It will be four years in July. July 26th to be exact. Four years since I lost my Piper and for a while, myself. I’ve been on anti-depressants for nearly as long. It was needed. I needed them. At first they helped me get out of bed. They helped me re-join the world. To see that I didn’t cause what happened. To help me see that I could make a difference in what I was currently doing.
Since then, I’ve battled depression. It never seems to fully leave. At times it lays dormant, just laying in wait for the next opportunity to pounce.
I’ve dealt with more in the past four years than I could begin to put into words. PPD twice. Childhood abuse issues. A pretty much complete distance from my dad, step-mother and her children. Separation. Child sharing. Divorce. Life after divorce. That’s just the surface words. The reality was much harsher.
I’ve lowered and upped my doses for years depending on what was in my face in the moment. I’ve battled many horrible bouts of depression in the past four years. I’ve also battled some not as bad ones. I’ve spent weeks hiding in bed. I’ve had days that I honestly believed the sun would never shine again. Depression does that. It takes over your entire world. It makes you tired. It physically hurts. It makes you doubt everything good in your life. Those commercials with the dark cloud following the cartoon person around? Those are a fairly accurate picture. When I’m depressed, I’m pretty horrible to myself. My head gets all messed up and I over think everything said to me and everything I say to the point of making myself and everyone around me crazy.
I’ve also had some amazing depression free periods. Some last days, some weeks and lately it has been months. Months in-between bouts with darkness. Even the darkness, when it comes hasn’t been as long. Days instead of weeks. An occasional week, instead of months. Life has gotten better. My life is a lot more sunshine these days. My head is a lot more mellow.
On Friday, I went to an Endocrinologist for a plethora of reasons. I plan on explaining some of what was said at a later time. For now, let’s just say, I adore the woman. One thing she said to me, was that she’d like me to think about getting off my depression medication.
I’ve thought about it for days. I have been on the lowest dose possible for the past three months. The longest time I’ve gone that low since starting it. I’ve weighed all of the options. I know what could happen. I know it could throw me into a depression. I know the physical side effects of getting off of it. I know what my head may do. How I may get. I know all of this.
Yet, I’m going to try anyway. I’d like to give it a full six weeks before I consider if I can do it for good, or if I need to return to it. Six weeks. I’ve picked a time of sunshine and warmth. I’ve made a list for myself of fun thing that are happening in the next six weeks and a second list of things to do when I start feeling bad.
I’m going to try. I want off of this. It wasn’t what I wanted when I got on it. It was what I needed. The hard truth is that I may always battle depression. That doesn’t mean I need to be medicated forever though. If needed at a later date, I will go back on it, knowing that I gave it a good shot. Whether that’s in six weeks, six months or six years. It’s okay.
I’m scared. I’m terrified that I’m making a huge mistake. I’m worried that it will set of my anxiety. I think I’m most scared that I’m deluding myself. That I really do still need the medication to function. I have to give it a shot though.
Today is day one.
When Logan first left, the pain of it all felt like it came in constant waves. Like I was on the coast during a horrible storm. The wave would take me under, flip me around and spit me out. I’d barely catch my breath before it did it again. It was brutal. It was non-stop. After awhile it dissipated a bit. A large wave would come and smack me every now and then, but it wasn’t constant. It was almost as if the storm had passed. Most of the time now, it’s not that bad. Even when the waves come, they are little. Lake waves maybe.
There’s that saying that you can get used to anything? I never believed it to be true, but I suppose it is. I did. I got used to this new life. Most of the time at least. This weekend was rough though. I’m not even sure I can adequately put it into words. The best I can probably say, is there was a big storm. I made it out okay, but I felt a bit wrecked.
I’d forgotten what it was like to feel this bad. Maybe not really forgotten, but I’d pushed it far back. It’s hard to feel so alone. To feel so lonely and know that no one cares to hang out with you. To feel like you’ve lost everything. I spent a lot of time wishing I could turn back the clock this weekend. Wishing I could turn the clock back to a better time. A time where my house was always loud. A time where I was married. A time where my kids were always here. A time with friends to talk to and do things with. I miss that.
