Doing it right: It's not me

This week, I had to dig deep to think of what I've been doing right.  I made some seemingly huge mistakes this week, one involving a car and the side of my garage, and it's been hard to get past that.  And as far as daily life goes, I feel like I took a huge step backwards with some of the things I've been working on.  The counters aren't clear, the TV's been on all  day, and I haven't been unplugging AT ALL.

But here's the thing.

None of those things define who I am or what I'm worth.  They're all things that happened or things I've done, and some of them I really regret.  But they aren't me.

This is something new for me.  To separate the things I've done from who I am, to feel guilty but not ashamed, to be able to come back from something I feel crappy about and not let it take me over completely.  It's hard.  Really hard.  But all new skills are hard, and I hate being at the beginning of things, I suck at sucking at things.  And this may be the most important skill I've ever learned.

So, that's what I've been doing right.

What have you been doing right?  Link up with Jaime from James and Jax

It's not her, it's me

I've been saying for a while that I'm not good at playing with my kid, that I'm not good at crafts or projects or making busy bags or anything like that.  I always get the sweetest responses about how that stuff isn't necessary, about how it's okay to let her play by herself, about how I don't always have to have a project for her to do.

And what I have trouble explaining is, the problem is: well then what am I supposed to do?

Sometimes I feel guilty for not entertaining BG more, for not providing more meaningful educational experiences, for not encouraging her sensory and motor development (say what?), for letting her veg out in front of the TV.  Sometimes I see things that other people are doing and I wonder if I am doing her a disservice, wonder if somehow I am letting her down.

But mostly?  I'm bored.

I'm understimulated.  I'm frustrated.  I'm disappointed.  Two years in, and I still sometimes feel like I was sold a false promise of what being a mom was supposed to be.

Sometimes we play.  Sometimes we have lovely tea parties.  We do puzzles and I grit my teeth while she dumps the puzzle out after being 70% done.  (Why does this drive me crazy?  I have no idea.)   Once in a while I let her finger paint, and then 5 minutes later I spend 20 minutes cleaning up. 

Sometimes I do housework (shocker) and she follows me around making herself perfectly happy sitting on the sheet I'm trying to fold or pulling out all my Tupperware and stacking it.  And I'm okay with that.

But there's still something missing.  It's like, when I went to the English major table in college and asked them what I could do with an English major and they said "Whatever you want!" and I said "But what does that have to do with English?  I want to be an English major because I like books, not so that I can go to business school."

I became a SAHM because I wanted to be a mom.  And it doesn't seem like there's nearly as much momming to be done as I thought there would be.  I mean there're meals and diaper changes, and there are snuggles.  And we talk, although she needs to work a little more on filling up her end of the conversation. 

But it's all so tedious.  I feel like most of it is about just being a warm body.   And a lot of times I feel like that must mean I'm missing something, like there's part of my job description that people just forgot to tell me about and I haven't been doing it.  And some days (mostly the days when the sads start to overcome me) I wonder if she wouldn't be better off with someone else, someone who knows what to do with a toddler.

Except I don't think there really is anything in particular to do with a toddler.

And even though most days I don't want to be anywhere in the world except with her, I can't shake this feeling that it just isn't enough.

Getting it right

It's been 22 months since Baby Girl was born.  22 hard and exhausting and beautiful and life changing months.

Sometimes I wonder if I did it right.

I'm not talking about what I did for her.  I'm not talking about her sleep or her eating or her mental development and play.  I'm not talking about the magnitude of my love.  Because somehow, whatever mistakes and missteps I may have made, she's doing great.  She's beautiful and smart and funny and PERFECT and she loves me like nothing else.  I know that I am lucky, but I also know that I am doing something right.

But I'm talking about me.

I had a really hard time.  Especially in the beginning, but even still now, I've struggled.  I cried.  I worried.  I got lost.  I forgot how to be me, and had to start from scratch instead of remembering.

I still sometimes get twitchy when someone else is playing with or holding my toddler.  I still sometimes want to scream "Give her to me, she's MINE."

And I know I've come a long way.  I know I'm better.  I know that I've created something for myself in the world, that I've spread the kindness that was so important to me, that I have purpose in a way I never expected.  I started to write and created something here that truly is beautiful and made me proud. I made myself go out into the world, social anxiety be damned, and I'm a better person for it.  I made a lot of choices that really healed me, and they were hard.

But sometimes I still wonder if I did it right.

