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.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Mommy Goes Away
This Mommy's Mind...
...has been hospitalized twice now. The first time was involuntary.
From the Back of a Deputy's Car
I have never been arrested. Never been in trouble with the law in any way. Yet here I sat in the backseat of a sheriff's deputy's car, handcuffed and humiliated. It's policy in my county for those who have been involuntarily committed to be transported this way, though no one explained that to me before they paraded me through the emergency room, cuffed and barefoot. "Police escort" is the pretty way they put it. Being lied to does not improve one's mood. All I kept thinking was how grateful I was that my daughter was not there to see me like that.
A Room with a (partial) View
I arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night, alone and afraid. I was miles from home, in a strange place and with no control. Over anything. Over where I was, over how I was treated, over anything at home. That was the kick in the gut right there. When you are a homemaker, as I proudly name myself, you are the queen (or king. Hey, it's the 2010's.) of your castle. When you are locked away in a place with a view of the parking deck, all control is stripped from you. I worried sick over whether bills were being paid, if my family was being fed, if Punkin' Butt was miserable without me. Or worse, better without me? Would The Bearded One still want me after all this? Did I have a home to go back to?
A Ray of Sunshine
Of course I did. My family didn't stop loving me just because I was sick. And it was abundantly clear when they finally got to visit me and PB came toddling up to me just as fast as she could, yelling "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" I was reminded of why I was there, why I had to give up control. I was there to heal, to help make my family whole again. I relished every second of that visit and I sobbed as the doors closed behind them as they left. It was as if all the sunshine had gone and with it a piece of me. I was more determined than ever to get well.
The Storm Passes
As with all storms, the clouds broke up and the sky became clear again. My meds got straightened out, I learned ways to cope with the stress of life and made a few friends along the way. I even came out of the whole ordeal with a new therapist, and I call her that proudly, for she is wonderful at what she does. After seven days I was allowed to leave to continue my recovery at home. That night, as I sang to my sweet babe for the first time in ages and kissed her goodnight, I knew I was going to be ok.
But as with every passing storm, it's not long till another one is on the horizon.
...has been hospitalized twice now. The first time was involuntary.
From the Back of a Deputy's Car
I have never been arrested. Never been in trouble with the law in any way. Yet here I sat in the backseat of a sheriff's deputy's car, handcuffed and humiliated. It's policy in my county for those who have been involuntarily committed to be transported this way, though no one explained that to me before they paraded me through the emergency room, cuffed and barefoot. "Police escort" is the pretty way they put it. Being lied to does not improve one's mood. All I kept thinking was how grateful I was that my daughter was not there to see me like that.
A Room with a (partial) View
I arrived at the hospital in the middle of the night, alone and afraid. I was miles from home, in a strange place and with no control. Over anything. Over where I was, over how I was treated, over anything at home. That was the kick in the gut right there. When you are a homemaker, as I proudly name myself, you are the queen (or king. Hey, it's the 2010's.) of your castle. When you are locked away in a place with a view of the parking deck, all control is stripped from you. I worried sick over whether bills were being paid, if my family was being fed, if Punkin' Butt was miserable without me. Or worse, better without me? Would The Bearded One still want me after all this? Did I have a home to go back to?
A Ray of Sunshine
Of course I did. My family didn't stop loving me just because I was sick. And it was abundantly clear when they finally got to visit me and PB came toddling up to me just as fast as she could, yelling "Mommy, mommy, mommy!" I was reminded of why I was there, why I had to give up control. I was there to heal, to help make my family whole again. I relished every second of that visit and I sobbed as the doors closed behind them as they left. It was as if all the sunshine had gone and with it a piece of me. I was more determined than ever to get well.
The Storm Passes
As with all storms, the clouds broke up and the sky became clear again. My meds got straightened out, I learned ways to cope with the stress of life and made a few friends along the way. I even came out of the whole ordeal with a new therapist, and I call her that proudly, for she is wonderful at what she does. After seven days I was allowed to leave to continue my recovery at home. That night, as I sang to my sweet babe for the first time in ages and kissed her goodnight, I knew I was going to be ok.
But as with every passing storm, it's not long till another one is on the horizon.
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...
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
A Long, Long Three Years Ago (Part 1)
This mommy's mind...
...Has not always been this way; this fragile and temperamental. Sure, I've had episodes of deep, dark depression before. And yes, I used to harm myself in high school, but I thought that was normal. And yes, I've had episodes of hypomania (mania light, for the uninitiated), but I thought I was just having periods of great clarity, enthusiasm and creativity. Never mind that I quit more jobs than I can count and have rarely ever finished something I have started. Yes, I've been bipolar for a long time and not known it. But the real trouble didn't begin until a long, long three years ago, right in the middle of my pregnancy. Back when our life was so full of promise and the future so bright we didn't see the dark chasm ahead.
See, I pretty much lost my marbles right around the six month mark. (And yes, I can say that because they're MY marbles.) I was panicky, on edge, ready to jump at the slightest provocation. I picked fights with The Bearded One constantly, then sobbed hysterically, begging him not to leave me. Not that he had any intentions of doing so. That was just the anxiety talking. And it kept talking, louder and louder, until it was echoing in my head and all I could hear was fear. I don't know how many nights I lay awake in tears because I just knew we were going to be so poor that we would be evicted and our baby would have to sleep in a shoe box under a tree. I remember several nights of getting out of bed at midnight or later to balance the check book, just so I could rest slightly easier. And TBO would get up with me and wait patiently while I crunched numbers at 2am. One late night I heard a car door and an engine start and I just knew, in my gut, that someone was stealing our car. I ran to the window just in time to see our neighbor leaving for work. Which she had done every night since we moved in. But I stood at that window for an hour just to be sure the car was safe. And some of you may be thinking, "Well that's just normal pregnancy hormones talking," and it seems my OB's office would agree with you. But I assure you, as I did them, that something was wrong, that the fear I felt was crippling. But I was told, "You're fine. It's normal," and I didn't push the issue. That was mistake number one: not listening to my gut. I knew pregnancy anxiety was a real thing and could lead to postpartum, but I kept my mouth closed and waited...
