Please don't hide anymore

Ever since I heard about Allison Goldstein’s death, I have felt the urgent need to draw further attention to the conversation around Postpartum depression and suicide prevention. Allison’s life can still impact other lives. I look at her life and death and see unbelievable beauty, an iron will, and a pain so heavy and terrible as to crush the mettle of even such a strong woman.

The thing that shook me most about Allison’s story is that NO ONE KNEW there was even a problem. She managed to hide the kind of pain that could kill a person from even her closest family and friends. I have no idea how she did that. It must have taken incredible strength. I’m not sure what would motivate someone to bear that kind of pressure alone. She must have felt oh, so alone.

I imagine her decision to hide had something to do with shame. Shame is usually the motivation for hiding. Which leads me to wonder, what have we done as a society to pile up so much shame on a person in pain? Have we no pity?

I believe it is not pity our society lacks but understanding. I also do not assume that society is the only source of shame a person with mental illness feels. Much of the pressure is internal, much of the guilt inherent in the illness itself. The illness causes contortions of the brain that make the individual believe lies of shame: “No one else could be as bad as me.” And so the person keeps it all hidden, gives no one the chance to disprove the lies she believes, and thereby perpetuates those very lies. Since no one talks about it, the shame and stigma remain.

In this way depression is like a social virus, infecting individuals instead of cells. The afflicted person is of course unable to bring the lies into the light--she cannot recognize them as lies, since she believes them. Silence breeds shame, which feeds the lies, and they pass silent and undetected through our culture. The silent cells spread the very virus of shame that destroys them.

When I first heard Allison’s story, I soon noticed this shame creeping into my mind. Here was this incredible, beautiful, intelligent, successful woman who had been destroyed by this illness and had never even complained. And then there I was, blurting out all about my pain--online no less! I never was good at hiding my feelings. And I was so debilitated by the illness that those around me could not help but see how much I had changed. But notice how my mind twisted that truth: I let myself become debilitated. I allowed the illness to change me. I am bad at hiding my feelings. I asked for help.

Horror of horrors, I showed my feelings and asked for help. And I believe that is why I--and my child--are alive today.

Think about it. Since when was hiding a good thing? Since when did hiding require an admirable type of strength?

I am NOT saying that Allison was not strong, or admirable. Quite the contrary. I am saying that even someone as strong as she was could not stand under the pressure of postpartum depression.

Depression can break anyone. Anyone, no matter how strong, how well-adjusted, how apparently secure--having all the appearance qualities we admire and desire in our society--may be vulnerable to mental illness.

Can’t you see? Dear one, I pray that somehow the light will penetrate your darkness and you will see that there is no shame in mental illness. There is no shame in depression, and there is certainly no shame in reaching out for help. Your brain may be sick, but your mind and your soul still have great strength. If you have been bearing it all alone, it’s time to break the silence.  

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and I have just one thing to say:

Your life is beautiful. It's an on-purpose work of art. And it is not finished yet.

And please please please, let's talk. Let's all talk. Let's talk about mental illness until there is no more stigma. Let's talk about our struggles until no one thinks they are alone anymore. Let's talk about our darkness and let some air and light in! Let's talk about grace until the sound of it drowns out the voices that tell so many that their life is not worth living.

OK, so that was sort of more than just one thing.

I feel I can do no better on this Suicide Prevention Day than to link to a couple of posts by others. The first is the recent story of a new mom who lost her life to postpartum depression. Let's stop devaluing and ignoring the pain of so many precious mothers by calling it "the baby blues." This needs serious attention, serious thought, and tremendous effort to prevent more tragic deaths.

The second is a phenomenal poster I saw on Facebook a while ago that apparently hangs in a therapist's office. It should be posted everywhere. Please, anyone who has though.t about ending their own life, you are NO coward. Your thoughts are far from selfish. You are anything but weak. Go and ask for that stick.

With all of my heart,
J

TTC (Curious?)

Figgered you might be, whether you know what the abbreviation means or not. At least I was. Out of curiosity recently, I clicked on a “TTC Vlog” that came up in my YouTube feed. I soon learned, as some of you are about to learn (unless I was the last ignorant one), that “TTC” stands for “Trying to Conceive.”

Anyone out there feel a bit surprised? embarrased? uncomfortable about the notion of the TTC vlog? I did. My initial thought was: wow people, we are dying for community! Why else would anyone be willing to put out there for the entire world to see, analyze, maybe even laugh about, every detail of their personal uncertain attempt at conception?

Aside from my embarrassed surprise, this is a subject that brings up a heavy load of emotions. So I decided, perhaps against general caution, to address the topic on this blog.

No, this is not my TTC blog. I’m not telling, one way or another, so don’t get any ideas or start any speculative rumors! But I know that for many who are trying, TTC can be a source of almost unbearable heartache--because I’ve experienced it.

