There's been an outpouring of concern and support since last I graced the computer with my thoughts. Apparently, people ARE actually reading what I write. And many have voiced concern for me. I am incredibly appreciative and grateful for your concern and prayers.
As I mentioned in the first blog, this is my choice of catharitic release. A catharsis is an unbridled release of emotion. Most people have tears-- I have words. I used to run, but I have kids now and the time to run is nonexistent. I'm writing instead of running; I'm writing instead of drowning in alcohol; I'm writing instead of simply continuing to wallow in my misery. I'm writing to heal. If I wasn't honest with what I was writing, then I wouldn't be doing much healing. I'm writing to 'talk through' my thoughts and emotions in my head. Which means I MUST be honest, even if--- *when*--- it's ugly. And, just in case you didn't know, depression is ugly. I'm simply unafraid to say what it feels like. I don't believe that any man is an island; however, I do believe that people are often afraid to voice the fears, the feelings of failure, and the guilt of not reaching the silent level of perfection that is expected by self and society.
I should take a few minutes, then, to maybe clarify some of my mental meanderings.
When I said I can't remember the last time I was happy, I mean like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands" happy. Happy like whoohoo I'm so excited to be ALIVE!!!!! happy. Happy like shake your booty cause you feel silly happy. Not happy like contented or satisfied. Let me be VERY clear: I love my boys. I love my husband. I love my dogs. I love my life--- right now, in these moments-- I'm not FEELING the joy that I want to feel I'm feeling overwhelmed, not excited. I'm feeling inadequate, not capable. I'm feeling fragile not strong. I'm not interested in leaving. I'm not interested in abandoning my life, I'm interested in leaving this baggage behind and moving into the life I know God has painted for us. I don't, however love my ass. Or my thunder thighs..
I am in no way suicidal. I understand that those irrational thoughts are severe manfiestations of imbalanced hormones cocktailed with multiple insecurities. If you know mixed drinks, it's like the 'Adios' of brain chemistry. Stong and Blue.
I have never and will never hurt my children. I'm simply ashamed to admit that my frustration with them and my inability to cope well lead me to visions fo shaking and throwing. I know I'm not the only mom of a beligerent 2 year old (or 16 year old) or a screaming infant that has had thoughts like this. The difference is that I'll actually own up to it in hopes of eliminating the thoughts and developing better coping skills. Despite my visions and frustrations, I am totally repulsed by mothers who act out these visions-- not that I don't understand them, but to hurt a baby or toddler is beyond my capability. I mean seriously, I'm the mom who won't let her baby cry himself to sleep for baby training. I'd rather lose tons of sleep and be grouchy than allow my baby's brain and body to be saturated over and over with cortisol and adrenaline.
I won't apologize for my literary life vomit the other night. It's real. It's my life right now. Can't say I'm proud of it. But I can say that admitting REALLY IS the first step to healing. Simply putting my thoughts and emotions into words and on a screen was so liberating. I apologize if I've worried anyone, but if all you read was my last post, then you missed the 'purpose statement' from the first blog. I refuse to use alcohol to drown my hurt, I can't drink coffee anymore because I'm wimpy and only like it with milk (cow's milk only) and we aren't eating cow's milk products, and I don't get to sweat it out like I used to before kids. So this is me, on a journey to heal. Traipsing through the jungle of my pain to reach the fresh air of the summit. Hopefully, during this hike, I can lose the dimples, get my ass back, and proudly wear my heels and mini skirt. To the park. And ChicFilA.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
My Mind, and Other Stuff I Miss
Keys. Car tag sticker and registration. "A-nay's key". My bank login and password. My coupon organizer. My memory. All the things I've lost recently. My memory was, at one point, one of my prized possessions. And my biggest nemesis. Now.... I fear I've lost it and it's never coming back. Yet I remember all the things I don't want to remember and I forget anything of importance (I feel like Paul "I do the things I don't want to do and don't do the things I do want to do, paraphrased version, of course). Is this sleep deprivation or post partum depression? I suppose, more than anything, I'm chronicling my battle with PPD. My own personal hell. That seems to have overshadowed my life and is invading my marriage..