Maybe it didn't have to be so hard.

I never talked to my doctor.  I never took medicine or went to therapy.  I did make heavy use of online support groups, change my social life, change the way I took care of my body and mind.  And all that is important work, but maybe I didn't have to work so hard.  At least, maybe I didn't have to do it on my own.

I cringe a little when people call me a PPD mom or survivor, not because I'm ashamed of the title but because I don't feel like I earned it.  I don't have a diagnosis.  And if I got so much better on my own, maybe it never really was truly depression.  Maybe becoming a mom is just hard, and I needed to grieve and adjust and learn how to do this totally new thing.

But maybe not.

I don't want to beat myself up.  I don't want to think that any of the trouble I had was because I did anything wrong.  I just want to make sure I do everything right next time.

Because next time is coming in December.

Sorry.  I may have buried the lead on that one a little.

I want to talk about how I don't want to talk about it

I'm sad today.

And I don't want to talk about it.

....

Well that makes this an awfully strange blog post doesn't it.

People I admire talk about writing dangerously. About writing for yourself. About putting yourself out there and writing the truth, raw as it is.

But I don't wanna.

People tell me I'm wise. They praise me for being self aware. They ask me how I always know the right thing to say.

And I always think, well the answer to that is stupidly simple. I just don't say anything at all until I know.

Do you want to know how I compose a blog post? I walk around my house talking to myself about it. I go over and over it in my head until the words sound right. Until I hear the point. Until I get what it is I really want to say.

Well, maybe not *this* post.

My writing isn't raw. It's cooked. It's burnt to a crisp in fact.

And I don't want to apologize for that. I don't want to write just for me. I want my writing to have a message, to have a purpose, to do something for other people. And I think that's a good thing.

But sometimes maybe I sound like I'm more finished than I am. Like I'm at the end of it all looking back. Like everything makes sense to me.

Like I don't need a hug.

And I do. I so do.

You aren't broken

Yesterday was a bad day.

We haven't been sleeping around here, and it's bothering me more and more. I woke up yesterday angry and resentful, and all I could think was "How am I supposed to parent all day if I'm already this angry?"

I threw my toddler in the jogging stroller, mid tantrum, in her pajamas, and went out running to keep from exploding. I got home, changed my clothes and went straight to a playgroup. Keeping busy was the only way I could keep us from making each other crazy.

In the car, I started to feel better. She'd run herself silly at the playgroup. She'd take an early and long nap after. I could rest and recover, then we'd run some more in the afternoon. Maybe, just maybe, we'd finally sleep at night.

Then she woke from her nap in less than an hour and all my hope dropped through the floor. I couldn't keep going. I couldn't run all afternoon. I couldn't make her sleep at the right times. I couldn't fix it.

I was so angry, and I couldn't fix it.

Oh. So that's what I was upset about.

I need to run, I need to write, I need to sleep more. I need to eat right, I need to drink more water.

But I need to do all these things because I am a human being with basic needs. I don't need to do them to fix me.

Because I'm not broken.

And you? You don't need to be fixed either. Because YOU AREN'T BROKEN.

We need things because we are human beings. You need nourishment, you need love, you need purpose. Sometimes you need more than that; sometimes you are sick and you need treatment or you are struggling and you need help.

But there is nothing fundamentally wrong with you. You are already perfect, just like your baby is already perfect even when she isn't sleeping.

One more time, now, in case you didn't hear.

It's okay to need things. It makes you human. You aren't broken. You are already perfect.

If you don't hear it yet, come back and read it again later. And again and again. I'll be here.

In which I talk about bullying, but I do it somewhere else

I'm guest posting for the lovely Rach at Life Ever Since today, talking about mean girls and my experience with bullying when I was teaching.

It was a hard post for me to write and not just because it's hard for me to remember anything that happened more than a year ago. Bullying is a big deal, and a cause that's near and dear to my heart. I don't have the answers, but - and call me a cheese ball if you must - I'm pretty sure the solution is love and understanding. And kindness.

Or course it is.

Twitter, I love you, but you're bringing me down.

There is so much I love about twitter. The immediacy, the intimacy, the reach. How quickly I can get an answer to a question. How I can always find at least 8 people who agree with my philosophies on both parenting and punctuation.

But lately, it feels so small.

You can fit a lot of snark into 140 characters. But you can't fit a life.

I want to be seen. I want to be known. I want to be understand. And everything in my life can only be understood in the context of everything else in my life.