This weekend I missed that so much. This weekend my depression and anxiety beat me. This weekend I felt super sorry for myself. I was convinced that I’d always be alone. I’ve been through so much in the past few years and most of the time now, I feel like I have a handle on my life and on myself. I wish he could have just waited. Just given me more time to find my way.
This weekend I felt like I’d never be happy again. What can I say, I’m over dramatic when I have one of these moment. However, it happens.
Yesterday after completely loosing my shit and sobbing to one of my best friends for a good hour, I started to feel better. I still feel pretty wrecked though. Dumb too. I always feel like a dumb failure in the aftermath.
Last month at some point, I had a conversation with one of my friends. About how right now is just one chapter in our lives. It’s not the whole book. It may be a shitty chapter, yet eventually it will end. Then a new one will start.
I’m ready for that new chapter.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself for a week. It’s just a silly Hallmark holiday. It means nothing. You never even liked it before. Why do you care now?
I’m not sure that I have an answer to that question. I know that today, I do care. I care because I’m alone. I care because I’m still in love with a man who stopped loving me years ago. I care because I won’t get a card. Or flowers. Or chocolates.
I know that’s lame. I do. It’s just a silly Hallmark holiday. I can buy myself chocolates and flowers if I want them. It’s more than that though.
It’s a day of love. A day of love and I only have a messed up, one sided love. A love that I can’t let go of, no matter how hard I try. A once in a lifetime love. A love that shattered my heart possibly for good. There is a huge part of me that believes I had my chance. That he was it and I screwed it up.
It’s not really the tokens of love. The flowers that will die in this climate in three days. The chocolates that I don’t need.
It’s that it’s hard to see love everywhere today and know that you used to have it. Instead of a day of love and happiness, it’s a day of sadness and regrets. At least for me.
Just a silly Hallmark holiday. Well maybe one day I’ll believe that.
-About my son asking to pee in the potty this morning. However I’m sure it’s a fluke. Also? I’m not touching that issue until summer. Winter and layers and pee soaked clothes? Nope.
-About the snow. However, it’s snowing in 80% of the country and no one cares to hear about it anymore.
-About my possibly having PCOS and being scared shit-less. However, until I know for sure, that seems dumb.
-That maybe after doing this for five years, I’m out of things to say. **Which after an hour, I realized I may have stolen the exact words that my friend Jodifur said last week. Oops. Sorry Jodi.
-About the fact that I’m considering taking down BlogHerAds, just so that I didn’t feel like I need to post more than once a week, if I don’t want too.
-That winter is really getting to me. That all I want to do is sleep.
I feel it creeping in. Like a cold, it shows up so slowly that it takes a while to notice it’s there. It starts out in my chest making it feel a bit heavy. I can explain that away at first. Maybe it’s just part of the cold I had last week. Maybe it’s the cold windy weather. I try to explain it away.
Next it creeps into my limbs making them tired and sore. I get tired all of the time, yet I have trouble falling and staying asleep. We did too much this weekend, I think at first. Yet I know that’s not really it.
By then it’s in. It starts to attack my head. It makes me tired and grouchy. It makes me sad. It makes me over question everything. I start to worry about nothing. About everything.
It does this to me. Depression does this to me.
I’m fighting it. I feel like I’m fighting it tooth and nail. Some days, I’m not sure I’m going to win. Today it has won. Depression 1, Issa 0.
Nine months later and I still wake up at 5am every dam day. You’d think eventually I’d get used to it. That eventually I’d of stopped waking up each day at that time. But no. No such luck, not yet.
Logan always woke up at 5am. He’d get up, shower, go to the gym and then go to work from there. It was his thing. On days where he did that, I’d barely wake up and roll over and go back to sleep. After years of it, I even woke up at 5am on days he didn’t get up that early. Sometimes it would annoy me, because I’d not be able to fall back asleep for an hour. Sometimes I barely even noticed it. Yet, each day I’d wake up at that time. Without fail.
