I'm A Real Hoot At Parties

My husband is in the middle of looking for a new job and seeing as I’m a stay-at-home mom, his ability to find paying work is a bit vital.  For two months now, I’ve been teetering on the edge of a panic attack, feeling like at any given moment I might cease being able to breath or move, and I’ll probably just feebly curl up into the fetal position behind the couch for the rest of my living days.

After working with my therapist on controlling this anxiety for nearly a month and a half, I broke down and went to my psychiatrist for medication.  And I’m surprised to find what a relief this is.

I take medication every single day for my bipolar depression, and will probably do so until the day I die.  This condition not necessarily situational, it just exists as an ever-present state of being.  I’m ok with taking my depression medication, never once have I questioned or lamented it.  It can and does keep me from dying.

But I was very anxious about the mere thought of taking medication to deal with my anxiety.

You see, my anxiety was so wrapped up in this job-hunt situation that I kept thinking I’d just get over it, or get used to it, or something.  That I’d be able to talk myself through it.  And though I just barely kept it all together, it was like putting a lid on a pot of boiling water.  The water is rolling beneath, there is steam coming out the sides and it won’t be long before it starts bubbling over.

So, I’ve turned to medication.  And an hour after popping that first pill I feel... clearer.  I’ve actually sat down and written this whole post from scratch, the first time I’ve been able to do so in months, and feel good about it.*

So, at least for a while, I’m on medication for depression AND anxiety.

I’m a real hoot at parties.

And I'm ok with this.

*Fun Fact: I have a plethora of half-written posts, so when I run into writer’s block I just flesh out one of them.  Dirty Secret: Four of the past eight posts I’ve published came from that well and now the well’s done gone dry.

February

Because of my bipolar depression, I’m careful to note changes to and patterns in my mental state.  This past November was rough, despite the fact that autumn and Thanksgiving are some of my favorite times of the year.  I love autumn.  Its cooling temperatures are a relief after a baking hot summer.  It heralds the start of school, and even though I’m not a student, it still fills me with optimism for the upcoming year, and feeds my hungry need to keep learning new things.

No, it’s February that’s supposed to be my worst month.

I first realized this when I was in college, even before I knew I was bipolar.  Like any good liberated woman on campus, I listened to my fair share of chick music; Ani DeFranco, Dar Williams, Indigo Girls, etc.  I was only a few steps away from dreadlocks and patchouli.  Fortunately, I liked washing my hair and smelling like flowers, albeit chemical flower odors manufactured by brand-name shampoos.  Don’t judge; this was before I knew about Aveda.

Anyhow, my senior year in college was marred by a rough February.  The thing is, nothing was really going wrong.  I was getting straight A’s in school.  I had an awesome group of friends.  I had a loving boyfriend who would later become my husband.  I had a part-time job in student leadership that was fulfilling enough that it would command a place on my resume for the next five years.  Everything was going right.

So why was I so depressed?  I wondered.

Walking to and from class and work, I’d listend to *OLD LADY ALERT* mixed-cd’s on my brand-new discman.  Every time this particular song came on I’d cry.  Despite the tears, I always seemed to listen to this song rather than skip it over.  I think, in a way, it was cathartic.

From “February” by Dar Williams:

First we forgot where wed planted those bulbs last year,

Then we forgot that wed planted at all,

Then we forgot what plants are altogether,

And I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and

The nights were long and cold and scary,

Can we live through february? 

You know I think christmas was a long red glare,

Shot up like a warning, we gave presents without cards,

And then the snow,

And then the snow came, we were always out shoveling,

And we’d drop to sleep exhausted,

Then we’d wake up, and it’s snowing.

So... that's it.  February is here, and I'm on alert.  So far I'm doing ok.  I have a lot of anxiety about something that I can't discuss here right now.  The anxiety is bad, and I'm fighting to keep it at bay, lest it render me utterly catatonic.  But it's entirely situational and as time passes and life events unfold, it will hopefully ease up.  

Until then, I'll continue plowing through February, one day at a time.

I'll Shut Up About This Soon, I Promise

I’ve been somewhat depressed lately.  This isn’t new.  Allie Brosh from Hyperbole and a Half described depression pretty nicely in her recent post “Adventures In Depression”; depression rears its ugly head in an avalanche of self-loathing and depravation.  It makes it especially difficult for me to write, because most of my internal dialogue goes something like this:

My brain: I know! I’ll write about birds.

My depression: Birds are stupid.  You’re stupid.

My brain: Uhhh.... ok.  What about the fact that I’ve abandoned the gym in favor of climbing up and down the steps in my own home?

My depression: Whatever.  You’re fat.  

My brain: Oh.