I must qualify that we did not try very long for lily-girl. I know many have tried much longer without the blessing we received, comparatively quickly. For those of you who cry out for a child that never comes, for those who have experienced a miscarriage, maybe multiple miscarriages, I cannot hope to say anything here that will ease your burden. But I believe the very least I can do is acknowledge it. Detailing my experience, brief and easy as it was compared to yours, may shed some light on the depth of your pain.

My story involves less waiting and less grief than many, but waiting and grief nonetheless. It involves a suspected--never confirmed--miscarriage, and years of mourning before the comfort of a pregnancy. Once we decided to try for a pregnancy, I cannot describe my waiting each month as impatient; it was rather more like desperate. Several months in a row I experienced pregnancy symptoms like breast tenderness, fatigue and nausea, and missing my normally clockwork period by a week and a half or more. Once when my period started nearly two weeks late, I was so convinced that I was pregnant that I went to the emergency room thinking I was having a miscarriage. I was beyond embarrassed when the doctor walked in and said, “So, you aren’t actually pregnant…”. I later learned these could have been symptoms of phantom pregnancy, or pseudocyesis. Yup, it’s a thing. Sometimes it lasts a few weeks. Rarely, the symptoms of pregnancy continue and progress a full 9 months, occasionally years, without a baby being present. Christie knew a woman who grew a belly, went into labor, and came back from the hospital without a baby, because there never had been one.

I felt like my body had turned traitor. It was teasing me, raising my hopes to dash them the harder. I felt like I went through the wringer every month. I felt like I grieved the loss of a baby every month.

Some of you may think my reaction melodramatic. I rather agree! I felt humiliated that I was so naive as to let my own body keep fooling me, embarrassed by my sheer desperation to have a child. But no matter how much I tried to teach my heart to feel differently, it remained unteachable, at least for the time. And all of the ache and desperation I’ve just described explains a lot about how I later experienced pregnancy, how on edge I was, how febrile, how anxious to get it just right.

I think we need to recognize that pregnancy and childbearing are fraught with emotion from before the very beginning. Waiting, more waiting, expectation, disappointment. Hoping and trying not to hope. It’s no wonder perinatal mental illnesses are so common. We’re raw and tender from the wringer.

When I was a teenager and young adult, my mom used to tell me, “Your reactions are valid. Your feelings are just as right as anyone else’s”. I never believed her. Generally, my own gut reflexes caused me either embarrassment or anger. Here was more evidence of my reflex-incompetence: this preposterous desperation and grief over trying to conceive. There was no good reason to feel so miserable, just as there was no reason for my body to feel and act pregnant.

When I later discovered that someone had given the experience a name (pseudocyesis/ phantom pregnancy), that someone else’s brain and body had joined forces to humiliate her, the realization that I was not alone loosened the grip at my gut.

The mental illnesses common in pregnancy range beyond postpartum depression, but we don’t hear about them. For example, you may be surprised to hear that anxiety disorders are actually more common than depression in the perinatal period, and mood disorders of all kinds are about as common during pregnancy as during the postpartum period. In particular, PTSD affects about 3 percent of pregnant women, and about 20 percent of women with OCD say their symptoms began in pregnancy (I got these stats from a wonderful resource called The Pregnancy and Postpartum Anxiety Workbook, by Wiegartz and Gyoerkoe, pp. 114 and 150). Because no one talks about them, pseudocyesis, OCD, PTSD and panic disorders ambush us, and at a time in our lives when we are most vulnerable. This is one of the main reasons for this blog. If we start talking more about perinatal mood disorders, if mental illness in general is no longer shrouded in secrecy and confusion, then we can hope to take out some of the shock and sting of shame. More women will have the courage to seek treatment. Fewer will believe they are alone. Above all dear readers, I want you to know that should you find your gut going through a wringer-washer of pain and guilt and shame, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

Understanding my vulnerability helped disprove my original mortified assumption that no other brain had ever reacted as melodramatically as mine.  And then at least I was fighting a better-known giant. At least I knew the giant had been fought and beaten before. And now hopefully, so do you.

Watch Your Mouth!

Recently I was telling my hubby about a new friend who’d confided in me that her mother is bipolar. Well, I said it that way, “her mother is bipolar,” but then suddenly remembered that this is not at all what she said. She said: “My mom has bipolar disorder.” Now I’ve always been big on choosing words carefully, especially as it relates to the issue of mental illness, but it never occurred to me until that day that my grammar could be contributing to the stigma surrounding mental illness.

For example, I often catch myself saying “O, I’m so OCD.” I confess, “I used to be anorexic.” I’ve heard others say, “My son is ADD” or “My daughter is bipolar.”