Nine months. It’s been nine months since he left.
Some things I’ve gotten used too. Nights used to be really hard for me. Falling asleep alone, used to be so hard. For months and months I cried every night. Few months ago, I stopped. I got used to it. Sleeping alone. Or well as alone as one is with a half time cuddly six year old in ones bed.
I got used to the quiet when the kids are with him. Took a long time. But I’m used to it now. On occasion, I even enjoy it. Mostly though, I’m just used to it.
I got used to taking out the trash on the correct day, changing light bulbs, dealing with the dog all the time, buying and making less food, doing all kid duty on my days, alone. I got used to all that. I adapted. Maybe not always well, but I’ve adapted.
Hell, I even say I now, most of the time, instead of we. Progress.
Yet, every morning I wake up at 5am. It’s a sad reminder each day of what’s missing. Every morning, it’s a reminder of what I lost. My 5am reminder. Some days, I roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes I lay there for a bit. On occasion, on a day like today, I cry. Because I’m still not used to this new life.
It’s my Achilles heel. 5am.
I can’t write to the science of Postpartum Depression. I am not a scientist. I can’t write about the chemicals in your brain when you have it. I am not a chemist. I can’t tell you what a shrink would say. I am not a shrink. I can not tell you about anyone else’s PPD or how they should deal with it.
What I can tell you, is about me. My story. How postpartum depression changed my life. That I can tell you.
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We named her the night we had the ultrasound. Saw her little butter bean self swimming along all cute and peanut looking. It’s a girl I said, we obviously don’t make boys. Yeah, but been there done that, was his response, we need a boy name and a girl name. Piper Isabelle. Tristan Gabriel. We came up with those names in an hour. It was simple. It was easy. No name decision, prior or since has been easy.
We’d just moved to Colorado. We’d been here literally a week. 12 week ultrasound. Three little peanut pictures to take home.
Few weeks later, I was hanging a picture. I was up on a ladder. I was being impatient. Logan had said he’d do it when he got home. I hadn’t felt that great in the morning. I did it anyway. I HATE walls with no pictures up on them. I was also afraid of the girls running into them and breaking glass and yeah. Anyway.
I woke up in the ER. I have no idea why. I have no idea why I didn’t have to feel it. But it may have been easier if I’d…I don’t even know. I woke up and it was already done. D&C. She was gone and they removed her parts I guess. Whatever else. I try not to think about it. I was in some form of shock and they don’t know why. They don’t know why I passed out. My blood pressure was through the roof. But still it was all a guess. All I knew, was I woke up and Logan was there and he had to tell me she was gone. (They did generic test her. Gotta love doctors. Trying to find an answer for everything. Guess they thought it would be easier on me, if something had been wrong with her. Sadly, there was no answer. Just that I was right. She’d been a girl.) I knew it though, that she was gone. I felt so empty. When I looked at him, I knew it. I know he told me then, but I don’t think I heard anything. She’s gone, I said. Yes, he answered. That was it. That’s all I remember. I couldn’t even tell you how much longer I was there.
Went home with a prescription for pain killers, a shattered heart and no hope in the world.
I couldn’t understand. I don’t know that I do now. No one I knew at the time had ever had a miscarriage…or that was what I thought then. People tend to come out of the wood works later with their own stories.
I couldn’t understand how the world could keep moving. I could barely breath, yet the world kept moving. Logan asked me on the way home if I wanted to stop and get dinner for the girls. I couldn’t even answer him. The world moved on. People kept breathing. My cell phone rang. My children had to eat. The dog wanted to go for a walk. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered. Nothing ever would again. She was gone. I was dead inside. That was all I knew.
One of my first regrets…I destroyed the ultrasound photos. I walked in the door and went to the fridge to get water to take more pills. I hurt. Physically I hurt. It’s painful, a D&C. Not as painful as having a miscarriage and having pieces pass, but still it hurts. Anyway, I went to the fridge and saw her photo and I remember screaming. I put it in the drain and hit the button on the disposal. I went to bed after that. I didn’t even say a word to the girls. I just walked away and went to bed.