My brain: I can’t think of anything anymore.  All my ideas have been snuffed-out by the cold, blowing, wind of self-criticism.

My depression: I told you so.

My brain: I could write about being depressed.

My depression: No one wants to listen to that, you whiner. 

My brain: Ok then.... I’ll just go stand in the corner....

It started back this summer when I went to the dentist.  I hadn’t been to the dentist in six or seven years, and was banking on some good stories to come out of my own oral negligence.  

Instead, it was... uneventful.  Apparently I have good (and boring) tooth genes.  I wrote a post about it, but didn’t really like it that much.

And ever since that, I’ve felt flat.  Boring.  Whiny.

Even writing this, I’m hard-pressed to squelch the voice of “why bother?”  Is this a writer thing? A depression thing? Or am I in a pity-party state of mind that I should just get over already?

Yet as wretched and stupid as I feel right now, I do know one thing: It could be so much worse.

Before we figured out that I had specifically bipolar depression, my depressive cycles were so much more devastating.  I ceased being able to work, take care of my children, and function in any sense.  The medication I now take every single day saved my life, continues to save my life.  

And just having written this is cathartic. At least it's better than keeping it secret and silent. I don’t know when, but I know it’s temporary, and I’ll get though it.  

Just as I have before.

I'm Too Afraid And Guilt-Ridden To Give This Post A Witty, Concise Title.

For a number of reasons, and at times no reason at all, I'm on a depressive cycle.  This next topic is highly personal.  I debated whether to share it at all, but seeing as one reason I started this blog is to be transparent with my feelings, here it goes.

I want more children.  In fact, Husband and I have been trying to have a third child.

For a year, we've been trying to have a third child.

It isn't working.

I never anticipated this.

All Husband had to do was look at me to get me pregnant the first two times.  I was on the pill when I got pregnant with Preschooler.  With Toddler there was just one time.  One night of unprotected sex.  That's it.

I thought I was a fertile-Myrtle.

If everything had gone according to my original plan, I wouldn't have even started having kids until just now. I wanted to establish my career first in my ongoing futile effort to be the MOST SUCCESSFUL PERSON EVER, so I could WIN AT LIFE. I always wondered why God gave me my two kids sooner than my plans.  Now I know.  At least I have two kids, who I love more than life itself.   It would've devistated me to have fertility problems with my first two pregnancies.

And that leads to the guilt.  The guilt I feel because I want more, and I'm very, very sad that it's not working.  As if I don't really have a good reason to be sad, seeing as I already have two kids.  As sad as I am about not having a third, each and every day I thank God for my first two kids.  But it doesn't always take away from the sadness I feel for wanting more, and the subsequent guilt.

I think what it comes down to is that as a woman, I like to think I'm in charge of my fertility.  That I can have as many kids as I want, and then stop having them when I choose.

But I guess that may not be a choice of mine to make.

Eau De Baby

She had so much hair, it showed up on her ultrasound, a softly moving halo around her giant alien head.  Even after she was born, her hair never fell out.  It just got thicker and longer.

I loved my first born's hair.  I loved to touch it, but more than that, I loved to smell it.  It was an intoxicating primal connection.  I probably could've identified my baby in a room full of babies based on the smell of her head alone.

As she grew, I always managed to get a good long sniff in whenever I caught her in my arms.  And then one day ... it was gone.  Though she'd always be my baby, her head lost that baby-smell.  But I almost didn't notice the transition because, at the same time, I had another baby.  A new baby with her own new baby smell.

I coveted that smell.  While feeding her, cuddling her, reading to her, I'd take liberal opportunities to breath in the soft scent of her baby hair.  For two years I reveled in it.

But yesterday .... it was gone.  She no longer smells like a baby, with that unique baby-head-smell.  She smells, well, like a little girl.  It's still a wonderful smell, I miss the baby scent.

She runs.  She jumps (sort of.)  She talks, (sort of.)  She's starting to potty-train.  She takes off her own pants and shirt and socks. The last vestiges of babyhood are gone.

I do love when my kids start the next phase in life.  It's exciting, and their own pride when they master a new skill matches my own pride in their accomplishment.

But with my youngest growing up, I do miss my littlest baby.  When you become a mother, everyone tells you to enjoy your children, they grow up too fast.

I guess I just didn't realize just how fast that was.

*     *     *

Dear readers: I've been feeling a little down lately, so I'm using my blog to sort through the feelings that are bringing me down.  I'll return to my usual snark when I feel like it.  Thank you for understanding.

Dear Internets, I Has A Sad

Hello internet land.

I has a sad, and when I feel like this it makes it next to impossible to write.  I can't be a smart-ass when all I feel is wretched.