...Has not always been this way; this fragile and temperamental. Sure, I've had episodes of deep, dark depression before. And yes, I used to harm myself in high school, but I thought that was normal. And yes, I've had episodes of hypomania (mania light, for the uninitiated), but I thought I was just having periods of great clarity, enthusiasm and creativity. Never mind that I quit more jobs than I can count and have rarely ever finished something I have started. Yes, I've been bipolar for a long time and not known it. But the real trouble didn't begin until a long, long three years ago, right in the middle of my pregnancy. Back when our life was so full of promise and the future so bright we didn't see the dark chasm ahead.
See, I pretty much lost my marbles right around the six month mark. (And yes, I can say that because they're MY marbles.) I was panicky, on edge, ready to jump at the slightest provocation. I picked fights with The Bearded One constantly, then sobbed hysterically, begging him not to leave me. Not that he had any intentions of doing so. That was just the anxiety talking. And it kept talking, louder and louder, until it was echoing in my head and all I could hear was fear. I don't know how many nights I lay awake in tears because I just knew we were going to be so poor that we would be evicted and our baby would have to sleep in a shoe box under a tree. I remember several nights of getting out of bed at midnight or later to balance the check book, just so I could rest slightly easier. And TBO would get up with me and wait patiently while I crunched numbers at 2am. One late night I heard a car door and an engine start and I just knew, in my gut, that someone was stealing our car. I ran to the window just in time to see our neighbor leaving for work. Which she had done every night since we moved in. But I stood at that window for an hour just to be sure the car was safe. And some of you may be thinking, "Well that's just normal pregnancy hormones talking," and it seems my OB's office would agree with you. But I assure you, as I did them, that something was wrong, that the fear I felt was crippling. But I was told, "You're fine. It's normal," and I didn't push the issue. That was mistake number one: not listening to my gut. I knew pregnancy anxiety was a real thing and could lead to postpartum, but I kept my mouth closed and waited...
Monday, June 20, 2011
Hello!
This Mommy's Mind....
...Is new to the world of blogging, but excited to be here. So let me tell you a little about, well, me. My name is Lisa and I am a stay-at-home mommy to my beautiful 2 1/2 year old daughter, who we'll call Punkin' Butt, or PB, and devoted fiancee to my high-school sweetheart, who we'll just call The Bearded One, or TBO. (If you know him, you get it. If not, well, he's pretty hairy, facially speaking. Our niece calls him a hippy. Get the idea?) Oh, and we can't forget His Royal Laziness, Lilly, our 10 year old cat. (Yes, I said "his" and "Lilly." Just go with it.) And, as it just so happens, I am bipolar. Bipolar 1 with lots of rapid cycling thrown in just for kicks. That's the main reason I started this blog, as a creative outlet to help me sort out my thoughts and feelings. Because I suck at journaling. But also started it because I couldn't find a blog about being mentally ill and parenting that spoke to me. (If you know of one, or are one, take no offense. I just haven't found you. But feel free to share in the comments!) Being bipolar isn't all that I am, so I won't be talking about that all the time. But it does have an effect on my daily life, especially as a mother. So that's what this blog is about: being a mom while just happening to be bipolar. It's about this mommy sorting out her mind and her life, one day, one moment, one two-year-old temper tantrum at a time.
Over the next couple posts, I'll give you a little more background about how I came to this point in life. I do not, nor will I ever, proclaim to be an expert on anything I talk about here. These are just my thoughts and observations. But for now, let me say thanks for stopping by, and I hope you find something along this journey that speaks to you.
...Is new to the world of blogging, but excited to be here. So let me tell you a little about, well, me. My name is Lisa and I am a stay-at-home mommy to my beautiful 2 1/2 year old daughter, who we'll call Punkin' Butt, or PB, and devoted fiancee to my high-school sweetheart, who we'll just call The Bearded One, or TBO. (If you know him, you get it. If not, well, he's pretty hairy, facially speaking. Our niece calls him a hippy. Get the idea?) Oh, and we can't forget His Royal Laziness, Lilly, our 10 year old cat. (Yes, I said "his" and "Lilly." Just go with it.) And, as it just so happens, I am bipolar. Bipolar 1 with lots of rapid cycling thrown in just for kicks. That's the main reason I started this blog, as a creative outlet to help me sort out my thoughts and feelings. Because I suck at journaling. But also started it because I couldn't find a blog about being mentally ill and parenting that spoke to me. (If you know of one, or are one, take no offense. I just haven't found you. But feel free to share in the comments!) Being bipolar isn't all that I am, so I won't be talking about that all the time. But it does have an effect on my daily life, especially as a mother. So that's what this blog is about: being a mom while just happening to be bipolar. It's about this mommy sorting out her mind and her life, one day, one moment, one two-year-old temper tantrum at a time.
Over the next couple posts, I'll give you a little more background about how I came to this point in life. I do not, nor will I ever, proclaim to be an expert on anything I talk about here. These are just my thoughts and observations. But for now, let me say thanks for stopping by, and I hope you find something along this journey that speaks to you.
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