RealMental

I am tired. More tired than I have ever been, excepting my wild and woolly phase during the early 90’s when I may or may not have taken mass quantities of mind altering substances and stayed up for ridiculous periods of time. I don’t really count those days as particularly trying or difficult. Self induced recreational fatigue with the occasional baby pterodactyl sighting hardly compares to my current situation. Although my child, when hungry, sounds exactly like a baby pterodactyl.

Maggie, my new baby, doesn’t sleep at night. She doesn’t sleep during the day either. She likes to party, all the time, especially at 4 am when her mother would chew off her own leg just to get a few minutes of rest. 4 am seems to be the magic hour when she comes to life and I just can’t take any more. This is the hour when I start the weeping and the whining and the pleading.

I don’t know if I’m suffering from postpartum depression. I’m sure as shit suffering from a severe case of the grumpies. I’m generally irritated with everybody, all of the time. I’m an old pro and internalizing, so luckily I haven’t called anybody a twat, just yet, but there are times when I can’t help expressing my disappointment in the behavior of my loved ones.

Like my husband. He has to work all day long so he keeps getting sleep at night. It’s really starting to piss me off.

And why does everyone who visits want the baby to be awake? I just got her to go to sleep. Stop poking the baby or I will stab you.

There are so many amazing things happening right now that it’s hard for me to tell how I feel overall. I’ll be in the process of grumping my way through the dirty dishes and I’ll take a break to peek into Maggie’s crib and she will see me and smile this huge, gummy smile and it melts all of my angst away. Or I’ll be in the midst of a medium sized breakdown because she’s hungry again and then when I stick a boob in her mouth she’ll go, “Num, num, num. NUM! NUM! NUM! NUM!”, like man, that boob is the best boob that ever happened. She’s so damn awesome that it’s hard for me to be upset for any length of time.

I’m hoping that the negative feelings I’m experiencing are just my normal everyday depression mixed with fatigue. I think it’s fairly normal to be a wee bit grouchy under the circumstances. I’m trying to pay attention to my mood and thought processes so that if I get too crazy I can deal with it. I’ve found that paying attention to myself is exceedingly difficult these days and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

Right now, it’s 2:30 am. My kid is lying in her crib staring at the ceiling and talking to herself. I am so tired and so worn out. But I am so happy.

In September, one day before my daughter was born, I turned 34 years old.

For a long time I’d questioned whether or not having children would be a wise choice for me. What kind of mother would I be? What would I do on the days when I was unable to convince myself that everything was going to be ok? Would I suffer from postpartum depression as well and if so how would I survive it? What would I do when my child needed me and I couldn’t even manage brushing my own teeth?

My worst fear of all was the possibility that I might pass this disease on to my child. On my birthday I always reflect on the fact that I have survived another year, that my depression did not beat me. I applaud the fact that I bobbed and weaved my way through the tears, the mental anguish, and the fear. I cradled myself on those days when my insides were screaming. I got through it.

The prospect of passing depression on to another human being was always more than I cared to deal with.

Then a very wonderful and surprising thing happened. I got pregnant.

After Maggie was born my thinking changed a bit. I started looking at my life again, specifically at my past, but in a different light. I can’t say with any certainty whether my depression is something I was born with or something that was sort of given to me by some very angry and lost individuals throughout my life. What I do know for sure is that I am a much more emotionally evolved human than those folks, and that my child’s life will be one of relative peace.

Still, she may inherit depression from me.

Some of my fear about it is selfish. It’s so easy for me to be angry at the people who hurt me, especially when my illness is kicking my ass. What will she do during those times? I wonder if she will hate me for bringing her into the world with the knowledge that she might have to live with depression. I’m not sure that all of the medication and therapy visits in the world could ever make up for that.

I’ve asked myself what I will do if Maggie does get sick. I’ve come up with some answers. I will always listen. I will always be there to remind her that everything is going to be ok. I will never shame or ridicule her for her feelings or her need to just be left alone. I will see that she has the best medical care available. I will teach her to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to not get mired in self-pity or despair. I will be there when she is confused and lost and angry. Even when she is angry with me.

Most importantly I will treat my own illness. I will try to lead by example. I will do for her what was not done for me. I will do my very best to make sure that when she looks back on her life, the good times out number the bad.

It was easier when I was a child. My abuser was an upstanding member of the community, popular, respected. Nobody would have believed me. Nobody noticed the signs, the bruises, the stiff and sore muscles, the withdrawal, the fear. If they did they never said anything to me about it. I learned to distrust other humans at a very early age, especially grown-ups. Grown-ups were cowards.

But it was easier to pretend it wasn’t real when I was a child. I was able to create a world in which I could make it all disappear whenever I wanted. My teachers said I lacked focus. They said I didn’t apply myself to my work and that I spent most of my time staring out of the classroom window. I hated my teachers. They wanted to take from me my only refuge, my only way to survive. They wanted to take my imagination. It cost me everything, but they never got it.

It’s so easy to pretend that everything is ok when you’re a child. It’s what you’re supposed to do. Be quiet. Don’t talk back. Don’t make trouble. Do what you’re told. Easy.

It gets harder when the years roll away and you are left eye to eye with your abuser and the mess that’s been made of you. You find that if you’re to survive in this new adult world, you’re going to have to clean up the mess. It’s like being stabbed in the heart and then handed a needle and sutures. It’s a lot fucking easier to just lie down and bleed.

Suddenly everyone wants to know what’s wrong with you. You’re an adult now, no excuses, buck up, get over it, be normal. Be NORMAL NOW.

