http://www.postpartum.net/take-action.html
800,000 women in the United States will develop a diagnosable perinatal mood disorder this year. Only 15% of them will get any kind of treatment.
If you consider a population of 300 million, that's too many. As a nation, we treat our mothers appallingly. After all, a healthy baby is all that counts, right? It doesn't matter that a mother's body and rights were trampled on to get that healthy baby, does it? Even other mothers turn on each other over how we birth, feed, and care for our babies.
The Mothers' Act is a good start. It provides grants for education about postpartum depression. However, nothing will change until the social stigma of being affected by depression is eradicated.
The stories and voices of perinatal mood disorders are varied. They extend across social, economic, and racial boundaries. It's not just poor women, or white women, or rich women, or black women, or Hispanic women or middle-class women. It's all women.
In a nation that has the most advanced medical technology and the best doctors on the planet, we shame women who need help. "Cheer up!" "Buck up!" "You have a healthy baby, that's all that matters!"
We should be ashamed of ourselves. It's not all that matters.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
An Interview. I has one.
Wednesday afternoon at three.
I hope they like me, and I hope they like me enough to hire me.
I have seen the future of me not working, and it will only end in tears and insanity. The past two weeks have been more than I can bear. I am not cut out for staying home. I feel resentment toward my husband and child. I indulge in self-loathing. Soon I will have to ask Kerwin for money for something or another, and the last vestiges of my independence will be utterly stripped away.
It isn't, nor will it be, pretty.
So, if you would think of me on Wednesday at three, I would be most appreciative. The job is something I think I would really enjoy. It involves food, cooking, and imparting my wisdom and talent for eating well on a budget to others.
I hope they like me, and I hope they like me enough to hire me.
I have seen the future of me not working, and it will only end in tears and insanity. The past two weeks have been more than I can bear. I am not cut out for staying home. I feel resentment toward my husband and child. I indulge in self-loathing. Soon I will have to ask Kerwin for money for something or another, and the last vestiges of my independence will be utterly stripped away.
It isn't, nor will it be, pretty.
So, if you would think of me on Wednesday at three, I would be most appreciative. The job is something I think I would really enjoy. It involves food, cooking, and imparting my wisdom and talent for eating well on a budget to others.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Profiling
Before I get too far into the sertraline experience, I thought I should call my therapist and make an appointment. She wanted me to complete the Millon-III assessment back in February (my bad) and I never came in to do it. I actually picked up with phone without a huge amount of anxiety and made the call. This tells me the sertraline is starting to properly kick in (for those who have been following, my superpower is also back).
While I was poking around the internet looking for CPT codes for the assessment (so I could badger my insurance co. and see if it was covered), I came across the Myers-Briggs personality profile test again. I took it for the first time about eight years ago and scored very strongly as an iNFp. I took it again today, just for kicks. I've changed personality types, but not by much. I'm now an iNTp. The "T" (thinking rather than feeling) was only a margin of 1%, so I don't know how accurate that is. Apparently I should pursue a career in the natural sciences - and since I'm a geography major (this is my fifth, yes FIFTH major and the only one I've been completely happy with) that works out well. I don't put a huge amount of stock in an internet test anyway, but it's still a nice place to start.
While I was poking around the internet looking for CPT codes for the assessment (so I could badger my insurance co. and see if it was covered), I came across the Myers-Briggs personality profile test again. I took it for the first time about eight years ago and scored very strongly as an iNFp. I took it again today, just for kicks. I've changed personality types, but not by much. I'm now an iNTp. The "T" (thinking rather than feeling) was only a margin of 1%, so I don't know how accurate that is. Apparently I should pursue a career in the natural sciences - and since I'm a geography major (this is my fifth, yes FIFTH major and the only one I've been completely happy with) that works out well. I don't put a huge amount of stock in an internet test anyway, but it's still a nice place to start.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Zoloft, er, Sertraline Update
*cue nightly-news music*
"Coming to you live from her desk, here's Heather with the Sertraline Update. Heather?"