It's hard to explain to your husband that you understand you are having irrational thoughts (like, maybe I should run off the bridge, he'd be better off without me), you understand that *this* isn't your reality, but somehow, the grip of gloom has stolen your vision. It's stolen my life. My mind.. I'm sick of it. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. The last time I felt *good*. The last time I was hopeful. The last time I didn't just want to explode-- either with anger or in an uncontrollabe, inconsolable sob. I have no drive to do anything. I have the sex drive of a dead earthworm. I have the patience of an irritated wolverine. I'm impossible to make happy because I've forgotten what happy IS. Except rage and sadness I'm almost emotionless; and yet, truly I have a soft and caring heart; even if it seems to have stopped beating occasionally. I have unrealistic expectations of myself and crumble to pieces as I watch myself fail. I'm a trainwreck. I am openly admitting that I am drowning in my own depression.
I am under-sleeped and overwhelmed. I am insecure about everything from my extra 20 lbs from 2 kids to the lack of organization in my closet. I have lost every ounce of confidence I've ever had in myself. I don't feel like I'm a good mother because I'm constantly stressed out and overwhelmed by the demands of my 2 1/2 yr old and my 8 month old. I haven't been able to run more than 3 miles in months because Kipton won't let me stay in in the gym for more than 30 minutes. I used to do 3 before I went to school and then 3-5 after school. I swear my brain is turning to mush, not from mad cow disease, but from mad white woman disease. I'm this gurgling volcano, churning away and waiting to explode. At one point, this volcano flowed with enthusiasm, with hope, with joy, with knowledge. Now I'm this miserable, irritable, constantly drained, interminably impossible woman. *tears* And I miss the former me.
I miss my quick wit. I miss my strong athletic mini skirt legs. I miss my laughter. I miss my confidence. I miss my passion for chiropractic. I miss my drive for improving. I miss my ass. I miss my ability to get things accomplished. I miss my clean car. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling desirable. I miss wearing heels. I miss people.
I'm singlehandedly ruining my marriage. I can't blame everything on PPD, although I'd like to. I know that I chose my own actions. And I wonder if I am somehow creating my misery by being doggedly determined to be a stay at home mom? Is this really my calling? Do I have the skill set to raise 2 boys (mostly) alone? Umm let me answer that: HEEELLLLL NO. Do I WANT to? Do I admire moms who have kids all day AND they still *love* being with them? Do I *wish* I doted upon and lavished upon and revolved endlessly around my boys? Yes. Do I feel like an utter failure at motherhood because I get frustrated with them? Do I feel like a failure because sometimes I think I could really throw them into the wall? Do I think that makes me a failure as a mom? Umm, let me answer that. YES. *tears* And I hate that about me.
I somehow feel like because I'm programmed to need social interaction on a very regular basis, because I (at least at some point) wanted a professional life, and because I *HATE* all things associated with the dishwasher that I'm a disgrace to motherhood. I feel like I'm a disgrace to motherhood because I lose my temper. Because I can't keep up with the laundry AND the boys. Because my youngest won't sleep more than 2 hours a time. Because my oldest only follows directions from his daddy. Because my ass has dimples in it. Because my boobs, though considerably larger, sag considerably more. Because I have visions of shaking my baby to get him to sleep while I rock and cry *with* him. Because every month I don't work, my student loans rack up hundreds of dollars of interest. I don't know how THAT works into making me feel like a failure as a mom, but it does. It's another hand tightening the noose, because if I was *really* supposed to be a mother, I never would've gone to chiropractic school and buried myself in student loan debt. Do you see how ridiculous this is? I do. And that's what makes it even worse. *I GET how stupid this is*. And yet, I can't seem to shrug it. And just for the record-- my mind IS clear enough to know that medication is NOT the answer. It's something deeper.... something much more difficult that nuerochemistry.