I stayed in bed for three months. I tried to will myself to die. To stop breathing. To just die. I didn’t want anything except her. The first month my mom came to stay, she took care of me. She took care of the girls and Logan. She tried. Oh man did she try. At first she made the girls come in and try talking to me. After about a week she stopped, because I couldn’t handle it. Because they couldn’t handle it. I ignored my own daughters. All i did was cry. I cried for three weeks straight. Then I just stopped. The girls would come and go. If they got in bed with me, I’d cuddle with them. Couldn’t make myself talk though. Logan would come and go. I barely ate. I only showered maybe once a week and only then because my mom threatened me.
I shut down. I completely shut down. I basically stopped living. Ii was there but I wasn’t there.
At some point, my husband and mother made me see a doctor. I thought it was after two months, my mom says it was only about three weeks. The meds didn’t help. Not at first.
After a month, my MIL came to switch places with my mom. She babied me a bit more. Made me every sweet she could think of. Force fed me cake. I started eating again.
The third month my mom came back. At that point, she made me get on new meds. She told me if I didn’t, she’d have me committed. That she had the power to put me on a psych hold and don’t think she wouldn’t do it. tTruth is, a lot of it I don’t remember. I shut down. I folded into myself.
So I took the new meds. Not because I wanted too, or cared really, but because they forced me too. She made me get up. Made me at least do some of the day to day stuff with the kids. After a while I got used to it. A while after that, I started enjoy my girls again. I remember the day I found myself laughing again. I laughed until I cried. A bit more time passed and my mom went home.
I regret a lot of things about that time. So much so. It pains me to write this out. It physically exhausts me. I feel so broken. So damaged.
The things I thought are bad. I will be completely honest with you guys, I wanted to die. They suspected it. I wasn’t left alone for months. Logan took my meds with him to work every day. For months and months. Heck, there probably wasn’t anything stronger than baby Advil in my home for months.
Would I have done something. Nah. I don’t think so. I was too something for that. Numb maybe. I just didn’t think I could ever be happy again. I didn’t think I could ever breath again. I didn’t know that I wanted too.
I know how this sounds. Trust me I do. Is why I haven’t talked about it. I think it’s time though. Time to say it. Time to deal with it.
I abandoned my kids for nearly three months. Someone else made their meals, changed their clothes, bathed them, sang them to sleep. Someone else read to them, kissed their boo boos, bought them school clothes, took them to school, took them to the doctor for three months. I was there. But I wasn’t there.
This? Is my reality of PPD. This is what it did to me. To my family. To my babies.
When I am sad and Bailey makes jokes I know this is why. She remembers that only she could make me laugh for months. When I’m stressed and Morgan steps in and takes over small things with the little kids. I know this is why. I forced her to grow up too much without even wanting too. I can’t undo these things. I would if I could. They worry if I stay in bed or don’t shower. So unless I am sick I always shower. I always get out of bed. For them. But I hate that they remember it.
Truth? Harrison was not planned. It was too soon. I’d only lost Piper six months earlier, when I got pregnant.
I didn’t believe he’d make it. That I was being punished. That I’d loose him. Until I was seven months pregnant I tried to ignore the fact that I was pregnant. I talked to him. I took care of him. I even talked normally about him to everyone else. But I felt like I was carrying an alien. I felt none of the joy that I had with the girls. I wanted him more than anything but I didn’t believe in him. I’m sure that it did him harm. To not feel wanted in utero. I love him more than life itself but I can’t undo any damage I caused him.