It's a week and a half into this crazy SSRI experience, and my moods are already more even. I'm less anxious, less worried about little things. I actually feel like getting up in the morning, even if I haven't slept a wink. Oh yeah. That sleeping thing? I went from sleeping 10+ hours a night to lying in bed tossing and turning. I think I've had approximately 10 hours of sleep in the past week. I hope it will even out soon, all the Experts say three weeks is the time when you see the "big changes".
I've also lost my superpower. I can still function as a "normal" person would on that front, but not like usual! Some people have been telling me that losing my superpower isn't worth not being depressed, but I beg to differ. I'd much rather be "normal" on all fronts.
So, other than needing a nap and wishing I still had my superpower, it's going well. I see my primary care doctor on Friday for a weight and blood pressure check (it was high at my annual) and a dosage adjustment, if necessary. Thankfully, all my other labs came back normal - no pre-diabetes, normal cholesterol, etc.
So, that's all for the sertraline report.
"Coming to you live from her desk, here's Heather with the Sertraline Update. Heather?"
It's a week and a half into this crazy SSRI experience, and my moods are already more even. I'm less anxious, less worried about little things. I actually feel like getting up in the morning, even if I haven't slept a wink. Oh yeah. That sleeping thing? I went from sleeping 10+ hours a night to lying in bed tossing and turning. I think I've had approximately 10 hours of sleep in the past week. I hope it will even out soon, all the Experts say three weeks is the time when you see the "big changes".
I've also lost my superpower. I can still function as a "normal" person would on that front, but not like usual! Some people have been telling me that losing my superpower isn't worth not being depressed, but I beg to differ. I'd much rather be "normal" on all fronts.
So, other than needing a nap and wishing I still had my superpower, it's going well. I see my primary care doctor on Friday for a weight and blood pressure check (it was high at my annual) and a dosage adjustment, if necessary. Thankfully, all my other labs came back normal - no pre-diabetes, normal cholesterol, etc.
So, that's all for the sertraline report.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Downhearted
Meh.
That about sums things up for me right now.
I'm at a loss for things to blog about - Freyja does lots of cute stuff, but so do everybody else's kids - and then I read about everybody else's kids, which reminds me of something funny or cute that Freyja did, and then I can't write about it, because that's almost like copying and cheating.
I quit going to therapy. I haven't been in two months. I'm not willing to get into my issues and so there's no point in wasting the money.
I'm in constant pain from sciatica that started in pregnancy and I can't do anything remotely fun with my kid, but my doctor doesn't care. Apparently I must be faking it just to get pain meds, when I haven't ever asked for pain meds. The treatment I want to use (sterile water epidural) is "risky" and "not guaranteed". Well, yes. So are epidurals in labor, but I don't hear anybody refusing them to laboring women on those criteria. The sterile water treatment has been used since the early 1900's to good effect for people with debilitating back pain.
It will all go away if I lose weight (according to my doctor). The depression, the anxiety, the back pain. I asked for antidepressants a while back and he told me to exercise. Fuck. Tell me how I'm supposed to exercise when just standing on my feet feels like I'm being stabbed in the lower back and down the backs of my legs? Just work through it? There is no working through it.
Eat less? No shit. Then I'll be hungry and in pain, which makes me just incredibly great and patient as a parent. I pass up going out with friends, taking Freyja out to play or to do anything fun with her because of this pain.
Yet I keep bitching and doing nothing. I can't work as a doula effectively with this pain either. I just can't motivate myself and I don't want anybody else to motivate me. I don't think I'm worth motivating, so all the pep talks in the world do nothing. I'm not looking for sympathy. People tell me all the time how great of a person I am, I just don't believe them (especially when I'm in a downswing).
I feel like a 15 year old trying to play at being grown up. I don't know what to base my self worth on. Next week I'll probably feel better and wonder why I wrote this. Is this what bipolar is, or am I just some kind of freak? Should I go back to therapy? Find a different regular doctor?
I think I need a hug.
That about sums things up for me right now.
I'm at a loss for things to blog about - Freyja does lots of cute stuff, but so do everybody else's kids - and then I read about everybody else's kids, which reminds me of something funny or cute that Freyja did, and then I can't write about it, because that's almost like copying and cheating.
I quit going to therapy. I haven't been in two months. I'm not willing to get into my issues and so there's no point in wasting the money.
