Tania's Words
here is an empty shell- a resonant shadow- waitingEnduring
Last night I traveled with my sister and mom up to Gaylord to visit my grandmother for what is probably the last time. There are a lot of things inside me I could talk about here, but I find goodbyes of all sorts to be the most painfully intimate moments of life. I hope any family or friends who read this know that I’m not skipping over these moments, but holding them close.
On the drive up, I experienced one of those indelible life moments, the kind that you know with clarity, at that second, will never leave. Even if they are the smallest, even if there’s nothing you could point to later and say, “There, that was it. That is the reason this stayed with me.” Certainly, here, the circumstance surrounding it plays a part in why this will always persist.
But what’s funny is that years from now I know that what I’ll remember most from these days, and weeks, and the transition we’re all going through, won’t be the goodbye. It will be a clear, cold night — the moment between sundown and spilled ink dark, when the sky retains something of a purple light — on I-75, Hozier in the background and a beautiful, blinding moon through the passenger window in a car carrying three women who have loved and argued, misunderstood, maybe mistrusted, experienced very real heartbreak, but loved, and loved, and loved each other.
Perhaps when everything else from this week fades away, years from now, I’ll remember my mother’s words — that she’s the one person left who has known her mother longest — and think of the ways in which our lives tie together. It’s not all pretty woven tapestries. But maybe in the knots, in the tangles you work and work to untangle — even when you have to put them down and walk away because you know you’ll break something otherwise — the last thing we’ll have is knowing that we made these lives. These connections. And if we’re really lucky, despite it all, kept them.
It’s raining lemons!
As that hectic shiny newness of the New Year glamour begins to ease into the day-to -ay of 2015, it’s time for me to evaluate where I am, and maybe figure out how to decompress from an incredibly stressful December and an inauspicious start to the year.
Hint: Don’t injure your back the day before New Year holiday insanity starts. It’s just awful.
I’m home after a crazy weird night in the hospital, after a painful and frustrating week without answers mostly spend on the floor trying not to cry. I came home with a plan for wellness, a diagnosis (which is helpful, ya know, for treatment!), and a delayed resolution, since I was too distracted on New Years to resolve more than “don’t cry right now”.
I actually don’t do resolutions — at least not in the traditional sense. I’ve always felt like New Years is really just a day like any other. That change and promises start in our hearts, and that any moment in our lives is the best moment for them. But the New Year does signify a marker, a setting off point for so many, so I get it.
Mostly, it’s a day for me to consciously check in. Have I been the person I want to be the last year? This for me is a time to look inside, say, “hey self, you did your best, you’re doing your best.” A time to remember that I’m a constantly working, loving, flawed person trying their very hardest.
Sometimes you just need a little self love with a reminder that you are a work in progress, and that you have present and diligent in order to work for that progress. It’s so easy to slip, and to forget, and to get caught up in the day to day. It can be months before something in my life trips me long enough for me to sit down, evaluate my life and my actions and bring back into focus the ideals of who I want to be and how I want to live and love.
I feel like the last month and a bit was an exercise in dodging lemons being hurtled at me from somewhere (fruity clouds? the universe?). Well, now that I can walk around a bit more, and that I hope the weeks ahead hold some more calm, I’m ready. I’m so ready to pull myself out of this anxious, negative whirlwind and attitude and refocus.
I’ve got a large pitcher, I’ve got a fruit masher, I’ve got some sugar…time to make some lemonade!
That shouldn’t hurt
How did sitting on my butt all day make me so sore?
Mom had another surgery yesterday; despite the 2.5-3 hour estimate, the surgery took over 4. Then they said recovery would be about 2 hours, but they wouldn’t let us back to be with her for it (which they’ve never done before), and it took longer than 2.5 hours. Plus sitting in pre-op, all of this equals sitting in a hospital chair for so many hours. I got up to walk around, but I never wanted to stray far just in case they were gonna come talk to us. Apparently I didn’t walk around enough.