I don't really want to get into why I feel so wretched right now.  Suffice it to say it's a combination of life events and my own inclination to fall into depression when things in my life get rocky.

So forgive me if I'm a little silent on this blog for a while.  I promise as things get better with me, I'll be more active.  In the meantime, I might post a few gems from my archives.  Maybe I'll even work through my sadness on this blog.

But for me, just admitting that I'm anything other than ok, is a huge step forward.

Hello Mania. It's Been Too Long.

Though one of my reasons for starting this blog was to be open and honest about my bipolar depression, I haven’t touched on that subject for quite awhile.  Mostly because I’ve been doing well.

In fact, lately, I’ve been feeling great.  Super-great.  Super-super-great.

So good that I’ve been “treating” myself to the $20 this-or-that several times a week.

So good that I want to drink more (than usual), eat more (than usual), do everything more (than usual).

So good that I have about 3,249 ideas for blog posts, but I’m having a hard time focusing on just one long enough to complete it.  But, hey, the ideas keep coming!

So good that my sleeping pills aren’t really working anymore.  But it doesn’t really matter; there’s way too much going on to sleep. TWITCH.

Hello, manic phase.  It’s been too long.

This is it.  You can’t see it.  You probably don’t notice much of any change at all, unless you’re as close to me as, say, my husband.  The fancy name is "hypomania."

But it’s here.  Which means at some time in the future, it won’t be here.  And then, I’ll crash.  Physically, because my body won’t be able to keep up with the sleepless nights.  Mentally because feeling this up isn’t natural, and the pendulum will swing in the opposite direction. 

One of the scary parts of bipolar depression is that certain parts of a manic phase can feel so fucking good.  Hell, yeah who doesn’t want to feel super-productive, and super-creative, and super-awesome-and-worthy-and-capable? And really, you don’t need sleep to be a functional human being, so say hello to all-nighters and finding that 25th hour in the day!

And when you go through a manic phase like this, to go back even to normal - to your normal amount of productivity and creativity and capabilities - feels like a failure.  If I’m able to do XYZ some of the time, but I can’t do it all of the time, it must be because I’m not trying hard enough.  And feeling like a failure is enough to catapult you straight into depression, if you hadn’t plunged there already.

I know this.  I can talk about this because I am medicated enough to be self-aware, to understand what is happening to me.  And while I can’t predict when I’ll crash, I’ll be alert to a downswing.  And I’m working with my doctor to alter my medication to help me through this period.  To bring me down, while lessening the crash, if not eliminating the crash all together.

Mania is a lot of different things to a lot of different people.  I'm lucky I've caught this now, before the mania gets worse or the depression kicks in.

And I'll be ok.

I Am Bipolar. I am Not Insane.

I want to highlight the posts I've written about mental illness.  Because of this.  Because it's hard to come out. There is internal shame, external stigma, loss of hope, loss of worth.

This is my experience:

Is Anybody Out There?

Stigma

Side Effects Include Empathy....

The Post In Which I Belatedly Relate My Two Birth Stories

What I Did Over My Thanksgiving Break: The Bad (And Ugly)

If you suffer from mental illness, please read.  If you love some one with mental illness, please read.  If you know nothing about mental illness, please read.

Know you are not alone.  This is not your fault.  It is a physical ailment.  Medication helps, though it can take a long time.  Talking helps, too.

I'm off to give my kids a good hug.  Because I am alive to do so.

Don't give up.

2010: My Year In Review

January: Broke down.

February: Stopped functioning.

March: Got help.

April: Felt better.

May: Worked my a-- off toward a promotion.

June: Quit my job.

July: Learned how to be a stay-at-home mom.

August: Started this blog.

September: Packed. And packed. And then I packed.

October: Moved back to Wisconsin

November: Had my midlife crisis

December: Wrote this post.

And there you have it. The most boring post in the history of the internets.

Enjoy!

There Is No Wonderland. Just Winter. Also, Bah Humbug.

I tend to be a real hermit come winter.

Alas, it is snowing.

I avoid going outside. And, I avoid going outside. And then, I avoid going outside.

I don’t like snow. I don’t care that I grew up in Wisconsin. I don’t care that I spent 2 1/2 years living in colder Minnesota. I don’t care that I spent 3 1/2 years in milder (albeit still cold. Sort of. Sometimes.) Ohio.

I don’t like snow. I don’t like being cold.

But I do like an excuse to add hot cocoa and mochas to my hot beverage repertoire.

I like duping myself into making heart-attack inducing casseroles (hotdish to my friends in Minnesota) reasoning they'll stick to my bones.

You mean corn-dog casserole ISN’T good fore me? But it has corn in it!

I like being able to stay in my sweatpants all day, since I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I already do that, even when I have places to go. But now it’s LEGIT.