I'm in constant pain from sciatica that started in pregnancy and I can't do anything remotely fun with my kid, but my doctor doesn't care. Apparently I must be faking it just to get pain meds, when I haven't ever asked for pain meds. The treatment I want to use (sterile water epidural) is "risky" and "not guaranteed". Well, yes. So are epidurals in labor, but I don't hear anybody refusing them to laboring women on those criteria. The sterile water treatment has been used since the early 1900's to good effect for people with debilitating back pain.
It will all go away if I lose weight (according to my doctor). The depression, the anxiety, the back pain. I asked for antidepressants a while back and he told me to exercise. Fuck. Tell me how I'm supposed to exercise when just standing on my feet feels like I'm being stabbed in the lower back and down the backs of my legs? Just work through it? There is no working through it.
Eat less? No shit. Then I'll be hungry and in pain, which makes me just incredibly great and patient as a parent. I pass up going out with friends, taking Freyja out to play or to do anything fun with her because of this pain.
Yet I keep bitching and doing nothing. I can't work as a doula effectively with this pain either. I just can't motivate myself and I don't want anybody else to motivate me. I don't think I'm worth motivating, so all the pep talks in the world do nothing. I'm not looking for sympathy. People tell me all the time how great of a person I am, I just don't believe them (especially when I'm in a downswing).
I feel like a 15 year old trying to play at being grown up. I don't know what to base my self worth on. Next week I'll probably feel better and wonder why I wrote this. Is this what bipolar is, or am I just some kind of freak? Should I go back to therapy? Find a different regular doctor?
I think I need a hug.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
A Day
Freyja was a holy terror this afternoon. No nap. Cranky. Whiney. Why am I at home? Mostly because she's been acting punk and running random fevers. Also, I have hit a low point again at work and I don't really feel like going in. Wrong of me? Probably. I did manage to work from home about 4 hours yesterday and 3 today. Hopefully the malaise will have lifted by tomorrow, I can't get away with staying out of the office for three days in a week.
Anyway, back to the holy terror. I still let her fingerpaint this afternoon. She wanted to dye eggs (we picked up a kit at Target today), but I drew the line there - the way she's been listening I would have had a rainbow kitchen, and not in a good way. I just didn't have the patience for the boiling and the fizzing and the stains.
I suggested she fingerpaint, and I'd cut egg shapes out of her paper. This seemed to appease her, and she happily painted six or seven sheets of paper. Some even stayed recognizable colors. I stuck them to the fridge as she finished each one. We had a good time. I bet most moms have good times every day with their children - I find myself yelling, screaming and unable to enjoy the essence of two-and-a-half lately, most days I don't enjoy Freyja or have good times with her as a rule. I'm sure this is something I'm doing wrong.
Then we went to play outside. It was too nice to stay in. Besides, the fingerpaintings had to dry. I had plans for them. It was bubbles, bubbles everywhere. She rode her "scootah". She slid down her baby slide. I sat on the trunk of our car thats' been dead for over a year (yes, we DO live in a trailer park, thanks for asking) as she ran around, pretending she was riding her scootah to Mickey D's. Yes, we eat at the trans-fat, HCFS palace way too often. My overlarge ass is proof. When I was ready to go inside, she kept going back to the slide, the scootah, the sidewalk chalk for "a minute". I finally had to pick her up, cart her inside, and stick her in her room while she was screaming bloody murder.
I used the two minute timeout to cut the eggs out from the dried fingerpaintings. Never let it be said that I cannot multitask. I taped them up in one of our windows, but wanted something with more panache. I was going to cut letters out, but then I remembered I had some tempera laying around from Freyja's birthday cupcakes (I made a cupcake stand). With a few tricks from MS Word, I had a little backwards cheat sheet and I painted "Happy Spring" on the window below the fingerpainted eggs while Freyja screamed her head off next to my chair that she wanted to paint too.
And now I should go persuade her to eat some preservative-laden macaroni and cheese (that I will add frozen peas to) so she can go to bed, since she's running around the house screaming with princess sunglasses on upside down and lamb ears from the Target dollar section on her head...