There are scars. There are rampant insecurities. There are memories that haunt. There are fears that paralyze. There is anger that devours. There is love that whispers. And perhaps, it is the latter that is scariest of all; it is love that makes it painful. It is love that makes it confusing. It is love that makes me miss who I was and despise who I've become. And I am confident, it is love that will save me.
It's hard to explain to your husband that you understand you are having irrational thoughts (like, maybe I should run off the bridge, he'd be better off without me), you understand that *this* isn't your reality, but somehow, the grip of gloom has stolen your vision. It's stolen my life. My mind.. I'm sick of it. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. The last time I felt *good*. The last time I was hopeful. The last time I didn't just want to explode-- either with anger or in an uncontrollabe, inconsolable sob. I have no drive to do anything. I have the sex drive of a dead earthworm. I have the patience of an irritated wolverine. I'm impossible to make happy because I've forgotten what happy IS. Except rage and sadness I'm almost emotionless; and yet, truly I have a soft and caring heart; even if it seems to have stopped beating occasionally. I have unrealistic expectations of myself and crumble to pieces as I watch myself fail. I'm a trainwreck. I am openly admitting that I am drowning in my own depression.
I am under-sleeped and overwhelmed. I am insecure about everything from my extra 20 lbs from 2 kids to the lack of organization in my closet. I have lost every ounce of confidence I've ever had in myself. I don't feel like I'm a good mother because I'm constantly stressed out and overwhelmed by the demands of my 2 1/2 yr old and my 8 month old. I haven't been able to run more than 3 miles in months because Kipton won't let me stay in in the gym for more than 30 minutes. I used to do 3 before I went to school and then 3-5 after school. I swear my brain is turning to mush, not from mad cow disease, but from mad white woman disease. I'm this gurgling volcano, churning away and waiting to explode. At one point, this volcano flowed with enthusiasm, with hope, with joy, with knowledge. Now I'm this miserable, irritable, constantly drained, interminably impossible woman. *tears* And I miss the former me.
I miss my quick wit. I miss my strong athletic mini skirt legs. I miss my laughter. I miss my confidence. I miss my passion for chiropractic. I miss my drive for improving. I miss my ass. I miss my ability to get things accomplished. I miss my clean car. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling desirable. I miss wearing heels. I miss people.
I'm singlehandedly ruining my marriage. I can't blame everything on PPD, although I'd like to. I know that I chose my own actions. And I wonder if I am somehow creating my misery by being doggedly determined to be a stay at home mom? Is this really my calling? Do I have the skill set to raise 2 boys (mostly) alone? Umm let me answer that: HEEELLLLL NO. Do I WANT to? Do I admire moms who have kids all day AND they still *love* being with them? Do I *wish* I doted upon and lavished upon and revolved endlessly around my boys? Yes. Do I feel like an utter failure at motherhood because I get frustrated with them? Do I feel like a failure because sometimes I think I could really throw them into the wall? Do I think that makes me a failure as a mom? Umm, let me answer that. YES. *tears* And I hate that about me.
I somehow feel like because I'm programmed to need social interaction on a very regular basis, because I (at least at some point) wanted a professional life, and because I *HATE* all things associated with the dishwasher that I'm a disgrace to motherhood. I feel like I'm a disgrace to motherhood because I lose my temper. Because I can't keep up with the laundry AND the boys. Because my youngest won't sleep more than 2 hours a time. Because my oldest only follows directions from his daddy. Because my ass has dimples in it. Because my boobs, though considerably larger, sag considerably more. Because I have visions of shaking my baby to get him to sleep while I rock and cry *with* him. Because every month I don't work, my student loans rack up hundreds of dollars of interest. I don't know how THAT works into making me feel like a failure as a mom, but it does. It's another hand tightening the noose, because if I was *really* supposed to be a mother, I never would've gone to chiropractic school and buried myself in student loan debt. Do you see how ridiculous this is? I do. And that's what makes it even worse. *I GET how stupid this is*. And yet, I can't seem to shrug it. And just for the record-- my mind IS clear enough to know that medication is NOT the answer. It's something deeper.... something much more difficult that nuerochemistry.