However, my hermit ways also manifest themselves when I’m depressed. I pine, not for the fjords, but for a deep, dark cave where I can go unnoticed and silent until the end of days. Like the prisoners of Plato’s cave, I see only the false shadows of my mind’s making.

Hermiting in the winter is ok, so long as it limits itself to things like sweaters and hot chocolate. It is not ok when it harbors solitude and sadness.

For me, at least, it’s a fine line.

What I Did Over My Thanksgiving Break: The Bad (And Ugly)

This (as always) is so tough to admit.

Depression touched me again. It is no respecter of occasion or holiday. It is always the pink elephant in My room, My mind, My life. It is something, because I have bipolar disorder, I will always have to keep in check.

I had a bout of depression over the Thanksgiving holiday. It wasn’t the worst. I had no suicidal thoughts this time.

But it wasn’t the best. I don’t know why it hit me when I was surrounded by people who loved me.

For those who were there and didn't notice anything, don't worry. For better or worse (usually worse) I put on a "happy" poker face no matter how I feel. For those who were there, and did notice something was up, this was it.

Maybe it’s because we finally weaned me off of antidepressants, so I can be treated solely by mood stabilizers on a daily basis.

Maybe it’s because, even though I LOVE my family, and I LOVE a good party, I’m still an introvert who needs to take a break from the action in order to recharge. And in all the action, I failed to take such a break until it was too late.

Maybe it’s because my two kids only wanted MOMMY, even though there were 4 grandparents, 1 aunt, 2 brothers-in-law, 1 uncle, 3 cousins, and a host of other in-laws and friends who would’ve happily relieved me of my kids for an hour or two.

I was fine Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday it crept up on me. By Friday I broke down, in private with my husband.

Because part of me is still ashamed of my condition. And even though I try so hard, I still am reluctant to show my true face to my loved ones, even though I know they want to know, and they want to help.

I loved my Thanksgiving holiday. But I didn’t love this.

Also, I realize the dearth of pictures with snarky comments in my last few posts. So sheerly for your pleasure, I present this:

The pets asked to be dressed like this, I swear.
Actually, I personally think this image looks shopped.
But the pets asked for it to be Photo Shopped. Really.

Dear Sir and Madame: You Are No Longer Welcome In This Fine Establishment

Baby screams. She screams when we’re out. She screams all about. She screams at home. She screams in a dome (I assume).

Husband and I can no longer stand the screaming, the incessant screaming by Miss Screamy McScreamsalot.

And now it’s come to this: we can no longer go to restaurants.

We were SPOILED by Preschooler who from day one stayed quiet and well-behaved in restaurants, even grown-up restaurants WITH NO CHILDREN’S MENUS.

Baby was ok for about eleven months. No more. By one year she started getting antsy. Then she got squirrely. And then she screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more.

And today, we found ourself at Olive Garden, a place we would’ve scorned with our pretentious asses in college, but now patronize frequently because they bring breadsticks to our table RIGHT AWAY.

And Baby, as is so often the case, started screaming. She screamed so much that the group of four seated next to us asked to be moved. Husband and I looked at each other and realized we have become those parents. The parents with that kid. The parents who apparently can’t or won’t sooth their screaming child.

The parents who should no longer bring their children to sit-down restaurants until the kids are older.

Maybe things will change when Baby is able to communicate more effectively.

Maybe things will change once she is older, and we’re better able to reason with her.

But if anyone knows how to stop the screaming, let me know. Seriously. Because I can no longer stand it.

Not in my home. Not when we roam. And if we stay in, the screaming begins. And then I cry. Seriously.

The Post In Which I Beleatedly Relate My Two Birth Stories

Hey fellas : This post is about giving birth. I'll talk about things like vaginas and poop. If this makes you nervous, please exit now, and direct your attention to something such as ESPN.com. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Pregnancy #1

My first pregnancy was a surprise.

We had just moved to Ohio, an unexpected move we were only given 2 months to plan for. When you and your husband don’t know any one, you *ahem* find other ways to entertain yourselves.

I was on the pill. I used it correctly. It failed. My OB/GYN said it was likely due to stress.

And I was an anxiety-ridden mess. We were both still in school. We were still living on student loans. We hadn’t planned on having children for at least 3 more years.

I graduated from law school. It took me 2 months to find a job. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

I started my new job at the same time I started my third trimester. I had 3 months to become totally competent in a difficult field, so I wouldn’t appear incapable when I returned after my 6 week maternity leave. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

It was 2 weeks before my due date. My doctor was concerned. The baby never dropped, a sign he interpreted as a very big baby. Ultrasounds revealed a 10-11 pound baby. He told me there was a 50-50 chance I’d need a C-section. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

We induced 2 days later. I was given gel to ripen my cervix. My body reacted so poorly to the gel that we had to quit using it. I couldn’t sleep all night.