Could you imagine if we talked about other illnesses in this way? Imagine saying, “He is hepatitis,” or “I have a friend who is epilepsy” or even “My daughter is a cough”! I’m sure most people would say I’ve descended to the level of the ridiculous here.

We do use descriptors like “diabetic” or “myopic” with this structure; i.e. “She is diabetic”. Even then however we wouldn’t dream of saying that someone is diabetes. There is no such constraint against using “OCD” as a noun in an equative sentence like “She is OCD.” “Bipolar” is a little bit ambiguous from a linguistic perspective (sorry for getting linguistic-y on you. Well, not too sorry): in a sentence like “She is bipolar,” the word “bipolar” could be either an adjective (descriptor) or a noun, but I’m guessing from the way I’ve heard other mental disorders named in equative sentences, that most people are using it as a noun, like “diabetes” or “influenza”.

Even as an adjective though, using disease words to describe people is only done in very specific circumstances, and very rarely. The idea of saying about a person that “she is cancerous” makes my stomach turn! How do we get away with it with mental illnesses that are just as horrific and terminal?

No matter how we may try to justify ourselves, the way we talk does influence the way we think. No, language does not control or define our worldview. But it has its effect. Let’s not equate persons with diseases.

I’m just sayin’. Watch your mouth. I’ll be watching mine.

(If you want to read more about identity and fighting the person and disease equation, read my first post, here.)

And On We March...

It has been over a year since I updated this blog. I've wanted to a few times, but the urge to write that was present during the height of my depression had waned. Like I said in one of my earliest posts, I'm not much of a writer, I don't write when the urge- the impulse- isn't there. I guess the urge is back, but this time I'm hoping my entries will be much different. Before, I wrote in an effort to make sense of my illness and to find peace and healing. This time I want to be able to share victories. Go back and read this post and while you do, listen to the lyrics of the song I transcribed in that post. Because, guess what?

I've reached the top of my mountain. I've gained a victory on this battleground because of God's grace

Perhaps it is presumptuous to say that. It's entirely possible that I'll struggle with PPMD again this time, but already I'm seeing differences, and "God, You are faithful."


... And in case you didn't hear, or didn't figure it out, I am now the mother of two beautiful girls...

"Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful" Hebrews 10:23

Birth story - Part 2

I guess I've sort of built this post up a lot. So I should let you all down slowly... This post isn't going to be as exciting as it initially may have sounded. That being said, this post is very important to me. To be honest, this isn't something that women typically talk about. It's okay to talk about long and difficult labors, c-sections, hemorrhaging, NICU stays for infants, and the complications that follow these types of deliveries. It seems to me, however, that our society is less comfortable talking about what I went through. And so, in honor of this blog - talking about such forbidden things (mental illness) -  and because I think that this was one of the triggers to my own depression, I'm going to tell you about what happened after our sweet baby girl was born.

When my doctor spoke next she said "Christie, you've torn. I need to check you before I get the gynecologist on-call to do the repair." This didn't really surprise me, I always knew I would tear. I figured it would be a second degree tear, but the fact that she would need a gynecologist to do the repair surprised me.

"How bad is the tear?" I asked.

"Third degree," she replied.

Okay, worse than I thought, but not as bad as a fourth degree tear, I can live with that. The gynecologist came in and examined me as well. That's when my second "REALLY? NOW?"-moment happened.

"I'd like to give you some Fentanyl while I repair your tear," She said after examining me.

"REALLY? NOW??" I've just gone through my whole labor and delivery without a drop of analgesia, and now you want to give me a pain-killer? I thought about how stupid that was: I'd specifically gone through labor without anything, for my child's sake. Now it was going to be all for naught, because they wanted to give me a strong narcotic that would pass into my breastmilk - albeit in very tiny quantities - anyway. I tried to say "no" but they insisted that it would be very painful and that a narcotic would be beneficial. "Aren't you going to give me a local anaesthetic anyway?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied "but it isn't going to help very much at all"

I gave up and let them push 100 mcg of Fentanyl. She was right. Even with the Fentanyl on board the pain was excruciating. Maybe worse than labor, maybe not quite, I can't really remember, but worse than I ever imagined.

As she started the repair, the gynecologist started to give me instructions, "Now, with a fourth degree tear..."

"I thought it was only a third degree tear," I interrupted.

"No," she replied firmly, "it's definitely fourth degree." I must have heard incorrectly.

The repair took an hour to complete. I didn't have to go to the operating room, likely because of the gynecologist's expertise in this area. I was very blessed to have her. She was actually a locum doctor from Calgary, the very best pelvic floor specialist in all of Alberta. She "just happened" to be on-call in our town that morning. I marveled, in weeks that followed, that God would have me tear so badly, and then provide the very best person to do the repair.