There are scars. There are rampant insecurities. There are memories that haunt. There are fears that paralyze. There is anger that devours. There is love that whispers. And perhaps, it is the latter that is scariest of all; it is love that makes it painful. It is love that makes it confusing. It is love that makes me miss who I was and despise who I've become. And I am confident, it is love that will save me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Tale of Two Cities.... just one literary work I never read
Ok, to be honest, I've never read the novel (shock and horror, I know) but sometimes, I feel as if my life IS the tale of two cities. I grew up poor, not like destitute poor, but living on the credit card poor. My mom is a good faker-- so she faked it (that we had the money to do it) and let me do a pageant or two. Strangely, I won them. God only knows how. I think it's because I talk good. :)
Beauty queen, farm girl. I enjoyed this diabolical life. I spent lots of time dreaming about the first and wondering how to play up the latter. I wanted to be important. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be more than a farm girl should be. I was 'famous' for being the storybook girl. Poor but beautiful and smart. Bound for greatness. And the accent, don't forget the accent. I can't tell you how many people want(ed) to hear me say shiyit.
You know what I did today? I changed diapers. I made a gluten, dairy, and corn free dinner. I held a screaming baby. I read another doctor's research and anaylsis. Not my own. I shared a bottle of wine with my husband. I spent 90 minutes at chick-fil-a so my eldest could play. I researched daycares because my skills are inadequate for dealing with my 2 1/2 yr old.
....What happened to the greatness? Where's the glamour I felt like should follow me? Where's the significance I thought I'd bring to life? ...Isn't it obvious? It went down the crapper along with the tee-tee from the first attempts at potty training.
I somehow thought I was bound for greatness. The road was paved for it-- the potential there. Or at least in my brain it was. Nine years of school, ambitions to save the world, hopes to restore health to all of America, big dreams to run a free 'fat camp' that REALLY changes lives (cause I was the fat kid ).... and what do I do everyday? I change diapers. I make dinner. I love and support my husband who has loved and supported me. I read other doctor's thoughts on how to help my 8 month old sleep, I feed the dogs.
What's so important about that? And how do you convince yourself that being a full time mom is the most important job you'lll ever have? Seriously, working would make my life easier. I wouldn't freak out daily about what my son is or isn't learning or that my youngest won't sleep more than an hour at a time. I had so much potential.... and I change diapers. I can't be the only one that's experiencing this constant and all consuming tug of war. I'm a doctor for crying out loud!!!! I've been in school for 9 years since I graduated high school. I have a DOCTORATE degree. And I mix baby cereal. I make baby food. I count to 10. I bounce an almost 8 month old to sleep several times a day and night.
I love my boys. There's not a moment I'd rather not have them. I can't imagine life without them and I don't WANT to. There's not a moment I regret them (another story, another catharsis, another day, another bottle). But, really, is THIS what life is.....?
Beauty queen, farm girl. I enjoyed this diabolical life. I spent lots of time dreaming about the first and wondering how to play up the latter. I wanted to be important. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be more than a farm girl should be. I was 'famous' for being the storybook girl. Poor but beautiful and smart. Bound for greatness. And the accent, don't forget the accent. I can't tell you how many people want(ed) to hear me say shiyit.
You know what I did today? I changed diapers. I made a gluten, dairy, and corn free dinner. I held a screaming baby. I read another doctor's research and anaylsis. Not my own. I shared a bottle of wine with my husband. I spent 90 minutes at chick-fil-a so my eldest could play. I researched daycares because my skills are inadequate for dealing with my 2 1/2 yr old.
....What happened to the greatness? Where's the glamour I felt like should follow me? Where's the significance I thought I'd bring to life? ...Isn't it obvious? It went down the crapper along with the tee-tee from the first attempts at potty training.
I somehow thought I was bound for greatness. The road was paved for it-- the potential there. Or at least in my brain it was. Nine years of school, ambitions to save the world, hopes to restore health to all of America, big dreams to run a free 'fat camp' that REALLY changes lives (cause I was the fat kid ).... and what do I do everyday? I change diapers. I make dinner. I love and support my husband who has loved and supported me. I read other doctor's thoughts on how to help my 8 month old sleep, I feed the dogs.
