine..." In a minute I'll be fine. 

But he wouldn't leave me and then he said "I'm taking you to the hospital." 

And I flipped "No, no, no. I promise I won't hurt myself, I won't kill myself. It's a pact for safety. If I say I won't, I won't. I promise, I promise." And I really did mean it.

A. wouldn't relent. He let me sit with him and cry. He let me take a shower. He let me pack up a small bag with a toothbrush, change of underwear, a picture of N. He put my Bible in my bag. I stalled and stalled and asked "is there any way I can convince you to let me stay?"

And then he said the thing that changed my mind: "We've had too many close calls. What's it going to take before you let me take you? I'm the one who will have to tell our baby what happened to her mommy. And when she asks me why I didn't take you to the hospital, what am I supposed to say to her?" And I thought about my baby grown, but still young, wanting her mom and blaming her dad for not taking better care of me. And I knew that would be wrong. I knew he was right and doing everything right. So, finally, I relented. We woke our sleeping baby came to the hospital and I was admitted in the morning to unit 34. It sucks. And it's painful. I miss my baby. I miss my husband. I'm bored and I'm scared.

Don't worry. It gets better.

How many therapists does it take to change a lightbulb? ... Or me?

Today I saw two therapists. It was a little exhausting, but I'm feeling more hopeful. I have already mentioned that I have been seeing a Registered Psychiatric Nurse (J.N.). I actually saw her early on, at about 3 weeks postpartum. I really didn't feel comfortable with her. I remember feeling worse after my appointments than I did before. I also remember not really understanding some of the questions she asked. And she would ask them over and over. I guess we just didn't hit it off. When I went to my doctor just a few weeks ago, she suggested I go back to J.N. I explained my experience with her and she said she would refer me to someone else. So today, I saw both J.N. and this other counselor. What a difference!

Let me explain: J.N.'s approach has a tendency to leave me feeling a bit out of control. She talks a lot about the postpartum hormonal imbalance and neurochemical imbalances that can trigger postpartum depression. While I know that those are huge components to PPD, they aren't things I can do much about. Consequently I've been feeling like I'll just have to ride this out.  I know that the medication will help level me out, but I'm just not going to feel like "myself" until my body decides to re-regulate itself. The problem is that I know that there are background issues that have made my PPD worse and that I should be able to work on these things so that I don't slip back into depression.

Today I also saw the psychologist to whom I was referred. Her approach is worlds away from J.N.'s (or it seems that way to me). We talked about how I have been feeling lonely and isolated where we live now. I mentioned that, having been a student for so long, I now find myself missing being intellectually and socially stimulated through school. Being a mother can be pretty tedious, even mundane, a lot of the time and I find that I am perfectly able to keep myself busy, but get to the end of the day and don't feel like I've done anything terribly worthwhile.

Yes, I know being a mother is very worthwhile.  But it's hard to see it when I've gone through the exact same routine - nurse, play, breakfast, play, nap, lunch, walk, nap, nurse, play, make supper, feed N. supper, play, bath, nurse, bed - everyday.

But this psychologist was able to give me a list of options in Red Deer for getting involved and meeting people. She wasn't pushy about it, but helped me set goals for things that I would really want to do. Over the next couple weeks I really want to look into the Collicutt Center: I guess for about $5/hr. A. and I can leave N. with childcare workers and go swim, play tennis, climb their climbing wall, etc. We used to love doing that sort of thing for dates. I also want to go to some of the Parent Link drop-in activities at Parkland mall. So I hope to do some of those in the next week.

This psychologist told me today "A lot of people get stuck with postpartum depression; thinking that it's just an imbalance. Treat the imbalance with meds, and the depression will just go away. But I think there's so much more to it than that." I think that's the major difference between the two therapists. For the time being I do need the meds, that pretty clear to me now. I was in an acute depressive crisis and my daughter and I were both at risk. But now I'm ready (because the meds have started to level me out) to work on some of the factors that initially put me at risk for PPD. Hopefully, this will be another good turning point.

