For more 30 days of truth: Day 1, 2.
There are a lot of things I should probably work on forgiving myself for. Some I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to though. This is the hardest one though. You’ll have to forgive me, for only giving some details, as it’s not really my story to tell.
When I was eleven, I made a choice one day. A choice any child at any time could have made. This one though? It changed my families life forever. A simple decision, is what it seemed at the time.
I asked my aunt if she’d take me shopping with her for the day and not let my brother come along. I was eleven. He was nine. He was annoying. My mom had left us with my aunt for part of Spring Break, because she had a school conference she had to go to.
Such a simple thing. Time away from my annoying little brother. Didn’t seem like a big deal. My aunt agreed. She made my brother stay home, with her husband and son.
Took two years for my brother to speak his truth. To tell my mother what happened to him. Years later when the truth of what happened to my brother had become old news, I asked him when exactly this all had happened. That day. It was that day. That day that I made a choice to exclude him for my own silly reasons.
I could have protected him. I could have stopped being a drama queen bratty tween for one day. I could have let the little shit come to the god dam grocery store with us. I should have. If I could undo one moment in time, it would have been that.
I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I always protected my baby brother. Always. Even when he was an annoying shit, I protected him. I loved him. He is my friend, as well as my brother. But that day, I choose to be selfish and his life was changed forever because of it.
The truth is, I know logically that I have to forgive myself. I didn’t want that. I didn’t choose that. I never would have intentionally let anyone hurt my brother. Yet, I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself for it.
She asked me last week if given the chance, would I take him back. For the first time in ten months, the answer was no. I’m not sure when the last time was that we’d had that conversation, but at the time the answer had been yes. Yes I’d of taken him back. Yes, I’d of tried again. Yes, I’d of forgiven him for everything. Yes, yes, YES!
I answered no last week. I meant it with ever fiber of my being. I can’t go backwards I said. I can only move forwards. I wouldn’t do that to myself, or to my children, not even if he begged. He wouldn’t mind you, but still, my answer to the question is now no. That door has been closed.
How things change. In January when he left, I wasn’t sure I’d make it to today. I thought that the pain of of it would just break my heart and I’d cease to exist. In that moment, I was even in denial. I’ve been through it all. All the stages of grief, some even a second round. The me back then, wouldn’t recognize the me today. The past year has been the darkest and hardest of my life. I’d like to lie to you and tell you otherwise, but it’s not true. There were days that I wouldn’t have made it without my best friends. They were like a life boat. My life boat. Holding on to me to keep me from sinking. I could spend the rest of my life thanking them and it wouldn’t be enough. I know it’s a silly line from a television show, but they are my people. They let me be me. They let me grieve. They let me process. They are my people.
There is a photo I have of my best friend Liz and I. It was taken in April at my friend Kirsten’s house, a few nights before my 30th birthday. I love that photo, because it is of us. However, I also don’t like it. Because when I look at it, I see how sad I was. How depressed I was. How completely emotionally exhausted I was at that time. I remember how I completely and fully fell apart a few days later. I see all of that in that photo. It’s my reminder of that time period in my life. There was nothing but sadness in my eyes, even though I’m smiling in the photo. Even though I know I had fun that night.
I had hoped that today, I’d feel better. That today, the day my divorce is final, I’d feel a sense of relief. I don’t. I’m sad. I have regrets. I wish things had been different. I can’t undo that.
We almost made it eleven years. It seemed long at the time. Maybe it was for a marriage that starts at nineteen years old. If you add in the five years we dated prior to marriage, it’s downright amazing. Or it was until it ended. He had half of my life. Half of my life was spent with him. I am 30 years old. I was with him at 14 years old. That’s just shocking to me.
I will be honest, I still don’t know who I am without him. I spent so long with him, that I guess this makes sense. I do know I will figure it out one day. Who I really am. I don’t have to know yet, I don’t have to know in a year. Because I am at least secure in the knowledge that I can survive without him. I wasn’t sure at first. Now I’m sure. I even am okay with being alone now. Not always mind you, but I can deal with it. I have time to figure out who I am.