Pictures of the window:
Anyway, back to the holy terror. I still let her fingerpaint this afternoon. She wanted to dye eggs (we picked up a kit at Target today), but I drew the line there - the way she's been listening I would have had a rainbow kitchen, and not in a good way. I just didn't have the patience for the boiling and the fizzing and the stains.
I suggested she fingerpaint, and I'd cut egg shapes out of her paper. This seemed to appease her, and she happily painted six or seven sheets of paper. Some even stayed recognizable colors. I stuck them to the fridge as she finished each one. We had a good time. I bet most moms have good times every day with their children - I find myself yelling, screaming and unable to enjoy the essence of two-and-a-half lately, most days I don't enjoy Freyja or have good times with her as a rule. I'm sure this is something I'm doing wrong.
Then we went to play outside. It was too nice to stay in. Besides, the fingerpaintings had to dry. I had plans for them. It was bubbles, bubbles everywhere. She rode her "scootah". She slid down her baby slide. I sat on the trunk of our car thats' been dead for over a year (yes, we DO live in a trailer park, thanks for asking) as she ran around, pretending she was riding her scootah to Mickey D's. Yes, we eat at the trans-fat, HCFS palace way too often. My overlarge ass is proof. When I was ready to go inside, she kept going back to the slide, the scootah, the sidewalk chalk for "a minute". I finally had to pick her up, cart her inside, and stick her in her room while she was screaming bloody murder.
I used the two minute timeout to cut the eggs out from the dried fingerpaintings. Never let it be said that I cannot multitask. I taped them up in one of our windows, but wanted something with more panache. I was going to cut letters out, but then I remembered I had some tempera laying around from Freyja's birthday cupcakes (I made a cupcake stand). With a few tricks from MS Word, I had a little backwards cheat sheet and I painted "Happy Spring" on the window below the fingerpainted eggs while Freyja screamed her head off next to my chair that she wanted to paint too.
And now I should go persuade her to eat some preservative-laden macaroni and cheese (that I will add frozen peas to) so she can go to bed, since she's running around the house screaming with princess sunglasses on upside down and lamb ears from the Target dollar section on her head...
Pictures of the window:
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Postpartum Abandonment
For January's Pulsate Olympics.
I suppose the feeling of abandonment started in the labor room, when Kerwin left me to go talk on the phone as the Stadol wore off. It continued as he slept soundly for eight hours, snoring away on the little cot in my postpartum room, as I attempted to cope with being sliced open from hip to hip and having a new little person to take care of besides. I couldn’t get up from the bed, and the nurses shook their fingers at me and said “Don’t you fall asleep with the baby in your bed!!!!” so I was up until 2 AM, hopped up on morphine with my beautiful new baby, who I couldn’t stop kissing and smelling and trying to get latched on properly, while I tried in vain to call to Kerwin to wake him up to put Freyja in her plastic bassinet, and the one response I got was, “Leave me alone, I’m sleeping. I was up early.”
Really? I was up at the same time, and I had major surgery plus 12 hours of labor today. But you sleep, honey. You just go for it.
I finally had to call the nurses to come and get Freyja at about 2 AM, said I needed a little sleep, but please bring her back when she woke so I could feed her. They came back at 4 AM with a little bottle of soy formula and one of those supplemental nursers, the one that you have to tape above your nipple. She told me, “Your milk hasn’t come in yet. Your baby is hungry. You have to give her this formula. You just fed her two hours ago and she’s hungry again, you’re not making enough milk.”
Everything, EVERYTHING in my brain was screaming that this was wrong, I wasn’t supposed to have milk yet, just colostrum. Breastfed babies need to eat about every 1 and a half to two hours, this is normal. However, my baby was crying louder than my brain could handle, so I let them tape the little tube to my breast and let her eat the nasty soy formula (never to this day do I understand why it was soy formula). They took her away again.
I was awoken again at 6 AM by the family practice doctor that was on call for Freyja’s doctor. He was nice and smiling, said I had a perfect baby and that her regular doctor would come to see her on Monday before we were discharged. I fell back asleep and the baby was back at 8 AM, with the young morning nurse who had GIVEN HER A BOTTLE OF FORMULA without my permission. I just nodded numbly, I didn’t even know what to say to that. Getting mad was no use, I had no backup from my snoring husband.