It's so tempting. It's so tempting to just get on twitter in the middle of the afternoon and say "Oh hello world, I'm so witty, look at meeeeeeeee!" And when it works it is so reinforcing. Which makes it so hard to stop.

But I'm not saying what I need to say. I'm simplifying things I should be expanding. And I'm waiting like an eager, well trained puppy for someone to hand me something I'm supposed to be looking for myself.

And more and more instead of the thrill, I'm feeling a twitter let down. "Why did no one answer that tweet? It was brilliant! Why does no one know I'm sitting here waiting for an entry into conversation? Why does no one understand what I'm really trying to say?"

And more and more I feel like Prufrock.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

...

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I know that twitter is a tool. I just don't think I'm using it right.

You can't go home again

When DH and I got engaged, we were 23 years old and lived in different states. He was starting his master's degree and I was in my first year of teaching at a fantastic public high school. I put in my resignation, finished the year, cried like a baby at the end of year faculty party, and moved halfway across the country.

My whole life, I have always done everything right. It was the first right thing I had ever done.

We were broke, really broke. We lived in a tiny apartment. I subbed as much as I could, getting long term positions in and out, always getting enough work when I needed it. I went to the library. I read The Tightwad Gazette cover to cover. I baked our own bread, made our own ketchup. I planned my wedding there. Life was simple if not easy.

We were supposed to be there for 3 years, to have a life there, but it didn't happen that way. I cried when I heard we were moving, then I packed up and started again somewhere else.

This week, my husband had to go back to that college town for work, so BG and I went with him. I wanted to show my daughter where we'd lived, what we'd done, what our lives had been like back then.

But I didn't remember.

I mean, I recognized our old apartment building, but I didn't know which apartment had been ours. DH would point things out to me, "Oh, remember? That's the other Walmart. That's the Applebees where the Korean grad students used to drink all night." I nodded vaguely. I remembered the story, but not the restaurant.

While he was in meetings on Wednesday, I drove her out by the schools where I taught, not sure what I intended to do there, just hoping that when I saw them I would feel something.

But I didn't.

Nothing in the whole town had any meaning for me. The schools were just schools, the parks were just parks. There was no one there who would remember my name.

DH took us to dinner that night at the pizza place next to campus, where we'd only eaten once because we had gotten a giftcard for opening a bank account. The food was delicious, and it really wasn't that expensive. BG giggled all through dinner and ate half of my pasta. We bought her too many clothes at the campus book store, and we all went out for ice cream.

On the way out of town Thursday morning, our beautiful baby girl asleep in the back of our car, I lean my head on DH's shoulder. Without taking his eyes off the road, he puts a hand on my knee.

"When did we grow up?"

He raises his eyebrows. "A long time ago."

Somehow, I think, I'd been too busy to notice that until now.

Life's lessons: on self care

1. I am not good at self care.
   
2. I am not good at not being good at things.
   
3. I know in my head that in order to be a good mom, a good wife, and a good friend, I need to be good to myself also.
   
4. But I don't necessarily know how to do that.
   
5. I mean, last week I bought myself a slice of chocolate cake at the grocery store. And that made me pretty darn happy.
   
6. But what I'm talking about is finding things to do that make me feel like a real, whole person, and not just someone's mom.
   
7. People tell me the solution is to find something to do that's just for me, to do something I enjoy, and I get more and more frustrated.
   
8. And I'm realizing that's because I don't know what to do.
   
9. And when I think about it, this is a problem that goes back much further than my tenure as a mom.
   
10. What I really need is a good hobby. And a passion. And an interest. Y'know, if you see any of those just kind of lying around.
    
11. On Thursday, I got so frustrated with my own lack of self care that I laced up my shoes, threw the baby in my BRAND NEW Baby Jogger (thanks, DH), and went for a run.
    
12. With a hacking, phlegmy cough and a potential fever. I got to the end of the block and turned around before my lungs exploded.
    
13. Have I mentioned I'm not so good at this yet?
    

When no one's clapping

When BG had just turned one, we managed to teach her to hold up one finger. When we would ask her either "How old are you?" or "Are you one?" She would hold up one finger and say "DA!" with a huge smile on her face.

I remember telling one of my friends, "I'm almost certain she doesn't know what it means, but she knows that when she does it we cheer, so she does it. It's like I'm teaching her to do tricks, i.e., this is the secrete to education."