I feel stronger though. Stronger than I have in a long time. Because I made it. I made it to here. I walked this walk, sometimes one tiny bitsy baby step at a time, and I made it. Today I am just me. The we is gone. Now I am just me. Every day, I feel a tiny bit stronger. I feel like I’m finally figuring out who I am again. The new me. The me that just relies on myself. The me that makes my own decisions. Some days it’s scary. A lot of days it is scary. But I get up each day and do it anyway.
It’s just a piece of paper with today’s date on it, this I know. But it’s the end. The final chapter in a life, my old life. Tomorrow starts a new life. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I do know I’m looking forward to it.
–I heard this song yesterday and it seemed kind of perfect for me.
Sara Evans, A little bit Stronger.
Woke up late today,
and I could still feel the sting of pain,
but I brushed my teeth anyway.
Got dressed through the mess, and
put a smile on my face.
I got a little bit stronger.
Riding in the car to work,
and I try to soothe all the hurt.
There’s a song on the radio,
stupid song made me think of you.
I listened to it for a minute,
but then I changed it.
I’m getting a little bit stronger.
Just a little bit stronger.
And I’m not hoping we can work it out.
I’m done with how I feel.
Spinning my wheels,
letting you drag my heart around.
And I’m not thinking you could ever change.
I know my heart will never be the same.
But I’m telling myself I’ll be OK,
even on my weakest day.
I get a little bit stronger.
It doesn’t happen overnight.
But you turn around and a months gone by,
and you realize you haven’t cried.
I’m not giving you an hour, or a second,
or another minute longer.
I’m busy getting stronger.
And I’m not hoping we could work it out.
I’m done with how I feel.
Spinning my wheels,
letting you drag my heart around.
And I’m not thinking you could ever change.
I know my heart will never be the same.
But I’m telling myself I’ll be OK,
even on my weakest day.
I get a little bit stronger.
Just a little bit stronger.
Getting along without you baby.
Better off without you baby.
How does it feel without me baby?
I’m getting stronger without you baby.
And I’m not hoping we could work it out.
I’m done with how I feel.
Spinning my wheels,
letting you drag my heart around.
And I’m not thinking you could ever change.
I know my heart will never be the same.
But I’m telling myself I’ll be OK,
even on my weakest day.
I get a little bit stronger.
Get a little bit stronger.
Just a little bit stronger.
Little bit, little bit, little bit stronger.
Get a little bit stronger.
You think you mow what you will do. You spend months, sometimes years telling yourself what you will do. What you won’t do. How you will be. How they will be. You are so sure of it.
Private school. Soccer. No sugar cereal. No TV except on weekends. No video games. No yelling. No fast food. Your kid will never act like that. They’d never sleep with me. I’d get rid of binkies at one. They’d potty train at two. They never wear mismatched clothes in public.
Man I was dumb. Deluded too. Nearly nine years later and I laugh at the woman who believed that. If I could, I’d go and flick myself on the back of the head, for ever believing that to be true.
No, that’s not really it. I wanted what we all want. Perfection. Happy. Beautiful. Everything wonderful. We want them to have better than us. No drama. No hatred. No heartache. Nothing that can’t be fixed quickly. I wanted to give my kids a life that only exists in Disney movies.
Here I sit, nearly nine years later. Three kids. No perfection in our lives. Public alternative school. Dance and gymnastics. We eat whatever is easy most of the time. I *may* have let them have cookies after breakfast, because I couldn’t think of a reason why not in the moment. I currently have one kid sleeping with me. Harrison very likely may take his Binky to college and I’m not even considering potty training him until next summer, when he’ll be nearly three. We watch TV and play video games. We play apps and taunt each other with our scores. And I know, this is just a small portion of our life. In fact, its the things that don’t truly matter. This I have learned.
Then comes the harder stuff. The explaining of life issues. Disease. Death. Divorce. Birds and the bees. *shudder* All things you don’t want to have to explain. Things you didn’t think about when picking out names and buying wee bitsy little socks. Which is okay. If we thought about those things, how hard it would be to explain those things, maybe we’d of not had children. I would have….but it would have given me pause. Yet, I didn’t think about it. I don’t think I thought much past kindergarten. There are good reasons for it.
I’ve managed to get through some of the hard conversations. They get it logically. Or Morgan does at least. The real hard part? Watching them hurt. Knowing I can’t do anything about it. Man, no one and nothing can prepare you for that. How do I stop that? Her hurts? I can’t seem too. Even small things are now beyond my control. She’s almost nine.
