For me, isolation is both a symptom and cause of depression. And I've noticed that I've started isolating myself again lately. I haven't written a new post in awhile, I haven't really tried to get out of the house as much as I should. A lot of that has to do with having no transportation. But some has to do with the comfortableness of isolation.
A Warm Blanket
When you do something long enough, it becomes a habit, a comfort. When you change that habit, you feel unsure, a little afraid and not at all comfortable. That's how it is with isolation.
After awhile isolation becomes a comfortable habit to me, like a warm blanket I can hide in. It's easy to isolate - just stop calling people, stop leaving the house, stop posting on Facebook. You don't really have to work that hard to isolate yourself.
An Itchy Blanket
But being isolated does take it's toll. You become stagnant, with no new ideas or input from the outside world. You begin to see your friends making plans without you and you get angry because you're bored at home, with an equally bored toddler. The blanket starts to chafe. And you take it out on those around you.
Trapped
When I start to feel that way, I get myself all psyched up to reach out, to try to contact friends I haven't seen in awhile, to get back out into the world. But the blanket has me trapped. The longer I've been wrapped in my blanket, the tighter it gets and the scarier it is to try to break free. I don't know what to say to these friends who have kept going while I've hidden away. I feel guilty for asking for help when I haven't made any other attempts at contact.
And it's not that I don't care about others while I'm isolated. I read all the posts on Facebook and my mommy's group's forums. I laugh at their kids antics and commiserate with them when they've had a bad day. But I do it all from the comfort of my own world. Because I've been gone so long from the rest of the world that I don't know if I'm welcome anymore.
Pushing Through
I know it's all in my head. No one has done anything to make me feel unwelcome. It's no one's fault but my own that I'm not included - I haven't made myself available to be included. I've done everything to be ignored, because that is easier and there's less chance of rejection.
But I'm not the only one involved in this isolation. I have Punkin' Butt to think about, so I have to push through my discomfort. She needs socialization and friends. And I know I do, too. And the funny thing is, when I put myself out there, I receive help and friendship in return. My friends are still there; I'm the one that hid away from them.
So tomorrow PB and I have a full day of fun and friends planned. I'm nervous as hell, worrying that I won't fit in anymore. Worried that I'll have nothing to talk about. Worried that I've done irreparable damage to my friendships and that it will all come to a head. I'm pretty sure these are needless worries, but they are there nonetheless. But I will push through, for Punkin' Butt's and my sake. And our sanity.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sleep, or the Lack Thereof
I'm sitting here listening to Punkin' Butt scream at the top of her lungs to be let out of her crib. It's like nails on a chalkboard to my already fragile mood. Just a short while ago she was begging for nap time. This is how it goes at our house. Sleep time has become a power struggle.
Once Upon a Time
Sleep hasn't always been an issue for us. We used to put her down, she'd play or fuss for a few minutes and then fall asleep. Didn't matter if it was nap time or bed time. She'd sleep until 7:30 in the morning and take a two hour nap. Now we're lucky when she sleeps past 5am and even goes to her room for nap time.
The Transition
About a month ago, The Bearded One and I decided that it was time for Punkin Butt' to be in a big girl bed, so we took the side off of her crib. Then all hell broke loose. As soon as she knew she could get out of bed, it was all over. We finally gave up on trying to keep her in bed. If she wanted to fall asleep on the floor, that was fine. Eventually she started putting herself back in bed.
Then she learned how to open doors.
The Fight
Now every night is a fight to keep PB in her room. We've tried turning the doorknob so the lock is on the outside, but it's a cheap knob and a couple shakes unlocks the stupid thing. We tried a baby gate, but the doors are so narrow (and again, cheap) and the gate won't stay up. For 5 minutes we tried a latch on the outside of the door, but I felt so horrible that it quickly came off.
Now we just turn the crib around so she can't get out. We give her a chance to stay in her room before we turn it. She gets one warning; the second time the crib gets turned and she can't get out of bed at all. After that she's usually asleep in under 5 minutes. So we know she's tired. It's just that the whole thing has become a big game with her.
My Sleep
I know this is not going to solve anything. She's not learning to stay in her room; she's being kept there. But I don't really know any alternatives. I have to get my sleep. When you're bipolar, sleep is critical. Too much and I'm depressed (that doesn't usually happen with a 2 1/2 year old). Too little and I'm manic and aggressive (this tends to happen a lot).