He laughed and said, "Well, isn't that the way it is all through life? You work hard for the grades, and then for the girl, and then for the job and the raise?"

I smiled and said, "Well yeah, so how do you know you've done a good job if no one claps?" And I thought about it for a second. "Actually. That's the secret to education."

The secret to education, and I suppose to parenting, is to eventually make yourself irrelevant. To teach them how to learn, to self-monitor, to evaluate. To make it so they don't need the clapping to know when they've done the right thing.

I win at teaching. Maybe I even win at parenting. But I don't so much win at life.

I still need the clapping. Actually, I need it a lot.

But I always got the A's. The awards. I never interviewed for a job I didn't get. I won teacher of the year. I have thank you letters from students that take my breath away.

When I was in high school, my friends threw me a party to thank me for taking care of them and helping them with their problems. That doesn't even sound real.

It's normal to need to feel appreciated and respected. It's human. It's healthy. And maybe I'm not getting enough of that these days. But, at some point, I need to learn to do it without the clapping.

I take criticism way too hard, and I take rejections way too personally. I don't know that I'm doing a good job unless someone is handing me a prize. I measure my worth as a human being on things like my blog stats and my twitter mentions. I beg for approval and stroking.

I hate that about myself.

(Yes. I hate my own low self esteem. No, that's probably not even the most counter-productive thought I've had today.)

I want to be the kind of person who can separate her own worth from other people's opinions of her. I want to care about and try to address other people's needs, but not be owned by them. I want to take pride in things I do, even when no one notices them. I want to believe that I am good and smart and have value, that I matter.

I don't know how to do that.

And then the pancakes stuck (or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the pancakes)

So, I've been struggling again lately with a lot of anxiety. My thoughts race and I can't concentrate and I start to feel helpless.

It's frustrating because I feel like I can't focus and so can't do the kind of meaningful work I'd like to do. It's disappointing because I thought I was past this and don't want to feel like this again. It's scary because I can't control it and I worry that it's just going to be like this forever.

I spent the past 2 days trying to do everything right. I slept. I ate. I exercised. I went out. Yesterday, I met someone for coffee, did an exercise video, cleaned my bathroom, went for a walk with the baby, danced, played, ate salad for lunch, took my vitamins and fish oil, distracted myself with crossword puzzles and massive quantities of Sporcle. I read and did every anxiety tip I could find, and at the end of the day I just felt angry. And tired. And my butt hurt.

This morning, I decided to give myself grace. I stayed in my pajamas. And I made pancakes.

Except I forgot to grease the griddle and the pancakes stuck. Behold the string of irrational thoughts.

• "This is so unfair. Why do these things always happen to me? Nothing ever goes right."
  
• "I'm such an idiot. I can't believe I forgot to grease that. I always do stuff like that."
  
• (Watch how the irrational thoughts come the target of the irrational thoughts. "Oh my gosh, I'm so whiny. And irrational. The pancakes are just stuck. Everything in my life is so good, I can't believe I'm complaining about this."
  
• (For my next trick, I will beat myself up for beating myself up.)"Oh my gosh, it's no wonder I'm depressed and anxious. I keep trashing myself. I'm such an idiot."
  
  

Pause
Or. The pancakes stuck. I have to scrape them off. They aren't pretty. They still taste okay. It's frustrating that I have to clean this all off the pan now. Of course it is.

Let's eat pancakes.

Time

I have a time problem. Two actually.

I don't have enough time to do everything.

And I don't have enough things to do with my time.

Wait, what?

When my husband gets home from work at night, he often asks me why I didn't take a nap. (Particularly when I was up all night the night before. Like I have been for a week now.) I tell him I didn't have time. He thinks that's ridiculous.

"Well, she only takes one nap now. That's only two hours."

"So, sleep for two hours."

"Well, then how am I supposed to clean? And make myself presentable? And eat?"

"Umm, put her in her high chair or playyard. (Didn't we cover this before?)"

And I get unbelievable irked. Does he have no idea what it's like being home with a toddler alone for 11 hours? Does he really believe that in those 11 hours I have time to take care of her, keep the house in decent shape AND take care of me?

Except, I think I probably do.

My days home with the toddler consist of a lot of chasing her around and stopping her from pulling things over on her head. While having my computer to twitter nearby to keep me from going absolutely stir crazy from the boredom and tedium of it. A task which twitter only minimally fulfills. 11 hours is a long time.