J.N. has helped me some and we did have a good session today, but overall, I think this new psychologist will be a better fit. Now, I just need a good way to tell J.N. I'm seeing someone else!

Here are some helpful things from today:

- Make a list of priorities and write down what I have accomplished in a day
- Get involved in a course (maybe photography?). I would love to do this, but it might be difficult logistically right now. Good to keep in mind though for down the road or when I'm feeling better.
- Look into some mom and baby activities in Red Deer and get involved
- Pray about the things that are bothering me, do what I can, and leave the rest in God's hands. For some reason, I've been forgetting to do this as much as I should.

To find your likeness in an animal

My husband was reading the news and came upon this story of a baby elephant being trampled on by his mother shortly after having been born. He showed me the article and I thought "That mama must have had postpartum depression."

 http://ca.news.yahoo.com/blogs/daily-buzz/baby-elephant-cries-hours-mother-rejects-him-194824961.html

I find my heart is broken for this baby elephant, that his mother would reject him, refuse to feed him and trample on him. I find my heart is broken for his mama, who must be going through somewhat similar emotions to mine. And, I find I am grateful I have never hurt my baby this much. I don't know that I've thought a lot about animals' emotions, but it is somehow comforting that they struggle the same  way we do. To me, it speaks to the fact that this is an imbalance in brain chemistry, not a choice, not an inherent weakness. If animals are tied more strongly to their instincts than humans, it would seem that this type of incident should not occur in the animal kingdom. And yet it does, more frequently than we might think. It gives me hope that I will recover. I do also hope this elephant mama recovers and maybe might be reunited with her babe. Another interesting note: Apparently elephants in the wild commit infanticide far less frequently than elephants in captivity. Clearly, there is some kind of stressor that increases the likelihood of these events. Lack of community, I wonder? I did a little research, or my own curiosity, on the National Geographics website and found that female elephants and their young travel in herds led by a matriarchal elephant leader. What if we were to do the same: raise our children in the presence of friends and sisters, with older women to teach, nurture, train and support young moms. This sounds like a wonderful idea to me!

Baby's First... Support Group.

Okay, in reality baby stayed home. She had a cold, and I didn't want to give the other babies and their moms the same cold. Grandma and dad were happy enough to keep her at home.

I have to admit, I was very nervous about going. I'm still nervous about going. Particularly because I'm afraid I won't fit in and that I won't have anything in common with the other moms. Now, it's tricky to share much about a support group because everything should remain pretty confidential. What I can say is that I'm glad I'm not alone, but I still feel very much alone. The other (2) moms seem to be more in the recovery stage than I am and I'm not sure either have ever come as close as I have to hurting their baby. Guilt. Someone told me recently (not at the support group) that it's normal to sometimes want to throw a pillow over your child's face - not that you ever would. More Guilt. I don't know how to bring it up. I feel like a support group should be a place where I can get support for even the worst of my illness, but I still feel like I might be judged by them. Fear. Those are the two emotions I feel most often. Even on my good days. Guilt for what I've done, how I feel, and what I want or don't want. Fear of what I might do when I sink to a low, or what people might think of me if they only knew how terrible a mother I am.

I will keep going to the support group and test the waters slowly. I know that I won't feel comfortable right away. The one issue I feel might make things more difficult is that I'm not sure I will find someone of the same faith as me. What a world of difference that would make! To be able to share my struggles with someone who believes in the grace, peace and strength that comes from God.

On another note: I've felt so much better the last couple days. Maybe the medications are starting to work. Today I was out for a little while and as I was driving home I thought to myself "I'm looking forward to seeing my baby girl!" What a feeling!