She wants to read a book. A great book. A hard subject book. Number the Stars. It’s about the Holocaust. She wants to read it, because it’s on a list. A list of great books that everyone should read. She’s in an accelerated reading program and they hand out these lists. But she’s eight.
The Holocaust. How do I explain the Holocaust to an almost nine year old? She still sleeps with a blankie. She has an arm full of Silly Bandz on at all times. She drinks out of crazy straws as much as humanly possible. She’s still so innocent. How do I explain this topic and not take away her innocence?
It’s not as simple as a novel. For our family, it’s real. How do I explain that for our family, or at least my dad’s side, it’s not just a story of once upon a time? That there is a reason there is no family on that side. How do I explain that my great grandma, great-great grandpa and two tiny little boys (one of whom was my grandpa. he was only 5 at the time) escaped with their lives, never to see another family member again? That our name was changed and our religion discarded, as a way to protect what little they had left? How do I explain how entire countries let Hitler kill 6 million Jews? That no one stopped him. I remember the exact day this was explained too me. I do feel like I lost something that day. How can I do that to her? I know I can’t protect her forever, but eight seems too young.
This is the same kid who cries if a dog or cat gets injured in a movie. How do I explain dead children? Dead families? People burned? Starved? I can’t hide it from her. It’s part of history. Part of our history. I’m just not sure I’m ready to explain.
This parenting gig is hard. It was much easier to worry about what I was possibly going to do with all those wee little socks.
Dan at Single Dad Laughing wrote a post on perfection, or really the act of showing how imperfect we really are. Being real. It’s hard for a lot of us to be real. I know I’ve struggled with it my entire life. Sometimes now? I think I’m too real. That maybe a part of me need to go back to pretending. That it’d be easier for those around me. I don’t know that it’s the answer either. Either way, today, I thought I’d show you all some of my imperfectness. If you’d like to share, that’d be great too.
I ignored all of the signs that my husband was unhappy in our marriage. I’m only really looking at it now, in therapy. Three weeks before our divorce is final. I think I believed that it would be okay, because we’d been together forever.
I used to picture us as little old people, hanging out on porch chairs together. Bugging our kids and grand-kids together. I didn’t look at today, because I was so focused on someday. Maybe if I’d looked at today a bit more, I’d still be married.
I put my kids in the hippy school, because it’s a great program, but I am so far from being a hippy that it’s almost funny. I guess it would be funnier if I wasn’t secretly judging the parents. I don’t fit in, that has been made clear over and over and over again. To hide the fact that it hurts, I judge them and their hippy ways, in my head.
Some days I get sad when no one comments on posts. Some days I wonder why I bother with comments at all, since it’s almost a physical need for me to write.
A woman at BlogHer09 told me that she didn’t believe a parenting blog, with fake names and no photos, was a real blog. Someone I really admired basically told me I wasn’t a real writer because I don’t post photos. I’ve let that comment haunt me for over a year. Even though I spoke at the keynote that year and heard tons of lovely things said about me and my post, that one comment is what stuck with me.
I work at home. Yet every time one of the girls has a school field trip, I feel guilty that I can’t take time to be a part of it. I work contract. I only get paid for hours I work. Yet I hate that I have to make the decision to support us, instead of going to downtown day, going to the museum or attending field day.
I over think. To the point where I sometimes give myself panic attacks. I try not too, but I do. Some nights I don’t sleep at all, because I can’t stop thinking. It’s easy for others to tell me to just think of lovely pretty things, in fact sometimes people do. They don’t have my brain though. They haven’t lived through some of the things I have. Some of those things are horrible. Things that haunt me, give me nightmares, taunt me and make me well…over think. If I had an off switch, I swear I’d use it.
I say things in the heat of the crazy, that I don’t even mean. I know some people say, you wouldn’t say it if you didn’t mean it. With me, it’s when my head is so crazy that I truly say things I don’t mean.
I suffer from Depression. I’ve had a few good months. In fact, I’ve gone about four months now, which is the longest it’s been in years between bouts of it. I also know, it’s not really gone.
I’m not very good with my money. I was when I had more. I’m just not now.