I labored. I got an epidural. I pushed for an hour and a half. My doctor thought things weren’t moving fast enough. He gave me an episiotomy. Without even asking.

The baby was born. She was only 7 pounds. Turns out she just had a giant head. I got a 3rd-degree tear despite the episiotomy. I had been awake for approximately 22 hours. I could barely stay lucid enough to hold my new baby.

I wanted to breastfeed. The baby just wouldn’t latch. I got a little help from the lactation consultants, but the minute they’d leave, the baby would stop latching. She’d cry all the time. I didn’t know how to help her. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

The second day in the hospital, the baby finally fell asleep. My husband and family left to get a meal, thinking I’d finally get some rest.

10 minutes later, the nurses rolled her bassinet back into my room because she wouldn’t stop screaming. And I broke down. Because my baby couldn’t be soothed. Because I was so exhausted, and she wouldn’t give me even 10 minutes to rest. The nurses were so concerned about me they called my husband, and asked him to come back.

It was a sign of things to come.

I was sent home with a baby who still felt like a stranger.

The recovery from childbirth was unexpectedly worse than the birth itself. I spent 3 days so constipated I could barely function. No amount of Dulcolax would help. My doctor finally prescribed an industrial strength stool-softener.

It worked. Too well. For the following 3 days I couldn’t control my bowels. I was so ashamed of myself. I literally felt like an animal.

And the baby still wouldn’t latch. For 5 days I could hardly feed her. I was an anxiety ridden-mess. We finally broke down and gave her a bottle of formula. I was so ashamed that I was unable to feed my own baby.

I began pumping like a fiend, mostly because if I had to bottle-feed, I was at least going to feed her breast milk. Two weeks after I gave birth I ended up with a sever case of mastitis, with a fever so high I became delirious.

My best friend from law school traveled to Ohio and nursed me through the mastitis. But after it healed, it was clear to me I just couldn’t handle breastfeeding. I was certain this would ruin my baby. I was an anxiety ridden-mess.

And the worst thing of all, was that the baby still felt like a stranger, albeit a stranger I felt no ill-will towards. It was like being a babysitter. You felt obligated to care for your charge, but it wasn’t the mother-love I expected.

Just before my maternity leave was up, I finally started to experience the mother-love I was so anxious to find. I hated to take her to daycare. I was sure this would ruin her. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

I took her to daycare. For the first two weeks I cried more than she did at drop off.

Eventually I was able to function at work, and take my baby to daycare without tears. But I could never shake the guilt I felt that I had to take her to daycare. I was an anxiety-ridden mess.

Pregnancy #2

My second pregnancy was also a surprise, only because my husband and I acted like stupid teenagers who thought “one time wouldn’t hurt.” Mentally I was medicated enough to control the anxiety.

But it was a difficult pregnancy. I had morning-sickness for 20 weeks straight. During my 6th month I had some bleeding from an indeterminate cause. I was told to take it easy.

One month later it became clear the baby wasn’t growing at the rate it should. I began bi-weekly non-stress tests and told to abstain from work.

Another month later it became clear the baby wasn’t growing at all. We entered a precarious system of balancing the baby’s health while encouraging her to stay in the womb until her lungs fully developed.

Ultimately we were able to keep her in me for 39 weeks. My labor was easy. My doctor was kinder. My recover was remarkably swifter. The baby was born 4 pounds, 10 ounces. She was little, but very healthy and strong. We had determined straight away not to breast feed for my own mental health, a decision I and my doctor supported whole-heartedly. Everything went right.

And it didn’t matter.

Just as before, I felt like a babysitter, unable to capture the love I hoped would happen almost immediately. Just as before my depression worsened.

By the time the baby was three months old, I was so low that my husband knew, and I knew, that bad things would happen if I didn’t get help. I was scared. My husband was scared. The next opening at a psychiatrist’s office wasn’t for 3 months. My doctor put me on the highest dosage of Effexor she could legally prescribe. I pushed on through for the next 3 months, even though I could barely function.

Finally, I saw a psychiatrist, and for the first time in 2 years was properly diagnosed with and treated for bipolar depression.

Ultimately, my pregnancies were the best surprise ever. They reminded me that sometimes there is a hand greater than yours guiding things. I am blessed.

In the future

We haven’t ruled out the possibility of a third pregnancy, now that I’m properly medicated.

If I ever get pregnant again, it would be, in part, that I just want one opportunity to love my baby fiercely the minute she is born, not months later.

That strikes me as a selfish reason reason to have a baby.

But it’s true.