I had visitors intermittently the rest of the three days I spent in the hospital. Kerwin, however, went right back to work on Sunday morning. He came on Sunday night for a couple of hours, then went home to “clean”. He also worked Monday (when the hospital records woman came in and was beastly to me and caused me to cry profusely, refusing to believe that I was married because my last name was different from ‘the baby’s father’) and went his first day of college classes in the new semester on Monday night as well. Thankfully, his instructor told him to go be with his wife and new baby instead of spending 3 hours in class. I didn’t even get any flowers.
When we came home on Monday night, there were dishes and laundry everywhere.
Want to guess who ended up doing all those dishes and laundry 4 days after major abdominal surgery while trying to not become sleep deprived, shower every day, and take care of a newborn (who, thankfully, was VERY mellow)? Yeah. That’d be me, because he was right back to work (regular FT job plus being editor of the college newspaper which caused more than a few incredibly late nights) and college classes. I don’t know if it’s even fair to blame him for abandoning me. We were pretty broke and needed the money, but I also needed the support that I never got. All of my family lives within a 20 mile radius, and nobody called to offer to come and sit with Freyja so I could sleep, or help me with housework, or just come and visit to keep me from going batshit crazy. Nobody called at all, except my folks. Granted, my folks both work full time as well, and my mom took a week of vacation over my due date, which was two weeks too early.
The crazy thoughts started coming about two days after we got home. I kept telling myself that it was normal to want to put Freyja in her carseat, strap her in, and leave her out by the road for somebody else to come and take care of. After all, I was having no trouble sleeping, or sleeping too much, and that was the major harbinger of PPD according to the books, magazines, and websites. I didn’t have time to be crazy, I had too much to do being a new mom with an absentee husband. I was neurotic in checking on her to make sure she was still breathing, feeling incredibly guilty that I wished she just didn’t exist.
I tried to make up for the thoughts by cuddling her and singing to her, and loving on her all the time. I wanted so desperately to feel that “bonding” that all the books talked about. I really wanted to feel differently, and I knew what I was feeling wasn’t right, but I had no words to ask for help, nor did I feel that I would be worth my salt as a mother if I did. At least I had a husband who did what he could when he was home. Lots of single moms did all of this on their own, and no complaining. What right did I have to complain, or to ask for help, or to admit that I was really having a hard time?
Thankfully, my physical recovery from the caesarean birth was textbook. I took it easy as much as I could, I slept when Freyja slept except her morning nap, which I used to shower (to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy, I showered daily and was meticulous about my appearance and clothing) and hop online to get some form of socialization.
I still don’t know how I got through those first few months, much less the first six weeks. I lied on the PHQ at my six week postpartum appointment. I didn’t want to admit that I was weak. I didn’t want them to call CPS and have Freyja taken from me because of my horrible thoughts. I didn’t want to go to the psych ward. The fear of those interventions was crippling, and so I couldn’t admit my problems and concerns.
I am terrified to have another baby, because I hear that PPD gets worse. My words to Kerwin on the subject the other night were, “I’m scared to turn into Andrea Yates”.
I still think that I’m a terrible mother for thinking what I did when Freyja was so tiny. When people comment on how wonderful she is, or how smart, or how pretty, I feel guilty, because I couldn’t see how wonderful she was when she was a newborn because my brain doesn’t function properly. I hope that someday I can get past it.
I suppose the feeling of abandonment started in the labor room, when Kerwin left me to go talk on the phone as the Stadol wore off. It continued as he slept soundly for eight hours, snoring away on the little cot in my postpartum room, as I attempted to cope with being sliced open from hip to hip and having a new little person to take care of besides. I couldn’t get up from the bed, and the nurses shook their fingers at me and said “Don’t you fall asleep with the baby in your bed!!!!” so I was up until 2 AM, hopped up on morphine with my beautiful new baby, who I couldn’t stop kissing and smelling and trying to get latched on properly, while I tried in vain to call to Kerwin to wake him up to put Freyja in her plastic bassinet, and the one response I got was, “Leave me alone, I’m sleeping. I was up early.”
Really? I was up at the same time, and I had major surgery plus 12 hours of labor today. But you sleep, honey. You just go for it.