Today I’m going back in to hang out with Mom, and I am just sitting here dreading having to sit there. I wonder if that awesome stretchy yoga Maura and I did would be frowned upon in there. There’s not much room for it. And I don’t remember the name of it so I can’t find it online until Maura rescues me with a link. Maura always rescues me, she’s the best biffer out there.
I have got to get more active. I know I am one of millions who say this all the time. My body feels like this weird stagnant thing. I have a lot more time coming up since the semester is over. I need to find a form of exercise I like, and generally you have to pay for them — I need the whole “lost in the music in my own world doing something repetitive thing”. Like swimming. I need an indoor pool. That kind of exercise is like meditating, it’s so good for clearing my thoughts and silencing my very very very busy brain. It’s good for my self esteem too, because I always feel like when I push myself and focus on my body and health like that, it demonstrates my determination in a way I don’t acknowledge in my day-to-day life.
Right now it’s seven in the morning and I am famished. I am never hungry in the morning, so this is memorable. Maybe I’ll wander in search of sustenance. Or coffee.
Status update
Yes, another thrilling blog entry title. You’re at the edge of your seat, of course.
Or not. Whatevs, it’s cool, we can work with that.
Currently I am attempting to sit on a bed covered in laundry that must be folded and put away. I’ve been here for an hour contemplating said laundry. Instead of doing it, I shirk my duty to update tiny things on this blog: the blog roll, my profile, etc. I’m not sure if my priorities are straight here, but we can all wear wrinkled clothes for a bit.
Tomorrow I have another of my epic Thursday;s, the 12 hour day which includes the commute to MSU, working in the Writing Center, class, commute back to pick up kids, attempt to settle them into bed about 2 hours after bedtime, then get ready for my Friday commute to work.
But it’s my last Thursday doing so. After that, a semester of waiting to a) hear if I got into the program and b) doing nothing to earn money unless I find some sort of gainful employment. I suppose I could say I’m writing, but that doesn’t pay the bills or justify sending Lucas off to daycare — a year we committed to so I can’t back out. Sigh.
Disappointment
I had a conversation with my sister and some friends the other night while playing euchre (pardon, while slaying her at euchre). She’d decided to pull her 2 year old from gymnastics for various reasons that made sense, and was so upset with herself for not being able to make it work. When I asked why she was so upset (Olivia is 2, she’s not going to the Olympics next year), she said it was mostly because Olivia is so disappointed when Paige (older sister) gets to go and she can’t participate too.
That is something I understand — boy do I. Every time Parker goes to school, or to summer camp, Lucas stands by the door crying that he wants to go to school too. Every day he would watch Parker get ready to go have adventures and he’d come with me to pick him up and see the classrooms filled with exciting stuff and other kids, and want to run into those classes. Listening to your child sob because he doesn’t get to do something, day after day, is agonizing.
But the thing is that life is full of disappointments.
It’s a lesson he has to learn, and although it’s hard, and he’s so young, I don’t think that he’s too young to know what it feels like. More importantly, I think it’s vital that he learns that he can withstand disappointments. To sooth himself. So that when he’s older, he can find ways to work around those feelings; find something else to do that will make him feel better or an alternate solution to getting what he wants. Re-evaluating what he wants.
I see people all the time, including myself, going miles out of the way to avoid disappointments. No one wants to feel that sting, but more, so often we don’t trust that we can handle some of them; that they will be too much.
I talk myself out of writing so often because it seems like too much effort for something that will end in disappointment — that negative feedback my internal voice whispers insidiously, quietly. I’ll never be published, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter in the end.
The truth is, I think I talk myself down from reaching not because it might not happen, but because I’m afraid of what more and more disappointment would feel like. It’s better to dream of being a writer, and to dabble and play, than to commit to something that might just hurt when it doesn’t happen.
There are so many stock things I could say in response to my own problems here. You’ll never succeed if you don’t try. It’s the journey that counts. No one gets to tell you what you are, you get to decide. You’re still a writer, regardless.