So we have to figure out PB's sleep situation. TBO can't always be the one to deal with it just so I can get my sleep. He does have a job to get to bright and early. We're sort of at a standoff right now, trying to figure out how to beat a 2 1/2 year old at her own game.
Once Upon a Time
Sleep hasn't always been an issue for us. We used to put her down, she'd play or fuss for a few minutes and then fall asleep. Didn't matter if it was nap time or bed time. She'd sleep until 7:30 in the morning and take a two hour nap. Now we're lucky when she sleeps past 5am and even goes to her room for nap time.
The Transition
About a month ago, The Bearded One and I decided that it was time for Punkin Butt' to be in a big girl bed, so we took the side off of her crib. Then all hell broke loose. As soon as she knew she could get out of bed, it was all over. We finally gave up on trying to keep her in bed. If she wanted to fall asleep on the floor, that was fine. Eventually she started putting herself back in bed.
Then she learned how to open doors.
The Fight
Now every night is a fight to keep PB in her room. We've tried turning the doorknob so the lock is on the outside, but it's a cheap knob and a couple shakes unlocks the stupid thing. We tried a baby gate, but the doors are so narrow (and again, cheap) and the gate won't stay up. For 5 minutes we tried a latch on the outside of the door, but I felt so horrible that it quickly came off.
Now we just turn the crib around so she can't get out. We give her a chance to stay in her room before we turn it. She gets one warning; the second time the crib gets turned and she can't get out of bed at all. After that she's usually asleep in under 5 minutes. So we know she's tired. It's just that the whole thing has become a big game with her.
My Sleep
I know this is not going to solve anything. She's not learning to stay in her room; she's being kept there. But I don't really know any alternatives. I have to get my sleep. When you're bipolar, sleep is critical. Too much and I'm depressed (that doesn't usually happen with a 2 1/2 year old). Too little and I'm manic and aggressive (this tends to happen a lot).
So we have to figure out PB's sleep situation. TBO can't always be the one to deal with it just so I can get my sleep. He does have a job to get to bright and early. We're sort of at a standoff right now, trying to figure out how to beat a 2 1/2 year old at her own game.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Longest, Hardest Year (Warning: Graphic/Contains Triggers)
This mommy's mind...
...was confused. My then "therapist" decided to call whatever was wrong with me a "general mood disorder." My general practitioner (GP) actually used the word "bipolar." Neither one actually tried to explain what either term meant for me. My therapist kept pushing the neurofeedback, while my GP decided to start me on mood stabilizers. She prescribed Topomax for my moods and trazodone for sleep, telling me I could take "however much I needed" to help me fall asleep. Mistakes number five and six: not asking for more information about my illness and not informing myself about any of it, especially the meds. I figured they knew what they were doing, so I blindly followed their directions.
Danger Ahead
At first the meds seemed to be helping; I definitely was getting sleep again and I wasn't flying as high as I had been on the Zoloft. But the neurofeedback did nothing but make me feel giddy for a few hours before it would wear off, and I really didn't care for my therapist, so after a month or two I stopped going. Mistake number seven: be sure to have an alternative provider in place before leaving any health care professional.
As I continued to take the Topomax, I began to notice several things.
Downward Spiral
Thankfully by this time I had started doing my own research. So I was able to recognize the difference between mania and depression and started to notice my mood changes sooner. I soon realized they were changing way too often. And thus I learned about rapid cycling. Ultra rapid cycling. I'd be depressed in the morning, then manic by dinner, sometimes with multiple swings in between. The Bearded One was tiptoeing on eggshells; he never knew where I was coming from or how to respond to anything I was doing or saying. I became increasingly erratic, starting multiple projects, then abandoning them because I was exhausted from the depression. I was laughing hysterically one minute, then in a tearful rage the next. This continued for months and no one was excused from my one woman display of craziness. Not TBO, not poor little Punkin' Butt, not even friends. I was in hell and had no idea how to stop the pain.
Too Little, Too Late
I eventually figured out that the Topomax was not only NOT working, but that it was very likely making me worse. On a Monday morning I went to see my GP about switching medications. She agreed and we worked out a schedule to come off the Topomax and start Lamictal. The schedule started Tuesday morning. I didn't make it to Tuesday morning.