I finally had to call the nurses to come and get Freyja at about 2 AM, said I needed a little sleep, but please bring her back when she woke so I could feed her. They came back at 4 AM with a little bottle of soy formula and one of those supplemental nursers, the one that you have to tape above your nipple. She told me, “Your milk hasn’t come in yet. Your baby is hungry. You have to give her this formula. You just fed her two hours ago and she’s hungry again, you’re not making enough milk.”
Everything, EVERYTHING in my brain was screaming that this was wrong, I wasn’t supposed to have milk yet, just colostrum. Breastfed babies need to eat about every 1 and a half to two hours, this is normal. However, my baby was crying louder than my brain could handle, so I let them tape the little tube to my breast and let her eat the nasty soy formula (never to this day do I understand why it was soy formula). They took her away again.
I was awoken again at 6 AM by the family practice doctor that was on call for Freyja’s doctor. He was nice and smiling, said I had a perfect baby and that her regular doctor would come to see her on Monday before we were discharged. I fell back asleep and the baby was back at 8 AM, with the young morning nurse who had GIVEN HER A BOTTLE OF FORMULA without my permission. I just nodded numbly, I didn’t even know what to say to that. Getting mad was no use, I had no backup from my snoring husband.
I had visitors intermittently the rest of the three days I spent in the hospital. Kerwin, however, went right back to work on Sunday morning. He came on Sunday night for a couple of hours, then went home to “clean”. He also worked Monday (when the hospital records woman came in and was beastly to me and caused me to cry profusely, refusing to believe that I was married because my last name was different from ‘the baby’s father’) and went his first day of college classes in the new semester on Monday night as well. Thankfully, his instructor told him to go be with his wife and new baby instead of spending 3 hours in class. I didn’t even get any flowers.
When we came home on Monday night, there were dishes and laundry everywhere.
Want to guess who ended up doing all those dishes and laundry 4 days after major abdominal surgery while trying to not become sleep deprived, shower every day, and take care of a newborn (who, thankfully, was VERY mellow)? Yeah. That’d be me, because he was right back to work (regular FT job plus being editor of the college newspaper which caused more than a few incredibly late nights) and college classes. I don’t know if it’s even fair to blame him for abandoning me. We were pretty broke and needed the money, but I also needed the support that I never got. All of my family lives within a 20 mile radius, and nobody called to offer to come and sit with Freyja so I could sleep, or help me with housework, or just come and visit to keep me from going batshit crazy. Nobody called at all, except my folks. Granted, my folks both work full time as well, and my mom took a week of vacation over my due date, which was two weeks too early.
The crazy thoughts started coming about two days after we got home. I kept telling myself that it was normal to want to put Freyja in her carseat, strap her in, and leave her out by the road for somebody else to come and take care of. After all, I was having no trouble sleeping, or sleeping too much, and that was the major harbinger of PPD according to the books, magazines, and websites. I didn’t have time to be crazy, I had too much to do being a new mom with an absentee husband. I was neurotic in checking on her to make sure she was still breathing, feeling incredibly guilty that I wished she just didn’t exist.
I tried to make up for the thoughts by cuddling her and singing to her, and loving on her all the time. I wanted so desperately to feel that “bonding” that all the books talked about. I really wanted to feel differently, and I knew what I was feeling wasn’t right, but I had no words to ask for help, nor did I feel that I would be worth my salt as a mother if I did. At least I had a husband who did what he could when he was home. Lots of single moms did all of this on their own, and no complaining. What right did I have to complain, or to ask for help, or to admit that I was really having a hard time?
Thankfully, my physical recovery from the caesarean birth was textbook. I took it easy as much as I could, I slept when Freyja slept except her morning nap, which I used to shower (to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy, I showered daily and was meticulous about my appearance and clothing) and hop online to get some form of socialization.
I still don’t know how I got through those first few months, much less the first six weeks. I lied on the PHQ at my six week postpartum appointment. I didn’t want to admit that I was weak. I didn’t want them to call CPS and have Freyja taken from me because of my horrible thoughts. I didn’t want to go to the psych ward. The fear of those interventions was crippling, and so I couldn’t admit my problems and concerns.