I do not like cooking. It’s too much work. It doesn’t come natural too me.
I’m sarcastic.
I’m lazy.
I don’t care if my house is super clean. It’s clean enough. It’s semi-presentable. But it’s also very lived in. I have three children under nine years old. I’m a single mom. I have a long haired seven year old Australian Shepard that sheds everywhere. I don’t mind lived in. I don’t care if your house is spotless. I don’t judge others for that. I just don’t see a need for it.
I watch too much TV and I play on Twitter way too much. I honestly don’t care to change that. Not at this point in my life.
I wish more than anything that I lived in California. I feel like I settled with Logan too easily on that. I feel like I should have fought the decision that was made for me. I hate myself for giving up at the time that I did, because I’m not sure I can make it here.
I trust people too easily in some respects. I say things I shouldn’t and then I’m made out to be the asshole in a situation gone bad. Sometimes it is my fault. I can be an asshole. Sometimes it’s not my fault.
I feel guilty for things beyond my control. I apologize for things that I perceive I did wrong, whether I did or not.
I don’t like confrontation. Friend. Family. It doesn’t matter. When I do it in a friend situation, I’m then done talking about it. That has lost me some friends. Because I’m too stubborn for my own dam good. When I don’t do it, when I should, that is just as bad.
I am terrified of dentists. To the point of just never going, even though I have major work needed right now.
I am scared I will be alone. I am scared I will never get to have another baby. Frankly, I am just scared.
I’m not perfect. Not by any means. I wonder if anyone really is? I wonder whose idea of perfection matters anyway? Who says they get to decide?
It came up simply. Last night, while I was bathing Harrison, the girls happened upon the first two minutes of the news. They’d of turned it off, if the words hadn’t of caught their attention. The words being, Denver Bronco player, Kenny McKinley found dead. It made them stop on the channel and pay attention. Then they heard the word that I’d hoped to not have to explain for a few more years. See Kenny McKinley, twenty-three years old, second year player, wide receiver for the Denver Broncos? He took his own life yesterday. He shot himself.
Suicide. Last night, at bedtime no less, I had to explain suicide to my six and eight year old daughters.
The explanation I used was basically this: Our feelings and our thoughts come from inside our brain. Sometimes peoples thoughts inside their brain get really sad and really sick. This can make them only see bad things. It can make them only feel the bad things. They may not even see that it’s sunny, if they are standing outside. Sometimes it makes them think things that are really mixed up and not quite right. Almost like their brain has a disease. Sometimes people think there isn’t anything they can do to feel better, that no one can help them, that they will never feel better again. So they decide to end their own life. They don’t understand in that moment that someone will help them, if they just ask.
Then we talked about all the ways to help make ourselves feel happy. All the people we talk to when we are sad. We laid in bed and named all the people who we could talk too, people who would help us, if any of us ever felt this way. We named things that made us each happy.
I felt like I was doing okay. Like I was making sense. That it was enough on their level of understanding, without lying or sugar coating it, nor scaring them to death. (Okay bad choice of word…but you get my meaning.)
Then Morgan asked if I’d ever known anyone who committed suicide. I closed my eyes for a moment, wanting to, I don’t know, get divine intervention on what to say or something. Yes. I had to tell her yes.
His name was Andrew.
It’s almost funny timing. Last week, was National Suicide Prevention Week. I had the note of that in my email all of last week. I wanted to write about Andrew, but I just never made myself do it. I guess now is time.
We’d been friends since Kindergarten. He was the life of the party. The ADD, class clown, do anything, try anything once or maybe twice, friend. I don’t have many childhood memories that don’t include him.
We didn’t know anything was wrong. Maybe there were signs. Maybe we missed them. But back then, at nineteen years old? We were probably a little dense. Whatever it was, he hid it well. There were six of us who were best friends. We did everything together. None of us knew. Looking back, I think we all saw things that were a bit off. Yet, each of those things, on their own, weren’t big signs.
February, 1999. One morning, he left the dorm room he shared with our friend Chris. He said to Chris, hey man, BBall tonight, right? Chris said yes. He though Andrew was going to class. He didn’t. He went to his childhood home. Took his dad’s gun. Went into his bedroom and shot himself. He left no note. He left no reason. No understanding. There were no drugs in his system and no sign that a single thing was wrong with him. One day he was there, the next gone.