Is BG okay with just wandering around the house, opening drawers and flipping over trashcans all day? Probably. Although I'm sure she'd rather do something else once in a while. But for me? It's not enough. Not nearly enough.

I want to read and to write and to run. I want to take a nap during the day when I'm tired. I want to go for walks in my neighborhood, and go to playgroups and classes. I want to keep a nice house and cook and bake. I guess I probably can't do all of the above every day, but most days I don't do any of it. And it makes me feel like a failure.

When I think of what I can do in a day, somehow I only think of the two hours of naptime. I think that I need to fit all my working, playing, and sleeping into two hours of the day. So most days I make a choice, and as soon as she wakes up I regret it. "Oh, I should have slept. Now I don't have any energy to chase her." "Oh, I should have cleaned. I should have written." Some days? A nap will go by and I won't even have done a thing because I'm so tired or so overwhelmed as to be paralyzed.

Two hours a day isn't enough.

I need to reclaim the other 9.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Momblogville

With special love to Lindsay, Rach, and my dearest "real life" bestie Elizabeth.

I've never been good at making friends. The few close friends I have who have stood the test of time are people who stumbled into my life in one way or another (be it through band or math club or the campus housing lottery), and for that I am so grateful. They may be spread around the country - world even - but they are still a part of me.

But going out and meeting people? Is hard.

When I was working, I had a group of girls I would go out for drinks with after school on Fridays. But then I realized that they all saw each other other times too, and went to each other's houses and weddings. They genuinely liked me, and I don't fault them for any of it, but they didn't know me. That wasn't their fault. I didn't say much.

After I had Baby Girl,I knew I needed to get out. For me, it was a turning point in my depression when I got out of my house and met people. I joined a MOMS Club, and I am so glad that I did. It's pleasant, and I feel comfortable there, and they really genuinely like me.

But sometimes I go there and wonder if I will ever belong.

I go to meetings and I listen, but I don't talk much. Thank God for my extroverted little girl who keeps me in the thick of things at playgroups (although, she is a notorious mommy stealer. Other babies beware). I have started to wonder whether as an adult woman, I am just not likely to ever again make the kinds of friends I have been blessed with since adolescence. You know, the kind you can just sit with and have a cup of tea and a piece of cake, but you can also lean on them and pour out your hearts and dreams. I have my few close friends, and maybe, I've thought many times, maybe I'm done. Maybe I should stop looking.

But then I met all of you.

Since I've been blogging, I have been overwhelmed by the community I have found. There are women out there like me, who understand me, who are willing to listen to me pour out my heart and soul and guts and who at the end of it all? Still like me.

On the twitter, we sometimes joke about how we wish there were a Momblogville, where we could all stop by each other's houses for tea and have the best playgroups in the world, and where Hobby Lobby would never close.

We say to each other, "I wish Momblogville were real."

Well, I'm going to tell you right now. It is. You, my dears, are some of the most real friends I have.

So stop on over for tea any time. Oh and if you can? Bring cake.

On gratitude

Every morning that I'm on twitter (errm, every morning) I try to remember to post a list of 3 things I am grateful for. I don't know whose idea this was originally. I know that I stole it.

Most mornings, I putz around and think of things to be grateful for: my coffee (okay, it's my coffee a lot), my slippers, my friends, the roof over my head, butter. I know I should be grateful for these things, and I AM grateful for them. I have a healthy baby, a loving husband, amazing friends, and in most ways in my life I have Enough. No matter how much I am struggling, it's hard to stay cranky when you are listing the good things in your life.

But this morning? I just wasn't feeling it. I mean sure I like my coffee. My slippers are comfy. I know I'm lucky to have a warm house and a comfy sweater and butter. So much butter. But did I feel grateful? Did it give me that warm, fuzzy, you-can't-be-mad kind of feeling?

No.

I wrote a list several times and deleted it. It felt shallow. Contrived. I was fully ready to give up, to give myself permission to just not feel grateful this morning. And that would have been okay. But instead I wrote this:

Today I am grateful for my baby's smiles, for experiences that have taught me empathy and for the chance to be part of something. #listof3

— story3girl (@story3girl) January 5, 2012

And as soon as I wrote it, I got that sense of peace again. Because I truly am grateful for every moment of my life. And if I can be grateful even for the hardest of moments? Then what do I have to be cranky about?

Actually? I'm okay

I've been struggling for a while. Being a mom is hard, any which way you slice it. I was lonely, I was tired, I was bored and yet overwhelmingly busy.