I blamed me for the loss of Piper. If I just not done this, if I’d done this, if I’d been better, been more something. I blamed Logan. For moving us across the country. For telling me it would be okay. For stressing me out so much that I lost her. Do I know neither of us are to blame? Yes. Now. But I hated him. I hated him and he stopped loving me. I am to blame for that. I am the reason my marriage failed. That whole time I pushed Logan away. I didn’t let him near me. I didn’t let him sleep in our bed. I wouldn’t talk to him. I wouldn’t look at him. Afterwords when I got better a bit, I knew he didn’t trust me fully. He didn’t. Not for months. Maybe never. I don’t blame him for that. I can’t blame him for that. That is on me. That is on my disease. Not him.
I lost my friends. For awhile I lost my sanity. I lost my husband. I lost a piece of myself. My innocence. My heart maybe.
Some called it a nervous breakdown due to PPD. Due to stress. Due to PTSD of loosing the baby. Some say, I’m just crazy. There has been a lot of talk this week, that PPD isn’t really a chemical thing. That it’s not real. That it’s just new mom’s not liking their new role in life. That the act of creating a child, is just plain too much for some women. Mine came from losing a child. That doesn’t make it any less real. Postpartum Depression is real. I had it while pregnant with Harrison as well, and after. However I was under constant watch and on continuous meds. The words being tossed around this week, feel judgmental. But reality is no one can judge me as much as I judge myself.
Postpartum Depression wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I’d never had any depression issues prior to it. I’d already had two children. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I also, had no control over it. It was real. My PPD was real.
***This post was written, because of an article on AOL. If you want more specifics on that, Her Bad Mother wrote a great post on PPD as well.
I told myself three years is too long to still remember. I told myself I wouldn’t say anything this year. I’d just ignore it. I’d stop thinking about it. I’ve put out too many depressing posts this year. There doesn’t need to be any more. For that, I apologize. I can’t seem to stop myself today.
Last year I tried to ignore it. I fretted before hand that I’d fall apart, like the years prior. I didn’t though. I didn’t fall apart. I also didn’t not remember. A lot of you saw me on this day last year. Twenty or so of us even had dinner on this date last year. See, last year I was at BlogHer, so it was easy to shove it to the back of my head. I cried a bit in a bathroom, but I didn’t say anything. Save for the four amazing people at my table that night who let me cry in public for a minute, and the one person who already knew, who squeezed my hand each time she saw me, I kept it quiet.
It made it easy to not think about the What-If’s all day.
It feels wrong though to not say something. To not remember. She was my baby after all. For 14 weeks, three years ago she was my baby. Until she wasn’t.
I have spent all day wondering. Wondering what she’d look like. What she’d be like. If she’d be girly, or more tom boy-ish. If she’d be a mama’s girl, or a daddy’s girl. Wondering if we still would have had Harrison. Wondering if we’d still be together if I hadn’t lost my shit. None of that is her fault, it just is.
They don’t prepare you for that, you know? Loss. Heartache. There is no rule book. No, how to, for dummies.
I have to remember. Till the day I die, I will always remember her, even when I one day, learn to stop mentioning it out loud. Because even though, she was never more than a few little plastic sticks with two lines and one ultrasound picture, she was still my daughter. My Piper.
I woke up this morning in a fog. Part of it is that I’ve not been sleeping. Last night I actually slept all night. For possibly the first time in weeks. I’m not sure why it means I woke up more tired, but I did. I’ve had coffee and it’s 10:30am and I still could just sleep. For a week. Please and thank you.
Part of it is me. My head. I’m just in a funk today. I haven’t managed to shake it yet. I’m not depressed. Not really. Maybe not yet. But it’s there. I feel it. Hanging out. Trying to get cozy and comfy. I’m trying to shake it off, but so far no go. I feel uber-sensitive. I feel like I shouldn’t even talk to my best friends, because I’m likely to say something stupid. Likely to be too needy and god knows none of them need that right now. That nothing I say is going to be worthwhile. See: questioning everything.
It’s been a few decent weeks. A few weeks of sun. Of weekend trips out of town. Of mini-golf with Morgan, kite flying with Bailey and finding polly-pollys with Harrison. Weeks of watermelon and ice cream. Weeks of my head being less crazy.
