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.

Some days I get caught up in the drama. I try not too, but sometimes there is so much of it, that I find myself helpless to stop it. In some ways, it’s easier to get sucked into the drama online, than to worry about my own life. I have a hard time shutting it off though, once I’m sucked in. A lot of things have bothered me in the last few weeks.

I feel bad about my post the other day. I was in a bad place (Some of it was because of online reasons, others were not. What can I say, I’m damaged goods people.) and was seriously fed up. By the end of the day, I sort of regretted writing it. By yesterday, I wished that I had just said, hey the kids are on Spring Break, I have two jobs to do this week and no child care until Thursday…so I may not be around….see ya in a week.

The problem is, I write in the moment. I write from the heart. In that moment, I was very upset and worked up. I feel like a jerk. I whined about the drama as I unintentionally caused more. For that? I am truly sorry.

I wouldn’t have deleted my blog. I shouldn’t have said it, because it isn’t true. Even in the moment of thinking it, I shut down the computer, left the house and texted my best friend. See, best friend law states that I have to have prior written permission from my two best friends, before I’m allowed to delete. I am not deleting. I apologize to all of you for saying it.

Your words, all of your words helped me to remember why I do this. You have no idea how much your words meant to me this past few days. I can not thank you all enough. I’d thank you individually, but I honestly don’t have the time or energy to do so this week. Just…thank you. Truly.

I do this for the community. I do this because I’ve made amazing friends, whose lives I love hearing about. I do this because I love nothing more than hearing today, that my friend Renee gets to travel to Africa to bring her son, Lion, home in two weeks. Those things? Are important. Do I need to re-evaluate how involved I get in the other stuff? Yes, I do. While I work and try not to kill my children this week, I will be thinking about that. Will I find a magic answer? No, probably not. But I’ll try to work on my attitude. Things happen…I can only control what I do online, not what anyone else does. But I have re-remembered why I do this. Truth? I never really forgot.

I write because I love to write. I write here, because I love this space. I write here for me, I write here for you. I will continue to write here. Promise.

So….let me try this again. My children are on Spring Break. I have no child care. They are with me until Thursday morning, when they leave for the holiday weekend with their dad. I have two full time jobs this week. I may not be around much this week, but I’m not going anywhere.

I worried. Worried about sharing my story with the world. I worried so much that I didn’t sleep the night before it was posted. At all.

When Maggie said, it’s your turn, are you ready, I said yes. Not because I really was though. It’s been six months since I wrote that post. I have wondered when my turn came, if I’d say no or yes, for six long months. Not a day went by without me wondering. Truth? Any other time, any other week in between the day I sent it to her and Sunday, I may have said no. On Sunday, in that moment, I said okay. Then I didn’t sleep.

I hid all day yesterday. I may hide more. I am afraid. I am vulnerable and that scares me. I put my deepest darkest secrets out into the world and it terrifies me. It shouldn’t. I’ve shared other things and you all have supported me. I have read each and every comment over there. Everyone has been sweet and kind. I’m still scared. This is different. This? I wish I didn’t even have to know, much less share it with everyone.

Six months ago I wrote that post. I wrote it because I was triggered. I wrote it because I had too. It was time. Time to be honest. Time to stop stuffing it. Time to learn to deal with it. It was one of the hardest things I ever did. I didn’t think I was strong enough to post it. I was grateful when Maggie said, it could be months before it goes up. I’m still not sure I’m strong enough to talk about it. I hit send that day, sent it to Maggie for VU, because a friends bravery made me think I may be strong enough.Then, because I was hysterical and needed to be talked of a ledge, I sent it to someone else. Then? I had to deal with it.

I’ve been in therapy ever since then. First to deal with the that, then to deal with my current situation. Both in fact. YAY me. Sigh.

I’ve been on the edge of tears for two days now. I can’t even tell you for sure why I’m writing this. Maybe its because writing helps me. Maybe it’s because I have a knack for feeling like I should explain or apologize. Maybe??? Who knows.

I apologize often. For everything. For nothing. For things I perceive to be failures on my part. For things I perceive that I’ve said badly. It annoys some people. I’ve actually lost friends because of it. I eventually have to tell friends, I say I’m sorry often, but I swear to you, I never say it if I don’t mean it. It’s just that I always feel I need to say I’m sorry about something.

It’s one of the many things that I do because of my childhood. I know this. I’ve been told this in therapy. Will I ever stop doing it? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure that it matters. There are other things. Some small, some major. The thing is, it changed who I would become. From seven years old, I became a little adult. I had no choice. My choice was taken away.

You think you can stuff it away. That if you don’t talk about it, it isn’t real. That as long as you get up and live your life, you’ve done okay. I believed for years that as long as I protected my kids one day, none of this mattered. It isn’t true though. It changed me. Not dealing with it changed me. Dealing with it, these past six months has changed me again.
I thought I’d feel better sharing. Thought it would free me in some way. Make it somehow easier. Maybe in a day or two, or a week or two, this will be the case.