I am terrified to have another baby, because I hear that PPD gets worse. My words to Kerwin on the subject the other night were, “I’m scared to turn into Andrea Yates”.
I still think that I’m a terrible mother for thinking what I did when Freyja was so tiny. When people comment on how wonderful she is, or how smart, or how pretty, I feel guilty, because I couldn’t see how wonderful she was when she was a newborn because my brain doesn’t function properly. I hope that someday I can get past it.
Downcycling
I'm not even sure that's an appropriate word for me to use, since I've only been diagnosed with depression (minor episode, recurring, with aspects of Seasonal Affective Disorder), but I notice when things are worse. The depression diagnosis doesn't explain the occasional 2-3 week periods of being upbeat (I wouldn't call them manic, I don't lose control, I just feel...normal), periods I don't even notice until I start slipping back into the depressive state.
I put off rescheduling my therapy appointment for 2 weeks because I felt good. Then a friend remarked that I must be "so excited" since I'm heading to California in a few weeks for a conference, and I realized that no, I'm not really excited at all. I'm ambivialent. I'm going, I have to go, but I'm not looking forward to it nor am I dreading it.
That made me realized that I had started to feel bad again, so I called today to make an appointment. Obviously that is not the proper way to go about things. I don't even know how to approach this with my therapist. I don't want to look like that nutjob who diagnoses herself on the internet. There's got to be a better explanation than "minor depression, recurring" for the 2-3 weeks of upbeat moods and the 8-10 weeks of being so far down that I wish I would just not wake up in the morning, that life is not worth living, that i'm a terrible wife, a terrible mother, and that the husband and the spawn deserve so much better than me. I should probably find a way to admit to my therapist that yes, I do have thoughts of death and dying, but as scary as those thoughts are, they are not as scary as the prospect of being admitted to an inpatient treatment program. I am afraid that even if I refuse being admitted should it be suggested, they will petition and force me in. I spent two days in one before, and I have never felt more hopeless and frightened in my life.
I think I may need pharmacological therapy in addition to talk therapy. The SJW is just not cutting it any longer.
I put off rescheduling my therapy appointment for 2 weeks because I felt good. Then a friend remarked that I must be "so excited" since I'm heading to California in a few weeks for a conference, and I realized that no, I'm not really excited at all. I'm ambivialent. I'm going, I have to go, but I'm not looking forward to it nor am I dreading it.
That made me realized that I had started to feel bad again, so I called today to make an appointment. Obviously that is not the proper way to go about things. I don't even know how to approach this with my therapist. I don't want to look like that nutjob who diagnoses herself on the internet. There's got to be a better explanation than "minor depression, recurring" for the 2-3 weeks of upbeat moods and the 8-10 weeks of being so far down that I wish I would just not wake up in the morning, that life is not worth living, that i'm a terrible wife, a terrible mother, and that the husband and the spawn deserve so much better than me. I should probably find a way to admit to my therapist that yes, I do have thoughts of death and dying, but as scary as those thoughts are, they are not as scary as the prospect of being admitted to an inpatient treatment program. I am afraid that even if I refuse being admitted should it be suggested, they will petition and force me in. I spent two days in one before, and I have never felt more hopeless and frightened in my life.
I think I may need pharmacological therapy in addition to talk therapy. The SJW is just not cutting it any longer.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
New Year, Old Goals, New Pants Size (hopefully)
Hey, it's 2007. Look at that!
I haven't made any resolutions. I don't really like resolutions all that much. I prefer to set goals, and since I'm still working on my goals from last year, I only made one new goal, which is:
To Just Calm The Fuck Down, In General
You heard it here first, I get worked up over the tiniest things. I fly off the handle very easily. My temper is short. My patience is thin. I freak out over little shit. If I come across as the endlessly calm mama on BabyCenter, it's only because I really want to be.
The rest of my goals, in no particular order (leftovers from last year):
1. Stand up for myself more at work
2. Keep going to therapy every 2 weeks, and actually get into my issues so I don't waste my money.
3. Join the gym and go every day (this one is on hold until we get the effing car situation figured out).
4. Eat properly and not beat myself up over little slip ups.
5. Keep up the house so it doesn't depress me and I don't work myself into a tizzy if people are coming over.
I'm wondering if I should add
6. Bug the hell out of doctor's office for samples of Vitamin Z.
And if said #6 would help with the rest of the goals. Ah well, I'll ask my therapist what her take is later this week.