A Weighty Issue

I questioned whether to even publish this post. It seems whiny and self-indulgent. But, for the sake of the honesty and transparency I committed myself to when I started this blog, here it goes.

I’ve gained 40 pounds since my wedding. Twenty pounds with each child. With my first child I really thought that I needed to eat ice cream and Taco Bell each day. So I did. I once made my husband cross 3 lanes of traffic to get to Taco Bell so I could have a 7-Layer Burrito.

By the time my body fully recovered from that first pregnancy, I gained twenty pounds.

Ashamed of my gluttony during my first pregnancy, I resolved to eat better the second time around. For the first twenty weeks I did great. I threw up everything I ate and lost 10 pounds. And although I was put on limited activity for my entire third trimester, my weight gain was very healthy.

I still gained twenty pounds.

God Bless Husband, who truly believes I’ve only become more beautiful.

I’ve been in denial about my weight gain. I reasoned that since I can button up my pants (regardless of the blubber spilling over), that I’m doing ok. I reasoned that since I’ve got an hourglass figure, I look voluptuous, not fat. I simply stopped picturing what I looked like from the shoulders down, preferring to imagine what I used to look like.

I don’t look voluptuous. I’m not big boned and I’m not tall. I’ve got to much fat on a frame not sized to hold it all. I look out-of-shape. I look slovenly. I looked up my BMI and I’m well into the overweight range.

Is this what people think whenever they look at me?

I can’t keep denying this. It’s so easy to ignore the truth.

I was a skinny child. Not just little, skinny. I was a slender young adult. I never had to worry about my weight. I ate reasonably, indulged when I wanted, stayed moderately active, and everything was fine.

Not so much anymore. I still eat reasonably, and only indulge occasionally, but even so, I’m always hungry. Despite eating three healthy meals a day, I’m ravenous by 8 pm, and need a substantial snack (like a bowl of cereal) to feel full enough to sleep.

Just chasing and hauling my two kids around our 2-story home all day isn’t enough. I haven’t exercised regularly since 2007. Working bizarre hours at a full-time job and taking care of two babies drained me of time and energy.

And I’m tired of this. I’m tired of hating my appearance. I’m tired of feeling old and worn out.

So yesterday I joined a gym.

It is less than 10 minutes from my house. It has free childcare.

I’m excited to get going. Just because I haven’t been doing it doesn’t mean I don’t like exercise. It’s incredibly good for my mental health. Sweat and stress seem to drain from my body; I feel physically and mentally detoxified.

But I can’t seem to defend myself against the critic inside that says “You’re fat and there’s nothing you can do about it.” It’s the same critic that silenced me all my life - “If you aren’t naturally wonderful at this, you are a failure and there’s nothing that can be done to exonerate you for this.”

I know I will never look like I did pre-pregnancy. But I’m hoping to at least love myself the way I look now.

Crazy = Wonderful

October 2006 through October 2007 will forever go down as the year I went crazy.

Now, I don’t use the word “crazy” lightly. But the time line of what happened in those months is as follows:

October 21, 2006: Husband and I got married

Two weeks later: Husband and I find out his graduate advisor is moving from the University of Minnesota to The Ohio State University, and we must move as well.

January 1, 2007: We move from St. Paul, MN to Columbus, OH.

One week later: I start my final semester of law school at an entirely new law school, and Husband resumes his graduate work at an entirely new university.

One week later: I find out SURPRISE! I’m pregnant.

February 2007 - March 2007: I throw up every time I smell coffee, which, at law school, means every day.

May 2007: I graduate law school, and start hunting for a job to support myself, Husband, and the expectant baby.

Two months later: I obtain a job (WHEW!)

Mid-July: I begin said job.

October 16, 2007: Toddler is born.

I think the only thing that could’ve made that year more stressful would be the death of a family member (and I truly thank God I didn’t have to go through that.)

Strangely enough, that year didn’t do a ton to add to my bipolar depression. The postpartum hormones did. And it made Husband and I grow so much closer, because we had no one to depend on except each other. And it brought us the most precious surprise ever, Toddler.

So, was it stressful? Yes.

Was it full of uncertainty? Yes.

Was it lonely? Yes.

Was it wonderful? Yes.

Side Effects Include Empathy...

“She must be off her meds...”

That phrase is uttered when some one (usually a woman) is irrationally angry, a narcissist, or a drama queen. It is said with a sneer. With contempt.

I’m not offended by the phrase. It is a joke, a colloquialism. It’s a means of expressing disdain for a person’s actions or attitude. It’s not personal.

But when I miss a dose of my medication for bipolar depression, here’s what I experience:

- Nausea. Think hangover. Think morning-sickness.