I barely got to hold my daughter during that time, even though I asked for her over and over and tried to convince them that the pain would be less severe if I could have her to distract me. I think that they were concerned the Fentanyl might have made me too loopy and drowsy to hold her without the potential of dropping her tiny fame. Trust me, any potential loopiness from the Fentanyl was strongly counteracted by the severity of the pain I was experiencing. I didn't even make it through the whole repair before I was asking, please, for another dose of Fentanyl. They gave it to me willingly, and that dose, piggy-backed on the previous one, relieved the sharp edge of the pain.

Perhaps worse than the length of the repair was the fact that throughout the whole procedure both physicians were giving me a ton of information on this type of tear. They talked about caring for the tear, follow-up visits, possible complications, the need for pelvic-floor physiotherapy (who's even heard of such a thing!), and even touched on what the next pregnancy-labor-delivery might look like for me. Here's a bit of information on 4th degree tears, if you're curious http://brochures.mater.org.au/Home/Brochures/Mater-Mothers-Private-Redland/Recovering-from-3rd-or-4th-degree#5

The general consensus had been that my daughter's shoulders had caused the tear, due to the fact that I had been unable to keep my body from pushing through that final contraction. I felt so guilty, and I kept apologizing... to A., because I'd felt like I'd ruined my body; to my whole medical team who had coached me so well throughout my labor, for not being able to do the one thing they'd asked of me; and to the gynecologist, because I'd taken up her time and because I could not stop my legs from shaking uncontrollably.

I cried a lot, for days, after that. I don't think that I can explain, in a way that would make sense to anyone, why this was so unbearable for me. The months, maybe years (we have yet to see), of healing ahead of me overwhelmed my mind. The guilt hit hard whenever I thought of that moment when I said "I'm not, I'm not... I'm not pushing!" The idea that I had forever ruined my body kept coming back to haunt me, even when A. and my mom assured me I


hadn't. I hurt. A lot. Nursing my daughter was harder for it. I couldn't sit up, so I had to learn to nurse her side-lying right from the start, and not having as good control of her head from that position made learning an already difficult skill, that much harder. I believe that this was also the beginning of my depression. Not that it was the complete cause of it (it's just not that simple), but that it was the start of the cycle of guilt, anxiety, pain, remorse.

I discovered a few weeks later what the look of horror had been on my doctors face: She is a fairly new family practitioner, and had seen only a couple severe tears during her residency. One such tear had spontaneously dehisced (opened) weeks after the repair. She was likely shocked by the extent of the tear and reminded of the severity of potential complications.

One thing I was glad of: The birth of my daughter and the fourth degree tear I had endured remained completely separate in my mind. I had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. I had torn very badly. Those two things, the good and the bad, did not coexist in my mind. Because of this, I never once blamed her - her abnormally large head, her shoulders, or her weight (8lbs, 6oz)- for the tearing of my body.
 

Baby Measles, Late Nights, and Dancing

I just read J's Christmas post (hopefully she'll put it up soon) (here it finally is!) and I was totally humbled. Humbled because of the joy in her words and the freedom she is now experiencing.

I didn't have an altogether easy Christmas season. Not that I've been deep in the throws of depression again, just that stress and anxiety have pulled at me a little stronger over the last few weeks than I thought - than I hoped - they would while sharing Christmas with family. I had about four good hard meltdowns in just over two weeks and I'm on the brink of another one today.

As I sit here typing, I am listening to my daughter crying and to her father trying to calm her and I am spent. We are all sick this week. A. and I both have a pretty nasty cold and our dear little girl, has Roseola, "baby measles." It's no big deal, apparently every baby gets it, but she is miserable. She has not slept well the last few nights and, as a result, neither have I. This morning she woke up at 0230 and we snuggled, she nursed, we played, we watched some TV, and she cried and cried. Finally I woke A. up at about 0500 and he did his best to support us, but she wouldn't go to him, wouldn't eat, wouldn't nurse, wouldn't snuggle, wouldn't take a bottle. Just cried. Finally I got some "Praise Baby" music up on YouTube (my wonderful mom introduced us to it) and she and I slow-danced in the middle of the dining room until she fell asleep.

Sometimes I think things should be easier now. I shouldn't have meltdowns, I shouldn't feel so down... I should be better. I know that everyone has bad days, but it feels like a glimpse back at my life a few months ago, and it's a little scary. But then I realize, after staying up half the night with my daughter, that I am better. No longer to I feel like running, screaming, shaking, drowning... I feel spent and sad, sometimes anxious, often lonely, but much more in control. And the good times are so much better. I can even get up with Little N. at 0230 in the morning and smile at her, talk and sing and dance with her. And that is good.

This was written January 19th, 2014. Took me a little while to get it up.

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!

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!

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

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.