What's so important about that? And how do you convince yourself that being a full time mom is the most important job you'lll ever have? Seriously, working would make my life easier. I wouldn't freak out daily about what my son is or isn't learning or that my youngest won't sleep more than an hour at a time. I had so much potential.... and I change diapers. I can't be the only one that's experiencing this constant and all consuming tug of war. I'm a doctor for crying out loud!!!! I've been in school for 9 years since I graduated high school. I have a DOCTORATE degree. And I mix baby cereal. I make baby food. I count to 10. I bounce an almost 8 month old to sleep several times a day and night.
I love my boys. There's not a moment I'd rather not have them. I can't imagine life without them and I don't WANT to. There's not a moment I regret them (another story, another catharsis, another day, another bottle). But, really, is THIS what life is.....?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Admitting is the First Step to Recovery
Today I join the masses in admitting I need an anonymous audience in order to feel smart, important, and (on days like today) an actual human. Sadly, my greatest fear is NOT that I'll have no followers, it is that writing will not cleanse my soul the way it did before I entered this life as a wife, mom, and professional (can you call me that?!?!?!). Writing has long been my first choice in cathartic endeavors.... ok, so it's second, coffee being the first. Aaaand at some point it was likely fourth to red wine, long runs, and coffee. Alas, now it's second. And I'm also 20 lbs heavier than I was when it was fourth........ Good times :-/
What do you choose to write about when you don't know your audience, or if you even HAVE one? Pretty much whatever is on my mind. Whether it's a short story or a commentary or a ranting about the stupidity of our approach to health (or lack thereof). Today, I suppose, it's about what it means to NEED an anonymous audience. What does it say about me (and everyone else on a social network for that matter) that I feel the urge to share my life, my daily struggles, victories (do I have those?) and pet peeves in a stream of consciousness now openly accepted as normal behavior? I mean, really, who DOESN'T think in 'status update' anymore?!?!
Does needing to share my thoughts in the abyss of blogdom mean I'm self-centered? Does it mean I'm altruistic because I'll likely humiliate myself airing my dirty laundry in efforts to help myself and someone else? Does it mean I'm feeling insignificant in this life and I'm desperately yearning to feel a connection to someone out there in the world of social networking? Does it mean I'm bored with my life and seek to spice it up? Does it mean I believe I'm a superior writer with insight far beyond my years and I wish to spread my mosaic of wisdom with the lowly followers? Hell if I know. I just think I'll feel better if I write.
So write I will. And, I pray, healing will follow. What needs to heal? Too many things to start tonight. Besides, admitting I need to heal is the first step to recovery. Recovery begins today. Thankfully, recovery does not involve the lack of red wine.
What do you choose to write about when you don't know your audience, or if you even HAVE one? Pretty much whatever is on my mind. Whether it's a short story or a commentary or a ranting about the stupidity of our approach to health (or lack thereof). Today, I suppose, it's about what it means to NEED an anonymous audience. What does it say about me (and everyone else on a social network for that matter) that I feel the urge to share my life, my daily struggles, victories (do I have those?) and pet peeves in a stream of consciousness now openly accepted as normal behavior? I mean, really, who DOESN'T think in 'status update' anymore?!?!
Does needing to share my thoughts in the abyss of blogdom mean I'm self-centered? Does it mean I'm altruistic because I'll likely humiliate myself airing my dirty laundry in efforts to help myself and someone else? Does it mean I'm feeling insignificant in this life and I'm desperately yearning to feel a connection to someone out there in the world of social networking? Does it mean I'm bored with my life and seek to spice it up? Does it mean I believe I'm a superior writer with insight far beyond my years and I wish to spread my mosaic of wisdom with the lowly followers? Hell if I know. I just think I'll feel better if I write.
So write I will. And, I pray, healing will follow. What needs to heal? Too many things to start tonight. Besides, admitting I need to heal is the first step to recovery. Recovery begins today. Thankfully, recovery does not involve the lack of red wine.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)