- Headache

- Flu-like body-aches

- Disturbingly vivid dreams that keep me from getting any restful sleep

- Anxiety and jitters

So when some one says “She must be off her meds...” I usually laugh. Chances are that person is just joking. Chances are the person of whom they speak is being irrational, or a narcissist, or a drama queen.

But part of me wonders if that person really is off her meds. And feels bad for them.

Stigma

I don’t know where to begin.

A few weeks ago (ok, so I’m a little behind the curve. It’s still July, right?), AOL News published an article about a South Carolina mother accused of killing her two young children. Police are considering postpartum depression as a possible factor in the killings.

The article originally contained the following statement by investigative criminal profiler Pat Brown:

Generally speaking, I don't buy the chemical imbalance theory for any depression; I believe people just don't want to deal with real life issues and the fact that sometimes life is simply depressing and damn difficult. It isn't about chemical imbalance but tough times and our own issues.

AOL has since edited the article to remove that statement, but the damage has been done.

Ms. Brown also posted the following comments on her Facebook page:

For all those who are angry with my opinion that postpartum depression is not a result of brain chemistry, forgive me; I have a chemical imbalance and cannot control my thoughts and behavior.

Apparently, Post Adoptive Depression Syndrome has the same symptoms and even higher occurrence than Postpartum Depression. What hormones cause this?

What we NEED to do is help women with the overwhelming job of motherhood, not tell them something is wrong with their brains.

There are so many things wrong with this, I don’t know where to begin.

Ms. Brown is not a psychiatrist, a doctor, or even a therapist (nor does she claim to be.) She is entitled to her opinion, but shame on her and shame on AOL for publishing such a statement in a news article (as opposed to the opinion column).

Recently, SSRI’s, such as Prozac, have come under attack. It is said they are over-prescribed, over-advertised, and since the biological causes of depression have not been scientifically established they are nothing more than a placebo for deeper personal issues best left to psychological therapy.

But, although we don’t know how and why a disturbance of the serotonin pathway affects depression, there is a vast body of empirical evidence that it does. Furthermore, there are other types of antidepressants (SNRIs, trycyclic antidepressants), the benefits of which have been proven compared to placebos. And most physicians seem to agree that a combination of drugs and therapy is the best treatment of all.

I could go on and on. About how there are many unknowns in the science of medicine that go unquestioned; we don’t know how tylenol works - tylenol! - but no one questions its validity as a pain reliever. About how victims of depression go to extreme lengths to hide their symptoms; they don’t want people to pay them attention. There isn’t enough space in one post to say all I want to say.

Except this:

Women with depressive disorders already face an internal stigma, which makes it harder for us to seek help. We don’t need doubters, deniers and armchair medical experts confirming our shame.

I'm Going To Hell In A Hand-Basket. Or Possibly A Kohl's Shopping Cart. Whatever.

I hate going to Kohl’s. Don’t get me wrong - the high quality goods and wares and the low prices combined with the ubiquitous 20-30-40 percent off additional sale price savings are alluring.

Once, I purchased a blouse that was originally $18.99 on sale, but due to a small tear in the seam was marked down by $9.00. It was on a rack marked LUDICROUSLY SUPER SAVINGS! A MILLION PERCENT OFF ORIGINAL SALE PRICE!!!!!

Ok, maybe it was actually 80 percent. But by my calculations (20% of $18.99 minus $9.00) Kohl’s owed me $5.20. For some reason, the clerk didn’t agree. Whatever, I’m still waiting for my cheque to arrive in the mail any day now.

No, the reason I hate Kohl’s is because of their damn shopping buggies. You see, my oldest can walk, but insists on riding. My youngest cannot walk, and refuses to ride. Had I the power of Thrud, Norse goddess of strength, I could not push a buggy with one seat while holding the baby. Thus, I must face the doom that is the double seat stroller. This never ends well.

Unlike a regular shopping cart, Kohl’s buggies have the kids facing forward one behind the other. This is fine with the toddler, but absolutely unacceptable to the baby.

Now, my husband will only wear jeans from Kohl’s and his pants had become so worn that I was afraid he’d be mistaken for a pauper, get locked up in debtor’s prison, and we would not see him again unless we immediately paid off the $180,000 in student loans we incurred in an effort to be smart.

Note to self: Spending $180,00 to obtain official papers saying you’re smart may indeed not be smart. YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.

I was forced to go to Kohl’s. And because we live 3 states away from any reliable babysitter I resigned to taking the kids with me.

The minute I put the baby in the buggy seat, she screamed as if I had ripped her out toenails out with pliers then dipped her in a tub of hot oil. And took her nuk away to boot. TREMBLE BEFORE THE HORROR OF THE KOHL’S SHOPPING BUGGY!