And you want to but you don’t know how. You ask for help and slowly you start to find yourself, your own voice. You realize that except for all of the remembering, you are safe. You learn that you have taken the place of your abuser. You learn to be more kind.

But it never goes away completely. It’s cliché, but there is scar tissue that you have to chisel through on a daily basis. There is anger, fear, confusion. There are days when you can’t do it anymore.

As an adult, it feels infinitely more difficult to protect your abuser. It’s not a matter of screaming their name from some rooftop. You learned long ago that there is nothing that will make things “even Steven”, and you no longer want your abuser to hurt like you do. What you want is to be free of them. What you want is the freedom to speak. The freedom to expose every side of yourself in whatever way you see fit. The freedom to answer questions honestly. Every day that you have to lie, cover up, shrug your shoulders, or just not speak feels like the equivalent of another day of abuse.

I find myself in a dangerous and terrifying place now, where I am bringing a new life into the world. There will come a time when my abuser will stand before me, believing that I will not speak as I place my child in their arms.

But inside, right now, I am screaming.

Yesterday I went on a crying spree that lasted off and on all day. I cried about everything- my dysfunctional family, my imperfect house, my swollen feet, the passing of my grandmother. Each time I cried it was catastrophic, my heart crushed in equal proportion regardless of the catalyst.

Whenever my sorrow over incomplete baseboards hurts me as deeply as a deceased relative, I’m engaging in what I like to call “La Fiesta Loco”. I’d love to blame it on hormones, but the fact is that I suffer from these little episodes more often than I’d like to admit. Everything hurts. The mental anguish is unbearable. I’m unable to put anything into perspective or engage in rational thought.

My experience has been that with my medication these wonderfully attractive episodes are not a daily or even weekly event. I am more able to tell myself that I’ve ventured into Crazyville and I’ll find my way home soon enough. Most importantly, I usually don’t feel any burning hatred towards myself for having a defective brain or the need to harm myself as a result.

(On a side note, have you noticed how when you go to your doctor or therapist and they ask if you’ve been feeling suicidal and you say “yes”, their next question is “do you have a plan?”? What kind of question is that? No dude, I was just sitting around watching Saved By the Bell reruns and it suddenly occurred to me to end it all but then Slater’s ex showed up in town and Jessie was all pissed and I forgot all about decorating the wall with my frontal lobe. No biggie.)

I am the self-pity queen. That’s not to say that when I have a day like yesterday my feelings aren’t valid or important, it’s just that when I start feeling some clarity it’s vitally important that I put things in perspective. Is my house lacking baseboards because God hates me and I’m doomed to a lifetime of misery and suffering or have I neglected to call the baseboards guy because I enjoy putting things off until the last conceivable minute? Did my grandmother die just to break my heart or because she was 82 years old, sick, and ready to go? Are my feet swollen because I’m the most unsexy human alive or because I’ve been blessed enough to to have a little baby growing inside me?

My life is amazing even when my brain is unable to process this fact and it’s so important for me to assume a position of humility as soon as I’m able. Perspective. It rules.

In early February, after several years of trying to no avail, I found out that I was pregnant.

My initial reaction was very mixed, I was happy but I was also horrified. I kept thinking of how screwed up I had felt for most of my life, of how unpredictable my depression could be, and worst of all was the question that kept me up nights in the beginning: What if I pass my disease on to my baby?

Also, through a delightful cocktail of Lexapro, Adderall, and various sleep aids I found myself in the most peaceful and genuinely functional state of mind and I was scared to death to start the long walk, retracing the path back to uncertainty and despair, back into the bowels of my illness. I stopped the Adderall and sleep medication immediately crossing my fingers that doing so would not send me into a tailspin.

My husband and I had discussed the possibilities of my remaining on my anti-depressant during my pregnancy many times in the past. What we had to weigh was the unknown effects of the drug on the baby vs. my ability to survive being pregnant for nine months. How far would I regress in that amount of time? Point A in this journey, before I found an anti-depressant that worked for me and before I was diagnosed with severe ADD, (minus the “H”. Hyperactive I ain’t.) was a place I didn’t care to return to. My days back then consisted of paralyzing panic attacks, confusion, insomnia, terror, deep sorrow and a daily urge to put myself out of my misery.

When I called the doctor’s office to schedule my initial prenatal visit I was informed that my primary care physician had transferred to another city and that I’d need to establish another one. At the visit with the replacement doctor I was sternly scolded for even considering the possibility of remaining on my anti- depressant during my pregnancy. The doctor refused to refill my prescription for Lexapro saying that there just wasn’t enough evidence about it’s effects on fetal development for him to feel comfortable with it.

Mercifully, a few days later I had my first visit with my OBGYN who said that there was no evidence that Lexapro, in therapeutic doses, would have any ill effect whatsoever on the baby. She confirmed my fear that tossing the anti-depressant could be not only dangerous for me, but unhealthy for the fetus. She was kind and supportive and understanding and honestly I don’t know what I’d have done had it not been for her. I think I might have stopped my medication altogether.

Seven months later I have no doubt that I made the right choice. (that is to say, the right decision for me. this is a highly personal decision and I don’t believe there’s a definitive “right” or “wrong”) I have been experiencing symptoms of depression for months now- insomnia, mild panic, racing thoughts, etc., but thanks to the anti-depressant I have been able to cope with them. I know that they will pass. They have not become my reality. For the most part I am calm and centered. I feel at peace. I know my baby experiences my emotions and I’m so relieved that what she has experienced during her time in my body has been mostly positive. Mostly comforting. Mostly sane.