All of those are true, but that’s not the point, and honestly, some words are so easy — they slip out and masquerade as a solution or a panacea but don’t really do much of anything to help.
The things we dream about mostly don’t turn out quite the way we fantasized they would. Maybe they’re better or richer or not quite in realization. Sometimes the things we dream about or want don’t turn out at all, and we have to figure out a different way.
I think that’s my key, really. It will only happen if I try. If I want it badly enough — enough to put myself on the line — then it might very well hurt if it doesn’t happen. But I think that the disappointment of knowing I didn’t try, or that I gave up before I really began — would hurt so much more.
With my children, I know I have to withstand the pain of watching them be disappointed sometimes, because I know it will help make them more capable and strong and well rounded as adults. Lucas will get to go to school one day; he’ll have the adventures and friends. For now, I hope he learns to cheer himself up or distract himself. Lately, he turns from the door and cheers up instantly with the phrase Play-Doh please Mommy?
Maybe it will happen, and maybe it won’t. But maybe for now, rather than breaking out tea leaves to read a future filled with disappointment, I should keep trying, and stock up on some Play-Doh.
Promises
I make promises all the time.
I’ll read the 10 books on my year of reading resolution list.
I’ll write poetry everyday, or at least spend 10 minutes a day writing.
I’ll buy chapbooks for poets I’ve never heard of.
I’ll parent without frustration.
My kids won’t watch too much tv.
I promise I’ll clean according to this schedule I’ve made.
Exercise.
Blog.
Make something of this life I know in my heart was meant to include words. This gift I first felt as a little girl, a hot little burning of promise and potential and the need, need, need to let it expand and find it’s way onto paper and into words and the world.
It’s so easy as a parent and adult to let go of little promises we’ve made. I’ll do it tomorrow, right?
Future is so fragile, but somehow, another promise we count on stubbornly and foolishly.
So it’s not much, but this is a single blog that’s my dedication to the promises I’ve made, pulled out and thrown here, without as much thought or ceremony as I’d maybe like.
Another Day, Another Diagnosis.
In an effort to be the most honest and candid I can be, this blog will be very personal. There are somethings that I won’t share, because I don’t want to trigger others. As long as I think I have a voice that can be useful, I’m willing to share my experiences and stories with you.
I’ve said I knew soon after having Lucas that something was wrong. But I thought it was just the baby blues. This summer was hard- my mother was in the hospital for five weeks and I was distracted. I noticed, during that time, that I didn’t miss being with Lucas the way I missed Parker at that age. Being away from Parker for a few hours felt like torture. When I didn’t feel that for Luke, I thought it was exhaustion and stress and the fact that my focus was on my mother, who was so very ill.
After things settled down, I needed time to decompress and really start processing what had happened and how scary it had all been. I know that I started to have frightening thoughts around this time, and heightened anxiety, but I was ignoring them, explaining them away.
Pretty soon a day couldn’t go by without having thoughts of hurting myself. But I ignored them or told myself I was exaggerating the situation.
Meanwhile, inside our house, life was slowly unraveling. I could barely get myself to get up to do laundry, cook, play with the kids. After a while, most of my day was spent on the couch, just trying to distract myself from how miserable and empty and overwhelmed I was.
And then one day, I’d had enough. I got the name of a highly recommended therapist. I thought, well, maybe I’m a little depressed. I am excellent at hiding how I really feel, so Dan was understandably a little confused. I sat on that therapists phone number for over a month before I finally decided to call.
Things snowballed pretty quickly after that. I was put on Prozac for major depression (even I had no idea how depressed I was. Seeing yourself check of one yes after another is quiet the wakeup call). I was seeing a therapist and a phsychiatrist. There was some question of whether or not I had a mood disorder.
Going on the Prozac made things horrifically worse. I was agitated and frightened. I wanted to hurt myself all the time. I would swing from crushing depression to periods of mania. One time I stayed away for 3 days straight cleaning my house. I felt amazing and on top of the world.