But lately? I've been okay. It's funny how that's almost as hard to admit as that I'm not okay. I'm almost afraid that if I say it, then somehow the bottom will drop out and I'll be lost again.

Am I still tired? Yes. My precious baby - errm - toddler woke up 4 times last night, inconsolable. Is it still hard? Yes. Heck yes. Let's just say some little misses around here have decided to wholeheartedly embrace the label of toddler.

But? Something has turned. Something is better. There is a peace running through my days now that I haven't seen in a while, that I may have seen never. Does that mean I always feel peaceful? No. Some days the anxiety monster still knocks me on my butt. But when it does, I can see it as that. It doesn't take over my life.

Some days I get a lot done: I make comfort food, I vacuum my carpets, I write blog posts. Some days all I want to do is get out and see other human beings. Some days I need to just sit on my couch in my yoga pants and watch my Baby Girl play (or beg her not to flip over my trashcan).

And you know what? That's okay. Because there're no wrong answers. I just need to do whatever I need to do on any given day. I know that now. And that's why I'm going to be alright.

In my head

Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

When I was a teenager, my mom used to tell me that the reason I was being cranky, or teary, or bitchy, or whatever was because my blood sugar was low. Or because I hadn't slept enough. Or because I was hormonal.

And I hated it, I hated it so much. What I was feeling was real and I wanted it to be seen as valid. If I was upset, it was because something was upsetting. If I was frustrated it was because something was frustrating.

And I hated it even more because she was usually right.

But so was I.

I know that depression is a disease. I know that it tells us things that aren't true. I know.

But I miss my friends and family. And I am still having trouble making friends. And I'm still figuring out a whole new identity. And DH and I don't have a lot of help here. (BG has never been left with anyone other than us. Not even for an hour.) And teething sucks. And temper tantrums suck worse. And I'm sad. And I'm lonely. And I'm frustrated. And all that is real.

But maybe I should go eat something. Just in case.

I wish I were braver

I wish I were braver.

(Subjunctive tense. I am a grammar genius. Count it. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. About how I am avoiding this topic. Wait no, that wasn't it, was it?)

(Sigh, let's start again, shall we?)

Last week, I walked to a metro station in Maryland, got on a subway with my baby in her stroller and took her to the zoo. And I did it all by myself. Cue applause.

Only ... not. Because that's ridiculous. Because it's ridiculous for that to be a big deal. Because it's really not hard to get on a train. Because it's even less hard to go to the grocery store, to pick up a phone and call someone, to drive a few blocks out of your way to get a cupcake you really want.

Except these things terrify me.

Yael wrote a post a while ago about our comfort zones. About how stepping out of them is overrated. About how we need to take care of ourselves and that makes it okay to stay in.

But I've stayed in my comfort zone my whole life. And I'm not very comfortable here.

Lately it seems like all the bloggers I admire most are saying, "If blogging feels hard, if you feel the pressure from it, if you can't write every day, then let it go. Write less. Let go of the guilt." And I read it and think "Oh good, I'm off the hook."

Except I don't want to be off the hook.

I want the pressure. Because otherwise I won't do it.

Because I need it to be scary. I need to be scared. I need to do it anyway.

Because the zoo? Was lovely. And the train? Was just a train.

Getting Better

Today's post is from a lovely twitter newbie, Jenny. She is a PPD warrior mom, and she doesn't have her own blog yet, but she totally should. Give her some love today for me, okay?

I’m Jen. I met a wonderful guy eleven years ago. We got married eight years ago. Four years ago, we had our first little girl who we nicknamed Munch, short for Munchkin. We adored this little girl. It was a bit of a rough adjustment. We were nervous first-time parents. We read lots of books and asked our families for advice. We had so much fun with Munch, and she was the apple of our eye. Once Munch turned two, we decided that it was time to add to our family.

Then along came our second little girl, Skeeter. I really wanted a sibling for Munch, but I was so nervous about how Munch would adjust to the new arrival. I am a typical first born, Type A, perfectionist personality. I am also a planner, so I tried extremely hard to have everything prepared before Skeeter arrived.

Skeeter was born on October 10, 2010. Munch was a very easy baby, and Skeeter had a very different personality. It took a while for to adjust to being a family of four, but everything seemed to be going okay. I thought I was just overwhelmed with the jump from one child to two.