Monday evening, after PB was asleep, The Bearded One and I were sitting in the living room discussing a tax bill we owed. It wasn't the most enjoyable of conversations (what conversation about taxes is?) but neither was it a bad conversation. But something about that conversation triggered an emotional response in me that knocked my world off it's axis. Maybe it was the financial stress, maybe it was the meds, maybe I was overtired. Probably a little of all of those things. As I sat there I began to cry, then weep, then sob, the whole time feeling an uncontrollable urge to hurt myself. Scratching, cutting, biting, punching something, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that I knew I needed to hurt myself to make the pain go away.
Over the Edge
The longer I fought the urge, the more the urge turned from harm to suicide and I knew I was lost. I sat hugging my arms to my side to prevent any harm to myself, sobbing. I called my GP who told me to get to to the ER as soon as possible. TBO bundled Punkin' Butt and I into the car, we dropped her off with a dear friend and off to the ER we went. I had to sit on my hands the whole way there to stop myself from punching the dash, or worse, jumping out into interstate traffic. TBO was reassuring me that everything would be ok, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was terrified of this stranger next to him.
We got to the ER safely and they took me back immediately. Mentioning that you're suicidal gets you seen pretty quickly. It wasn't long before they decided what to do with me: involuntary commitment.
...was confused. My then "therapist" decided to call whatever was wrong with me a "general mood disorder." My general practitioner (GP) actually used the word "bipolar." Neither one actually tried to explain what either term meant for me. My therapist kept pushing the neurofeedback, while my GP decided to start me on mood stabilizers. She prescribed Topomax for my moods and trazodone for sleep, telling me I could take "however much I needed" to help me fall asleep. Mistakes number five and six: not asking for more information about my illness and not informing myself about any of it, especially the meds. I figured they knew what they were doing, so I blindly followed their directions.
Danger Ahead
At first the meds seemed to be helping; I definitely was getting sleep again and I wasn't flying as high as I had been on the Zoloft. But the neurofeedback did nothing but make me feel giddy for a few hours before it would wear off, and I really didn't care for my therapist, so after a month or two I stopped going. Mistake number seven: be sure to have an alternative provider in place before leaving any health care professional.
As I continued to take the Topomax, I began to notice several things.
- I was losing a ton of weight. I just didn't feel like eating.
- I was losing a ton of hair.
- Poor short term memory
- Loss of word recall
Downward Spiral
Thankfully by this time I had started doing my own research. So I was able to recognize the difference between mania and depression and started to notice my mood changes sooner. I soon realized they were changing way too often. And thus I learned about rapid cycling. Ultra rapid cycling. I'd be depressed in the morning, then manic by dinner, sometimes with multiple swings in between. The Bearded One was tiptoeing on eggshells; he never knew where I was coming from or how to respond to anything I was doing or saying. I became increasingly erratic, starting multiple projects, then abandoning them because I was exhausted from the depression. I was laughing hysterically one minute, then in a tearful rage the next. This continued for months and no one was excused from my one woman display of craziness. Not TBO, not poor little Punkin' Butt, not even friends. I was in hell and had no idea how to stop the pain.
Too Little, Too Late
I eventually figured out that the Topomax was not only NOT working, but that it was very likely making me worse. On a Monday morning I went to see my GP about switching medications. She agreed and we worked out a schedule to come off the Topomax and start Lamictal. The schedule started Tuesday morning. I didn't make it to Tuesday morning.
Monday evening, after PB was asleep, The Bearded One and I were sitting in the living room discussing a tax bill we owed. It wasn't the most enjoyable of conversations (what conversation about taxes is?) but neither was it a bad conversation. But something about that conversation triggered an emotional response in me that knocked my world off it's axis. Maybe it was the financial stress, maybe it was the meds, maybe I was overtired. Probably a little of all of those things. As I sat there I began to cry, then weep, then sob, the whole time feeling an uncontrollable urge to hurt myself. Scratching, cutting, biting, punching something, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that I knew I needed to hurt myself to make the pain go away.