So I was diagnosed as Rapid Cycling Bipolar. They added Abilify to my meds. Every few weeks my Prozac would get increased because my depression was just getting worse and worse. Then I’d have more swings and manic behavior and they’d increase the Abilify.
Over time, the depression became such a problem that Dan was spending more time at home than at work. My sister and friends, my mother in law were all constantly checking in, offering help. Help I didn’t know how to ask for. Because the biggest cause of anxiety and depression were my children. There were days I could cry because I could not even look at them. When the thought of having to spend the day alone, in charge of their care, seemed overwhelming and impossible. I didn’t even feel like I could take care of myself.
It was at this time that thoughts of hurting myself peaked, which was really very frightening. So I talked to my therapist and my psychiatrist, who recommended I go in for inpatient treatment at the hospital. Which is an experience that deserves a blog of it’s own.
Needless to say, at the hospital I received another diagnosis: Clinical Depression. Here and there for months people had been throwing around the idea that I also had Postpardum depression as well. I’m still not sure how that works. I’ve been depressed before I had kids, so maybe that part is the Clinical Depression and right now it’s a postpardum thing? I’m still learning. At any rate, I was taken off of the Prozac and Abilify and put onto Celexa.
Which is neither here nor there. Because Monday I started Outpatient treatment. 6 hours a day of therapy which is intense and exhausting.
Today I met with a Psychiatrist/Psychologist who works with the practice. He thinks I have Postpardum Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder. For the third time since this started, I have different meds; Zoloft and Lamictal, in case you were wondering.
At this point, I am just along for the ride, I figure. I am starting to slowly research what all these labels mean, what they mean for me, and what I can do. Writing about these things is good. For me. To admit to feelings I normally would ignore or repress or wish away. Writing has always been so therapeutic for me. You guys, unfortunately, are just along for the ride.
So it’s another day and another diagnosis. I’m slowling learning that this isn’t something I can control. It’s not my fault. All I can do is hold on until it gets better. Which I am promised it will.
On Postpardum Depression
You might have noticed that I’ve been absent for a while. It started with my pregnancy; morning sickness wrecks havoc on the best laid plans, always. Then I had my son and was understandably tired.
But it’s more than that.
When my first son was born, I felt the most incredible rush of emotions. It’s hard to describe, the sense that suddenly everything is right. That you are exactly where you need to be. To understand finally, the depth and width of capacity for love that a human can experience. The moment I heard Parker cry for the first time was the most profound experience of my life.
I worried constantly through my second pregnancy. How would I be able to love another person the way I loved Parker? Was I capable? I wondered if it would feel like dividing my love and grieved the idea that I might have to give up even an ounce of love I felt for Parker. But I was reassured by other mothers. My best friend described it by explaining that it wasn’t about dividing your heart. Instead, she said, it felt like you grew a whole new heart for each child.
That sounded amazing. I was signed up, I bought into it, I’d drunk the Kool-Aid.
Instead, the moment I heard Lucas crying I thought, I’m tired.
I tried to breast feed and felt nothing but crippling anxiety.
Our first day home from the hospital I stood, petrified in our family room, crying. Trying to assure my very worried husband that I was okay, but something was wrong. I was wrong. Everything felt off.
Where was that rush of love, that incredible feeling? That instant bond and the knowledge that this was what I was meant to do, who I was meant to be. Having Parker felt like finally finding my calling, motherhood fitting over me like a second skin. Only with Lucas it was like the skin was torn and shrunken, it’s warped weave making me vulnerable. And empty.
It’s been 9 months since I’ve had Lucas and for the first time, this week I was able to say, I have Postpardum Depression.
So I hope you don’t mind, because that is what this blog is going to be about for the time being. Because we hear about it, we know about it. Moms say they’ve had it, but the reality of this kind of depression is like a dirty little secret. And no one wants to be the woman to admit, I feel nothing for my children. I know I love them, deep inside, somewhere I can’t feel it. What kind of mother feels that way?
This one.
Tania's Words 