The Why:

I've been thinking today about why I am writing a blog. And more specifically, why, if I've chosen a blog as a medium for my wonderings, am I not telling anyone about it? Why, if I am being secretive, not just write in a journal? Why write at all? The latter question has a simpler answer: I think I need to. I've never been much of a writer. I've tried keeping a journal, always to no avail. A few pages in and my interest wanes or I feel my subject matter dry up. But for this period in my life, I need to write. I was having terrible anxiety a few nights ago and I grabbed a notebook and pen and started writing this:

   The RPN I am seeing says anger is a branch of anxiety (other potential branches being obsession, panic, etc.) and I am really beginning to see the truth of it. I haven't figured out the root of the anxiety itself, but maybe that will come with time. Before I get angry my mind fills with racing thought about whatever is happening at that moment (N. is fussing, not feeding, my house is a mess, I don't have any energy, supper isn't cooked...) and then suddenly they turn into thoughts about how "I don't want this"; "I don't want to be a mom"; "I want this all to end"; "I just want to disappear, God just let me disappear."
   Tonight I thought about how easy it would be for me to suffocate my baby - there was a pillow right there. It was bedtime, she wasn't nursing and I just thought "I could end it now, so easily." The anger was so great and the urge so strong... I did take that pillow and placed it over her face, she fussed and struggled, but I seemed oddly calm. Then, and I'm not sure what happened, I removed the pillow and snapped back, took her out to A. I was shaking and crying.
   I've had a few good days in a row now and I thought maybe at least the anger was gone. But even now, I can hear her crying in the living room with her Grandma D. and I want to go and hurt her... grab her... shake her. And I feel so guilty... so dreadfully guilty, I shouldn't be her mom.
   Another part of my anxiety is that I get some stupid song stuck in my head on repeat. Her Grandma D. says that repetitive thoughts are common with anxiety. But today, blessedly, the song in my head is a praise song - Thank you, Lord!

Standing on this Mountaintop
Looking just how far we've come
Knowing that for every step you were with us

Kneeling on this battleground
Seeing just how much you've done
Knowing every victory was your power in us

Scars and struggles on our way
But with joy our hearts can say
(Yes our hearts can say)

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did you leave us on our own
You are faithful, God you are faithful.

Scars and struggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say
Never once did we ever walk alone
Carried by Your constant grace
Held within Your perfect peace
Never once, no, we never walk alone

Every step we are breathing in Your grace
Evermore we’ll be breathing out Your praise
You are faithful, God, You are faithful *

 I think I'll keep that one in the back of my mind. :)

After finishing that entry I felt more calm, and like I had won a victory, even if it was a small one. I had been able to replace "O Suzanna" and "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" with a praise song. And not just any praise song but one about scars and struggles, battles and mountains, and joy and grace and peace. In the margins of the lyrics of the song I wrote:

  I have faith that someday I will be able to say "I've reached the top of my mountain. I've gained a victory on this battleground because of God's grace"

Please, God, don't leave N alone. Be faithful to protect her like you did today.
 
 And I think that is why I chose to start writing a blog: Because someday (or so I've been told) I'll have reached the top or my mountain and won the victory over my PPMD. Maybe then, or maybe sooner, I'll have the courage to share my journey with others, and help to break the silence and stigma of postpartum depression. If and when that day comes I beg you, the reader, to have grace... what I have just shared is dark and I constantly feel guilty about those moments. Today I said to my husband A. "Why can't we just give her to someone who would be a better mom than me." I pray you will have grace like my husband who, at the time said nothing, then later when I retracted, through shaking sobs saying "I don't think I really meant that" said "I know you didn't - we'll get through this."

* "Never Once" recorded by Matt Redman. I just took some of the verses, the ones that were particularly important to me. 

Postpartum Depression

It is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. What are the words this picture paints? Happiness? Attachment? Pride? Joy? Blessedness? Yes, a thousand times, yes. But the story is deeper than this picture has the ability to tell. This picture cannot tell the viewer of the pain this young mom feels on a daily basis. There is no mention of the guilt, the fear, the helplessness and hopelessness that comes along with a daily struggle with postpartum depression. I am not making this blog very public, yet... perhaps one day I will have the strength and courage to share these thoughts with others. For now, though, it will be a place for me to write my thoughts, to have a place to scratch my way through the hard times, and the beautiful ones.