I put the toddler in the next seat. She immediately began screaming because the baby was screaming. Oh, my tenderhearted one! Still, she steadfastly refused to walk, so off I traversed to menswear pushing my two inconsolable children in front of me.

Soon, I began to garner attention of other shoppers, some sympathetic, some annoyed. Shushing the children was as effective as teaching a chicken to read, so I grinned and beared it. Actually, I smiled maniacally and ignored them until the shopping was complete.

It reminded me of the time the toddler climbed too high on the jungle gym and had to be rescued. Though I safely returned her to land, I attempted to jump off the third step and fell flat on my face in front of the other mothers.

Or the time in college I was walking home from class, and stopped on the highest hill to take in the scenery of the fresh spring day. Then I slipped down the hill becoming covered in mud and grass and scraping my elbows and face. Subsequently I was forced to walk home to my downtown apartment looking like I had a close encounter with a mud-wrestling bear.

So when is it OK to pretend like everything is A-OK when it is clearly not? Shopping with screaming kids, sure. Falling down, why not so long as no exposed bones are involved. Depression, not so much. I learned that the hard way. I existed like that for way too long.

Is Anybody Out There?

Hi, my name is Angela and I have bipolar depression.

The manic episodes don’t cause me to go on wild spending sprees, or sleep with every man who crosses my path, or believe I am the Queen of Albania or anything like that. They just make my drive to succeed go into overdrive. Like when I was in college and I’d spend three days in a row studying for an exam or writing a paper on only three hours of sleep, and not feel tired. And then I’d get an “A” and feel super-accomplished so I’d join 3 student organizations and become president of all of them. Because I really should be more accomplished.

Then I’d get to the point where I’d feel sad. Really sad. And I just wouldn’t get it because if everything in my life is going so well, why do I feel so sad? Like I didn’t have a right to be sad. Or to feel like despite my accomplishments, I was really quite worthless and any day now everyone will come to that realization and stop loving me. So the depression would kick in and though I’d still do things like go to class, I’d feel utterly empty inside. And I’d begin to imagine ways, not to kill myself, but to just make myself disappear so I wouldn’t have to deal with anything anymore. Like maybe go into a coma or become a cave-dwelling hermit or something.

What’s worse is I was terrified someone would find out how I felt, and realize I was not perfect after all. So I’d wear a mask, and smile a lot like everything was ok when really I was withering away.

Pregnancy only exasperated the manic-depressive cycle. After my first was born, the manic episodes manifested themselves in different ways. For example, I’d become hyper-accomplished at work, teach my baby sign language, make all the baby food by hand, bake homemade bread every week and generally work towards the goal of being the best worker, mother, and wife EVER. Oh, and I wouldn’t sleep. But I didn’t really feel like I needed to anyways.

Then the depressive cycle kicked in, and I panicked at the idea of going to work for fear I might mess something up. I wouldn’t feel capable of doing any housework or hobbies - I was clearly a worthless piece of shit that was terrible at everything. I’d stop communicating with my husband and draw inwards because I just felt incredibly sad and guilty that he had to deal with being married to someone who just couldn’t deal with life. And 3 months, then 6 months, then a year went by and I just couldn’t shake the guilt I felt at having my daughter in daycare.

After a year of this, I finally broke down into a sobbing mess. My husband convinced me to go to our family doctor and get some drugs, which I did. I was put on Effexor and it helped. Somewhat. At least I could function again.

And then my second was born. And a few months later I could feel the depression kicking back in, so I went back to my doctor. And she kept giving me higher doses of Effexor, and higher doses of Effexor, and higher doses of Effexor, and it wasn’t working, it wasn’t working, IT WASN’T WORKING.

Eventually it got so bad that I seriously considered downing the entire bottle of sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed. And the only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that my girls needed a mother, and it would be terribly unfair to deprive them of a mother at so young an age. But I was scared. So I called my husband and asked him to come home immediately. And he was scared. Because he didn’t know what I would do. Neither did I.

So, I got myself to a psychiatrist, who recognized that I didn’t have just depression, but bipolar depression. So we slowly started the process of weaning me off the antidepressants and onto mood stabilizers.

Now, for the first time in nearly 10 years, I feel relaxed. I didn’t realize how on edge I always was until I started the new medication. I was literally in a state of fight-or-flight all the time. And for the first time in my life I could forgive myself for not being perfect, and let go of the impossibly-high standards I had always imposed upon myself. I still have manic-depressive cycles but they are comparatively mild, and increasingly less frequent.

Yet I feel so solitary in this condition. And though I absolutely do not want the struggle I went through to thrust itself on anyone I know and love, I wish that I could meet someone new in real life who has gone through what I went through. So I won’t feel so alone.