Over the Edge
The longer I fought the urge, the more the urge turned from harm to suicide and I knew I was lost. I sat hugging my arms to my side to prevent any harm to myself, sobbing. I called my GP who told me to get to to the ER as soon as possible. TBO bundled Punkin' Butt and I into the car, we dropped her off with a dear friend and off to the ER we went. I had to sit on my hands the whole way there to stop myself from punching the dash, or worse, jumping out into interstate traffic. TBO was reassuring me that everything would be ok, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was terrified of this stranger next to him.
We got to the ER safely and they took me back immediately. Mentioning that you're suicidal gets you seen pretty quickly. It wasn't long before they decided what to do with me: involuntary commitment.
A Long, Long Three Years Ago (Part 3)
This mommy's mind...
...was alone. All alone and starting to sink fast. Everyday was a monotony of nursing, diaper changes, physical therapy, nursing, diaper changes, cooking, nursing, etc, etc. Every night was an exhausting repeat of the day minus the cooking. And I know all you moms (and dads) know all about the monotony of a newborn. What you might not know is the crushing, unending feelings of deep despair and gut-wrenching failure. I cried almost as much as Punkin' Butt and twice as hard. I felt so deeply ashamed that I was not happier - why wasn't I over the moon about this precious new life I had brought into the world? Why didn't I feel the instant thicker-than-water bond that The Bearded One did? What was wrong with me? What kind of horrible person is depressed by a newborn baby? I would become so overwhelmed that I would snap and yell at her to "Stop. Just stop. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE STOP CRYING!!!" Then I would start bawling because I just screamed at a newborn for doing what newborns do. There were times when I just had to put her in her crib, walk away and call TBO and say, "Don't ask. Just come home now." And home he would come. Thank goodness for understanding bosses.
This went on for 4 months before I realized that this was not normal behavior. So I called my midwife and she said, "Hmm, sounds like you might have postpartum depression." Thanks, but how do I fix it? Turns out Xanax and Zoloft is how you fix it. At least according to her, and for a good while, it worked. I stopped screaming at PB, I stopped crying, I started putting on real clothes and got out of the pj's. Hell, I started showering again. Woo hoo! I even found a fantastic local group of mommies that I joined and who were a huge help in letting me know I was not alone in the mommyhood. (More on these fabulous ladies later.) I was getting my life back, finally. But something happened that I didn't notice at first. I started to become more easily agitated, fought more with TBO, that sort of thing. We chalked it up to being new parents and figured we would work it all out. Because hey, I was feeling good! Not just good, but GREAT. I was becoming more social, getting really involved with the group, keeping up with everything at home, starting new and exciting projects. Everything was good. Too good, but I didn't know that yet.
Towards the end of that first year with Punkin' Butt, The Bearded One and I seemed to be fighting more and more, and I started to become more and more agitated more and more easily. So I started to see a "therapist" (I use that word with her very lightly) who started me on neurofeedback as a way to retrain my brain to be happy and had my family practitioner raise my Zoloft to the next highest dose. Mistake number three: therapists are not psychiatrists and have no business managing your meds. Should have done my homework there. Because if I thought I was agitated before the dosage increase, I was a downright rhymes-with-witch after.
For two weeks straight, I didn't sleep. I don't mean I had trouble sleeping. I'm talking 2 hours a night, max. I was inundated with energy, ideas and thoughts. My brain would not shut-up. And the fighting. Oh, the fighting. I would pick fights with TBO just for breathing in my direction. Poor Punkin' Butt just couldn't do anything right. And lord help the cat if he so much as thought about touching me. I was a nasty, mean, spiteful person to be around. And my brain just would not stop running a mile a minute. So back to the therapist I went. And that's when she said the one word that changed my life forever. Bipolar. Turns out if you give someone who is bipolar an antidepressant only, it will more often than not send them into a state of mania. Which is what was happening to me. So back to my family practitioner I went so she could take me off the Zoloft and start me on mood stabilizers. And so began the longest, hardest year of my life.
...was alone. All alone and starting to sink fast. Everyday was a monotony of nursing, diaper changes, physical therapy, nursing, diaper changes, cooking, nursing, etc, etc. Every night was an exhausting repeat of the day minus the cooking. And I know all you moms (and dads) know all about the monotony of a newborn. What you might not know is the crushing, unending feelings of deep despair and gut-wrenching failure. I cried almost as much as Punkin' Butt and twice as hard. I felt so deeply ashamed that I was not happier - why wasn't I over the moon about this precious new life I had brought into the world? Why didn't I feel the instant thicker-than-water bond that The Bearded One did? What was wrong with me? What kind of horrible person is depressed by a newborn baby? I would become so overwhelmed that I would snap and yell at her to "Stop. Just stop. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE STOP CRYING!!!" Then I would start bawling because I just screamed at a newborn for doing what newborns do. There were times when I just had to put her in her crib, walk away and call TBO and say, "Don't ask. Just come home now." And home he would come. Thank goodness for understanding bosses.