I’m worried. Worried that what I shared is too much. Worried that I burdened you all.

Mostly though, I’m scared. Scared that this forever changes how you will look at me, think about me. Others have shared and I have not felt different about them at all. Not in the least. I’ve always wondered if that’s because I understand. Because I get it. I get them. However, I’m still scared. Exposed. Tired. Scared.

I need a break. I need a break from my life right now. I’m not going to get that. I have things I need to talk about, but I just can’t yet. In a few weeks I will, but right now? I just need to focus on the day to day.

My day to day, which involves four people showing up at my house on Wednesday night. By the end of next weekend, I will have eleven extra people at my house. For a week. Was supposed to have twelve, but my BIL broke up with his girlfriend last week. (Luckily my parents and In-Laws won’t actually be sleeping at my house, but the rest of them will.)

My day to day, which involves kids, getting ready for Christmas and trying to get up and make it through each day. I’m doing the best I can…and I’m doing a dam good job at it, but something has to give for a few weeks.

I’m going to take a blogging break. Most likely until the first of the year. I will still be around. I’m sure I’ll be on Twitter and visiting your blogs. But I can’t put into words what I need to say on here. Not yet. For now, I’ll stop trying. Putting up meme’s isn’t worth it. Not for three weeks. Better you all feel like you can ignore me, than feel like you need to come read yet another meme.

I went back and forth on saying something and just not. I’ve thought about this for a week. I adore this blog, this space, this community. You all mean more to me than I could even try to put into words. I swear to you all, I’ll be back soon.

In fact, around New Years I will have a new blog design, one that the lovely, talented Mommy Geekology is designing for me. It will be good timing too. A new design for a new year. Something shiny and pretty and way more me than this design is. I will post something when that time comes.

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. If you need me, you know where to find me….playing Bejeweled on Facebook.

xoxo, Issa

You know that show with the people who collect everything under the sun? They are…dam what’s the word. Oh yes, hoarders. Which I guess is a nice word for pack rat. They even have a show now on TLC called Hoarders. The experts (experts in what, I have no idea) go into the persons house and help them see that they have a problem. Then they help clean out the house. Or this is the gist of the show, from the commercials on it that I’ve seen.

I am not a hoarder, not by any means. However, I remember how much stuff we donated when we move here. Things like an entire box of Simpson’s figurines. **cough *Logan* cough**

We have some weird things that we choose to save. I thought you guys might get a kick out of hearing some of these.

Cards. I save birthday cards and Christmas cards. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Since I was 10 years old. I can’t even tell you why I keep them, but I do. I literally moved a box of them when we came to Colorado.

Pez dispensers. My husband has a thing with Pez dispensers. My brother does too. I don’t get it. I never have. We have more than I want to admit. When Morgan was a baby, we had a bunch of them attacked by ants. Logan killed each ant and then replaced the ones that had been infested. The only good thing about this, was he started keeping them in big Tupperware bins and not needing to display them. Oh yes, they used to be displayed. It was wrong.

Music. Logan has this issue with not giving away CD’s, even though we will never listen to them. Even though we don’t exactly know why we own things like Hanson, Tupac or the Spice Girls.

Books. This one is me. Even if I hated a book, I can’t seem to give it away. We have bookshelves and bookshelves full of books. I will almost never let the girls buy a toy at Target, but god forbid they want a book. They always get it. They know my weakness. You may think I’m joking on not giving away books. I have an entire box full of Baby-Sitter’s Club books. Another of Sweet Valley High. It’s bad.

Glasses. We own more dishes than one needs to own. I have two sets of china, a set of dishes that we use every day, a set of Christmas dishes and dishes that we use at BBQ’s. However, more than that, we collect cups. And mugs. And cool glasses. I have a weakness for cool cups. In Vegas in September I saw a set of glasses that I wanted at the Coca-Cola store. I didn’t buy them there, since I didn’t want to carry them home…or back to the hotel. What? It was 106 degrees. Anyway, when I got home, I ordered them off the Internet. I heart them. I already want more.

Coasters. This one is Logan. Although, I seriously do own the coaster that my great-grandmother sewed. We also have the cork ones. The picture ones, because everyone should put a glass on their kids smiling face. The character ones…Simpsons, Muppets, M&M’s are the ones I can name off the top of my head. The heavy ceramic ones that we had to put away, because Harrison is likely to throw them at the dog. We have the wood ones, from that one place, where we went that one time. Yeah, he has a reason for keeping them all. Funny enough, I rarely use the dam things.

Movie/concert/plane tickets. I have every ticket from the time I was 12 years old. Some day I want to make something cool with them. Someday. You know? One of those days.

Okay, that’s all I’m admitting too. I can’t be the only one who is two steps away from being featured on the show Hoarders. What’s your thing? What do you have that you can’t seem to get rid of?