His parents were shattered. When his dad died a few years back, his mom said, he just never got over loosing Andrew. His little brother was crushed. He is a Navy man now. A strong man. A caring man. A good son and husband and a great dad to a little girl named Drew. A man his big brother would have been very proud of.
We were crushed. Me, Logan and our friends. It’s not something that you ever really get over. Not something you can forget. Each day, for the rest of my life, I will wonder if I could have saved him. If there was one thing I could do different in my life, that would be the thing. I’d go back and save him.
Last night, I told my girls about Andrew. I told them a few funny stories. Then I told them the truth. I owed it to them, to know the truth. I owed it to Andrew. He deserves to be remembered. His story needs to be told. Maybe it will only help one person see that suicide isn’t the answer. That there are people out there who will help, if given the chance. That some day, two little girls may hear a story about a person lost forever and wonder why. Two little girls not even born when that person was alive.Two little girls who will say, I wish I could have met him. I wish I could have helped him.
Suicide isn’t the way. There is help. Even if no one you know will help, there is always the Suicide Prevention Hot-line there, waiting to help. Willing to talk. Available with helpful resources. Their info is HERE.
My heart goes out to Kenny McKinley and his entire family today.
To Andrew Kevin McConnell, I hope wherever you are buddy, you are at peace.
Six emails. Over the last two weeks, I’ve received six emails from Hallmark reminding me of Grandparents Day. On SEPTEMBER 12th!!!! Send a card. Don’t forget!!!! Which is all well and good. Grandparents deserve a day.
The problem? Grandparents Day was yesterday. I am fresh out of Grandparents. The day before Halloween, I will have officially lost all of mine in the past eight years. Also? Yesterday was the two year anniversary of my Grandpa’s death.
It’s been two years, but it still sometimes feels like yesterday. Yesterday? All the reminders of what day it was and what I should be celebrating, were hard. Downright hard. I was sad. I still am.
His face smiles at me in my hallway. It’s a great photo, taken the year before the heart surgery when I was seventeen. You can see the twinkle in his eyes. Before all professional photos, right as the person was about to tell them to smile, he’d make an inside joke to my Grandma. It always made for great pictures. They always looked like they’d just been laughing. Because they had. It took me a year to be able to look at that photo without crying. After his death, I almost took it down. It was just too hard. Too painful. I tried not to look at it for the longest time. Each time I forgot and looked, I cried. Now, most days, it makes me smile.
When something good happens, I want to call him. To tell him about it. I want to call him and Grandma and check on them. I wonder what they’d think about everything that has happened this past year. Maybe in some ways, it’s better they are gone. There are some things, I’m glad I don’t have to try and explain. But mostly, I wish I could call and hear their voices.
When I got my iPhone last month, I deleted their number from my phone. It hadn’t been thier number since December of 2008, when Grandma went into Hospice, yet I’d kept it in my phone that entire time.
If I close my eyes, I can picture them. I can see their house. Hear their voices. I remember going to work with Grandpa as a kid. Where he’d pay me to move bricks from one pile to another. I remember trips to Braums for ice cream. Two weeks every summer at their lake house. The way anywhere we went, he knew someone. He always said, oh this is my granddaughter. Yes, my youngest daughters, girl. You’ve met her before right? The pride in his voice when he’d tell people about my mom and her accomplishments. I remember it all. I close my eyes and I see him holding each of my girls as newborns. It makes me so sad to think that he passed two weeks before Harrison was born. That I was never able to take my son to meet him.
It’s hard. Hard to lose the most influential man in your life. It’s weird to say that loosing your grandfather was probably harder than loosing your dad will be one day, but for me, it’s true. Just because you know your grandparents won’t live forever, doesn’t make it any harder to have it become a reality.
From him, I learned to be a hard worker, no matter how much I despise my job. From him, I learned that family is the most important thing. That your friends, can be your family too. That helping people, is it’s own reward. That ice cream is a good idea, no matter the time of day.
I am a better person because I had him in my life. I just wish he was here, so I could send him a Hallmark card and tell him that.
Look mom, Bailey said this morning. There see, those ladies are giving away free coffee N donuts. You should go there. I wonder if they have sprinkle donuts?