This went on for 4 months before I realized that this was not normal behavior. So I called my midwife and she said, "Hmm, sounds like you might have postpartum depression." Thanks, but how do I fix it? Turns out Xanax and Zoloft is how you fix it. At least according to her, and for a good while, it worked. I stopped screaming at PB, I stopped crying, I started putting on real clothes and got out of the pj's. Hell, I started showering again. Woo hoo! I even found a fantastic local group of mommies that I joined and who were a huge help in letting me know I was not alone in the mommyhood. (More on these fabulous ladies later.) I was getting my life back, finally. But something happened that I didn't notice at first. I started to become more easily agitated, fought more with TBO, that sort of thing. We chalked it up to being new parents and figured we would work it all out. Because hey, I was feeling good! Not just good, but GREAT. I was becoming more social, getting really involved with the group, keeping up with everything at home, starting new and exciting projects. Everything was good. Too good, but I didn't know that yet.
Towards the end of that first year with Punkin' Butt, The Bearded One and I seemed to be fighting more and more, and I started to become more and more agitated more and more easily. So I started to see a "therapist" (I use that word with her very lightly) who started me on neurofeedback as a way to retrain my brain to be happy and had my family practitioner raise my Zoloft to the next highest dose. Mistake number three: therapists are not psychiatrists and have no business managing your meds. Should have done my homework there. Because if I thought I was agitated before the dosage increase, I was a downright rhymes-with-witch after.
For two weeks straight, I didn't sleep. I don't mean I had trouble sleeping. I'm talking 2 hours a night, max. I was inundated with energy, ideas and thoughts. My brain would not shut-up. And the fighting. Oh, the fighting. I would pick fights with TBO just for breathing in my direction. Poor Punkin' Butt just couldn't do anything right. And lord help the cat if he so much as thought about touching me. I was a nasty, mean, spiteful person to be around. And my brain just would not stop running a mile a minute. So back to the therapist I went. And that's when she said the one word that changed my life forever. Bipolar. Turns out if you give someone who is bipolar an antidepressant only, it will more often than not send them into a state of mania. Which is what was happening to me. So back to my family practitioner I went so she could take me off the Zoloft and start me on mood stabilizers. And so began the longest, hardest year of my life.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
A Long, Long Three Years Ago (Part 2)
This mommy's mind...
...was nervous but excited when the big day arrived. At 41 weeks they induced me and nine hours later my beautiful daughter made her debut. That's when all expectations went out the window. As a mother-to-be, you have these glorious visions in your head of how perfect the whole new baby thing will be. You take classes, you read books, you prepare and you just KNOW exactly how life will be. "Uh-uh", said life, "here's how it's really going to be."
As it turns out, our little Punkin' Butt's head had been pressing against my pelvic bone for weeks, maybe months. This left her with an enormous encephalohematoma (big fancy word for large, swollen bruise on her head) and a severe case of torticollis, which is a fancy way of saying she had the world's worst crick in the neck. Because she had been pressed against the bone for so long in one position, her facial features and neck muscles developed in that position, leaving her with a smooshed nose, a pinched ear and one neck muscle significantly shorter than the other side. All of this made nursing those first few days absolute hell. Because her head kept flopping to one side and her head was so sore to the slightest of touches, I had to have a nurse help hold her every time I nursed. Right out of the gate I felt like a failure. What sort of mother was I going to be if I couldn't get this right? Apparently the hospital didn't see it that way because two days later they sent us home. It didn't get any easier at home.