On Mother’s Day, I treated myself to a free yoga class taught by a dear friend of mine. As I laid in Savanasa, I was finally able to relax for the first time in months. I realized that I had been anxious and sad since Skeeter had been born. I realized that something was not right. I wasn’t myself. I realized that I had been using the mom’s room at work as a place to break down in. I couldn’t make it through a morning getting myself and the girls out the door to daycare and to work without crying or screaming. I was filled with racing thoughts, rage, sadness and anxiety.

The next day I placed two phone calls to therapists. When I didn’t hear back from anyone, I felt despondent. On my way home from work, I called my cousin, a social worker. I confessed to her that I thought I was suffering from postpartum anxiety. I started crying immediately after that statement. I was terrified that someone would take my girls away. I knew that I needed help as soon as possible. I wasn’t suicidal, but I felt like I was on the edge of a breakdown. My cousin walked me through what to say to the therapist. Two days later, Skeeter and I were in my therapist’s office. She had had a last minute cancellation and was able to fit me in.

Two weeks later, she gave me a diagnosis: postpartum anxiety and postpartum depression. I was put on medication right around the time that I received my diagnosis. I felt relieved and sad at the same time. I knew what I was battling, but I had a long ways to go towards recovery. I began to battle back, devouring books and blogs about PPD. I found a new primary care physician who is certified in both internal medicine and psychiatry who now manages my medication. I am finally at my therapeutic dose. I am in recovery, but I have not completely recovered. I am taking it one day at a time, putting one foot in front of the other. I have more good days than bad, but I still feel the haze of depression slip its veil around my psyche from time to time. I still feel the buzz of anxiety course through my body.

To other moms who are struggling, I want you to know this. You are not alone. There is a whole community of PPD warrior moms that you can find through blogs, websites, Twitter and Facebook. These women get what you are going through because they have been there. So use the Internet to your advantage. Reach out and make some online connections. You are NOT alone. You will get better. It gets better.

There's a post in my head and it won't come out

I spent some quiet time today thinking about me, and who I am and what I need and what I realized was this.

I need to write.

There's never been a time in my life when writing didn't make things better.

But lately I haven't been writing anything. It's these demons in my head, they tell me I can't do it. They tell me I don't have time. They tell me it's not worth the trouble.

But it is.

Yael threw me for a loop today. She told me that the little voices in my head aren't trying to destroy me. They're trying to protect me. They're doing a bass-ackward job of it, but really they mean well (geez, don't I say that about everyone else? Why didn't I think to say it about myself?).

So why am I not letting me write?

I'm terribly afraid. Afraid of reaching a dark place that I can't handle. Afraid of putting things out there that I can't take back. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of failing.

So afraid of failing that I'm not doing the one thing in my whole life that I know is guaranteed to make me better.

So here I am. Writing.

And forgive me if I write the worst crap in all the world. Love me anyway okay? Because the only way out is through.

Not ungrateful, just sad

Lately, I've been having a hard time.

I am inclined to complain, to complain about the sleep, the travel, the laundry. To complain about the screaming baby. To complain about being alone.

I have one child, one beautiful healthy child. I don't work outside the home, and that was my choice and one I'm really pretty content with. I have a loving and (mostly) supportive husband. I don't really have to worry about money (although I do anyway). I have sweet, supportive friends, a great online support system, and a real life mom's group I like very much. It's sunny outside my window.

And I sit around feeling sorry for myself.

I feel like that's unacceptable. Almost unforgivable.

I see you with your losses, with your illnesses, with your challenges and your real life struggles and I feel like I have no right to even join the conversation. I see people with much harder rows to hoe than I have, being out there in the world and doing good work and making a difference. Taking an already full schedule and adding more to it in order to help other people. Or adding more to it to take care of yourselves, which is even more herculean.

What the hell am I doing all day? What on earth is so hard?

I want to feel grateful for the life that I have. I want to appreciate the things I've been given, to realize how fortunate I am. To know that everyone I meet is fighting a harder battle and that my problems don't amount to a hill of beans, and all that stuff. I want to think those things and believe them.

But I'm struggling.

And I don't know if it makes me ungrateful to say that. I don't know if admitting that I need help, that I'm not "content," means that I am taking for granted all the things that I have. I know how much worse it could be. I see it.

And most of the time, I'd rather talk about you than me. It gives me a sense of purpose to be able to help other people. It's probably the thing that makes me happiest in all the world.

But today? I just want to feel sorry for me a little. I'm really not ungrateful. I'm just sad.