(As an aside, I love how literal six year olds read. The N, was just an N in her mind.)
Nah love, that’s a church, I won’t be going there, I said to her. I waited for the next question, but then she saw a dead raccoon and I got to hear a five minute story about the dead raccoon. Thank god for six year olds with short attention spans.
I’d of been honest with her if she asked. I am just not completely sure I could have made my point in the five minutes it took us to drive the rest of the way to school. I’m not sure I could have even touched the subject matter in five minutes. YAY dead raccoons. Ahem.
I don’t have an issue with free coffee and donuts. I don’t even have a problem with churches. Not in general. I do take issue with a church having women stand outside for a couple hours each morning, waving their hands around, holding signs for free coffee and donuts.
Those coffee and donuts aren’t free. They come with a price. I know what that church is. It’s false advertising, that sign outside. Their regular sign is generally filled with some weird saying that takes me days to figure out each week. Once I finally figure out it’s a sneaky way to call everyone who doesn’t attend evil, I tend to get angry. That church is more a fire and brimstone, you are evil if you don’t believe what we believe, type church. They beileve a woman’s only place is cooking, cleaning and raising children. They have a small school attached to the church, because they believe pubic school is evil. Mark my words. You will never see a man outside that church holding a sign.
I promise you, those donuts come with a price. One I’m not willing to pay.
How do you explain that to a six year old though? How do you explain to an inquisitive six year old, that some people believe their way is the only way? How do I explain religion to her, when I don’t understand it myself?
Every fight, every war, every major argument it seems, somehow goes back to religion. After how ever many thousand years, we still haven’t figure out as a species, to let people believe in the god of their choosing. You’d think we’d of gotten it by now, but we just haven’t. All those articles, blog posts, tweets about the mosque being built near the World Trade Center, all go back to the simple fact that we can’t just allow each other the right to choose. You choose your god, I’ll choose mine…most likely they are all some form of the same. Who knows? Do you know? I surely don’t.
I also know I don’t have the answers for my children. I am the child of a very lapsed baptist and an atheist Jew. I was not raised in religion. Any religion. Were their pieces of the traditions from both in my childhood? Yes. Mostly it was just holiday traditions though.
I don’t know what I believe. Honestly, I don’t. I love that many of you do. I just don’t. I almost wish I could be an atheist. It seems too final for me though. Too easy. Maybe too hard. Like I said, I have no clue what I believe. Makes it hard as a parent to explain things to your kids.
I do know though, that church isn’t giving out free donuts.
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.
At first it just made me mad. He forgot. What kind of person forgets their six year olds first night of gymnastics? She’s only been talking about it all summer. I realize that is harsh. I’ve forgotten things. He’s forgotten things. We have three children. He’s not the first parent to forget something important to their child. He surely won’t be the last. It just as easily could have been me. I recognize that.
Then I just got sad. Sad for my little girl who was upset and angry. I was upset at him. I was upset at me. I could have texted him again to remember to take her. I could have made this easier for him. I could have just gone and taken her, even though it was his night.
At some point though? As hard as it is for me? I have to let him sink or swim on his own.
It kills me to say that, yet I know it to be true. He left me. Our divorce will be final in October. It is no longer my job to make sure he does what he should. It’s not my job to nag him. It’s not my job to save his ass. It’s just not my job anymore.
He has the same calendar I do. The dates and times for Morgan’s dance classes. The dates and times for Bailey’s gymnastics. Doctor’s appointments. The school schedule. He has it all too.
It’s not my job. It’s my mantra this week. Not my job man. I may need that tattooed on my arm. But it sucks. It physically pains me to have my child that upset for something he forgot to do. I can’t save her pain, I can’t make it better, I can’t tell her it won’t happen again. I just don’t have that control anymore. I can only control what I do when with them. I can’t control what he does.
I am just a spectator in half of my own childrens lives now. There’s not a dam thing I can do about it. Just watch and hope for the best.
Why does it feel so horrible though?
***He knows he screwed up. Trust me, Bailey let him hear about it allllll night. He admitted it. He’s apologized for it, to Bailey and to me. This isn’t a bash my ex post. Really. I just don’t know what to think today.
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.
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