By the third day at home, PB's pediatrician decided she was too jaundiced due to her body trying to reabsorb all the blood from the shrinking bruise on her head. The doc said she needed to be in a bilibed, which is a special bed that uses light therapy to help the body break up the extra bilirubin that the liver can not process. The bed and special biliblanket were sent to the house that night, and my sweet new babe spent the next three days in the bilibed. The only times I was allowed to hold her was when I was nursing. Even then she still had to be swaddled with the biliblanket, so I was trying to nurse a baby with a bruised head, wonky neck and a three foot cable attached to the wall. It killed me to not be able to snuggle my precious PB all day long. Was this hurting her, I wondered? Would we still be able to bond after three days of not holding her? And to see her tiny new body laying in this hard plastic, strangely lit box was almost more than my heart could take. But after three days, the jaundice was all but gone and I could finally hold my baby whenever I wanted. The torticollis still needed attention, though.
At two weeks of age, Punkin' Butt started physical therapy. We had a wonderful therapist, Jessica, and the folks at Mission Children's Hospital were fantastic. Jessica taught us exercises and holds to use to help stretch out the shortened neck muscle. She even showed me the best ways to nurse PB to help further strengthen her neck. While this was great for her physical development, it made nursing that much harder. I _had_ to use a Boppy pillow to nurse, there was no real way around it. Which made leaving the house next to impossible. And I didn't want to start her on bottles until we had really established a good nursing pattern. So at home we stayed. Alone. As anyone will tell you, the best way to avoid postpartum depression is to NOT isolate yourself. And boy was I isolated. My mom could only stay for one week, The Bearded One worked long days, his family was an hour away and I didn't know anyone in Asheville yet. I was ALONE, and that was my second mistake...
...was nervous but excited when the big day arrived. At 41 weeks they induced me and nine hours later my beautiful daughter made her debut. That's when all expectations went out the window. As a mother-to-be, you have these glorious visions in your head of how perfect the whole new baby thing will be. You take classes, you read books, you prepare and you just KNOW exactly how life will be. "Uh-uh", said life, "here's how it's really going to be."
As it turns out, our little Punkin' Butt's head had been pressing against my pelvic bone for weeks, maybe months. This left her with an enormous encephalohematoma (big fancy word for large, swollen bruise on her head) and a severe case of torticollis, which is a fancy way of saying she had the world's worst crick in the neck. Because she had been pressed against the bone for so long in one position, her facial features and neck muscles developed in that position, leaving her with a smooshed nose, a pinched ear and one neck muscle significantly shorter than the other side. All of this made nursing those first few days absolute hell. Because her head kept flopping to one side and her head was so sore to the slightest of touches, I had to have a nurse help hold her every time I nursed. Right out of the gate I felt like a failure. What sort of mother was I going to be if I couldn't get this right? Apparently the hospital didn't see it that way because two days later they sent us home. It didn't get any easier at home.
By the third day at home, PB's pediatrician decided she was too jaundiced due to her body trying to reabsorb all the blood from the shrinking bruise on her head. The doc said she needed to be in a bilibed, which is a special bed that uses light therapy to help the body break up the extra bilirubin that the liver can not process. The bed and special biliblanket were sent to the house that night, and my sweet new babe spent the next three days in the bilibed. The only times I was allowed to hold her was when I was nursing. Even then she still had to be swaddled with the biliblanket, so I was trying to nurse a baby with a bruised head, wonky neck and a three foot cable attached to the wall. It killed me to not be able to snuggle my precious PB all day long. Was this hurting her, I wondered? Would we still be able to bond after three days of not holding her? And to see her tiny new body laying in this hard plastic, strangely lit box was almost more than my heart could take. But after three days, the jaundice was all but gone and I could finally hold my baby whenever I wanted. The torticollis still needed attention, though.
At two weeks of age, Punkin' Butt started physical therapy. We had a wonderful therapist, Jessica, and the folks at Mission Children's Hospital were fantastic. Jessica taught us exercises and holds to use to help stretch out the shortened neck muscle. She even showed me the best ways to nurse PB to help further strengthen her neck. While this was great for her physical development, it made nursing that much harder. I _had_ to use a Boppy pillow to nurse, there was no real way around it. Which made leaving the house next to impossible. And I didn't want to start her on bottles until we had really established a good nursing pattern. So at home we stayed. Alone. As anyone will tell you, the best way to avoid postpartum depression is to NOT isolate yourself. And boy was I isolated. My mom could only stay for one week, The Bearded One worked long days, his family was an hour away and I didn't know anyone in Asheville yet. I was ALONE, and that was my second mistake...
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