The depression though? Sucks. I wish I could turn it off. I wish it wasn’t here, as a constant reminder that I’m not strong enough. Sometimes I think it’s just me. That I’m too much of a drama queen. That I’m getting caught up in the crazy in my own head. But hey, that’s part of it too.
I get up every single day and do everything I need to do. Without fail. I work. I take care of my kids. I play Frisbee with my dog. My house is mostly clean. My bills get paid on time. Laundry gets done. Maybe not put away, but whatever. It’s there and clean and folded.
It never goes away though. Never fully. I have great days, great hours, great moments. Then it’s back. Making me sad and lonely and wanting to curl up in a ball and sleep. Of course, when I’m like this, I stop being able to sleep, which makes it worse.
When I feel like this, I question everything I say. Or do. For fear of seeming crazy. Or unstable. Which you all may think, I have no idea. I’m not, I promise. I’m just a person whose life has changed drastically. I’m still flailing around in the water, so to speak. I haven’t learned to swim yet. Maybe I need floaties?
I start apologizing for everything. I said in someones comments this morning, that I apologize for apologizing for something that I only thought. My friend Liz is constantly telling me that I don’t need to say I’m sorry for things I NEVER EVEN SAID. That no one can read my thoughts.
I’m a really awesome friend, I assure you.
My best friends. Man they are amazing. They won’t let me go. They hold me up, let me cry, hold my hand and let me say everything that is in my head no matter how crazy it is. They make jokes, help me remember to breath and distract me. Then one of them carefully re-applies the duct tape that had slipped off.
I try. I try so dam hard. But it comes back. No matter what I do, it always comes back. It’s never enough.
You know those commercials? The, depression sucks the life out of everyone around you ones?
Yeah, those have a way of making me want to throw something at my TV. I don’t, only because I love my TV. The problem with those ads, is they are written by pharmaceutical companies. Or for them. Whatever. They are basically sprouting off that your (my) depression could be helped by their oh so wonderful med. Then you’d want to get out of bed. Then you’d have energy. Then your children and dog wouldn’t ever be sad. Or something.
I’m taking it out of context, I’m sure. It still annoys me.
Because I am depressed. Or more accurately, I suffer from depression. I’m not actually depressed as I’m writing this. It is a constant struggle though. I am medicated for it. Guess what though? The medication isn’t a magic pill. Does it help? Yes. Does therapy, yes. Mostly. Sleeping enough helps. Sometimes. When I can actually manage to sleep. I’m not a sleeper. It’s genetic. I take something for that too. Some nights it does help. Some it just doesn’t.
My depression likes the cold. It likes winter. It feeds on winter. I can keep it at bay easier in the summer. When the days are longer and the nights and darkness shorter. When I can play outside in the sun with my kids. When there is watermelon and cherries and ice cream in the house all the time. When music is loud and dance in the living room parties happen often. When I get a break from forcing children to do homework after school. Then? It’s easier. Not perfect, but a bit easier. My depression shrinks away from the sun. It’s not so fond of summer. I think it hibernates until it sees the jackets come out again.
It doesn’t matter what’s gone on during the week, it’s still there. I had a pretty good week last week, but I still woke up in a foul mood yesterday. I woke up in a, I could stay in bed all day and cry mood. I had gone to be in a good place and woke up in a pretty cruddy one. No idea why. It just is. I had three kids to hang out with, a sunny summery day to be out in and I managed to pull myself out of that mood. A sunny day outside with my kids helps. It isn’t a guarantee though. It could have just as easily been a shitty parenting day for me, filled with video games and too much TV for them, while I wallowed in my own head. It happens.
Yesterday it ended up okay. Yesterday was a great day, during a great sunny, warm weekend. I can’t always pull my self out of it. Sometimes I get lucky like yesterday and I can. Sometimes I fake it. Other times it’s just too bad and I do the bare minimum to get through my day.
I still hate those commercials though. If only it were as easy as the commercials make you believe.
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