I haven't made any resolutions. I don't really like resolutions all that much. I prefer to set goals, and since I'm still working on my goals from last year, I only made one new goal, which is:
To Just Calm The Fuck Down, In General
You heard it here first, I get worked up over the tiniest things. I fly off the handle very easily. My temper is short. My patience is thin. I freak out over little shit. If I come across as the endlessly calm mama on BabyCenter, it's only because I really want to be.
The rest of my goals, in no particular order (leftovers from last year):
1. Stand up for myself more at work
2. Keep going to therapy every 2 weeks, and actually get into my issues so I don't waste my money.
3. Join the gym and go every day (this one is on hold until we get the effing car situation figured out).
4. Eat properly and not beat myself up over little slip ups.
5. Keep up the house so it doesn't depress me and I don't work myself into a tizzy if people are coming over.
I'm wondering if I should add
6. Bug the hell out of doctor's office for samples of Vitamin Z.
And if said #6 would help with the rest of the goals. Ah well, I'll ask my therapist what her take is later this week.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Birth
For Thordora's contest - and my own personal therapy.
Freyja's Birth
32 Weeks.
“I think she’s breech, but I can’t tell because of all your padding!” The nurse-midwife said, in a good-natured teasing manner. We had a good relationship, and she knew how best to get through to me. “Let’s send you for an ultrasound to make sure, if she is, there are some exercises you’ll want to do before she gets too big to flip easily.”
The husband and I nodded; another look at our growing baby was okay by us. Little did I know that agreeing to that ultrasound would start a steep, slippery slope of myriad interventions that would end in what I truly believe, for me, was birth trauma. I’ve learned a lot about labor and birth in training to become a doula – and yes, it was my birth experience that pushed me in that direction – enough to know that what happened to me just shouldn’t have happened at all.
32 Weeks, 5 Days
Checking my voicemail on the way home from work, I found a message from the scheduler at the clinic. “Heather, this is Josi, from the midwives office. I need you to call me back as soon as possible!” Driving down the highway, I dialed the number, my hands shaking and my heart in my chest. I could feel Freyja moving around inside of me, but it didn’t reassure me.
“Your ultrasound showed Freyja as too small for dates. She’s not growing properly, and we need you to come in for a non-stress test as soon as you can.”
I drove straight there, after calling Kerwin at work to have him meet me at the clinic. I got hooked up to the machines and the sound of Freyja’s heartbeat filled the tiny monitoring room. The midwife came in, not MY midwife but one of her partners. “I’m afraid we have to diagnose the baby with IUGR. That means –“
I cut her off. “Intrauterine growth restriction. I know what it means.”
I had twice weekly NST’s leading up to my due date. Every one was fine. I had weekly Doppler ultrasounds to measure the blood flow from my placenta to the baby and how the blood moved through the umbilical cord. Every single one was normal, even the one on my estimated due date as I napped on the table while the tech phoned the results into my midwife. I was terrified at each ultrasound, most of which were scheduled while my husband worked, terrified that they would say “She’s not growing, she hasn’t grown. The blood flow is bad. We have to induce you now. We have to get her out now.”
40 weeks, 3 days.
I wanted to be done. I walked and walked. Miles, it seemed. The baby was still floating, her head not engaged in my pelvis. The midwife checked my cervix. A fingertip dilated. She wanted to sweep my membranes, but I hadn’t dilated enough.
“You know we can’t let IUGR moms go more than a week overdue.”
“I know.”
“Let’s schedule an induction for Friday morning. That’s my call day.”
Small comfort. I went home and read. I wondered if I was favorable for induction. They wouldn’t induce me otherwise, right?
How naïve I was. How foolish and naïve, and impatient and excited to meet my baby.
41 weeks
We arrived at the hospital at 7:30 am, having high hopes that we would be parents by the afternoon.
We got checked into our room, and they came to give me my IV. They couldn’t find a vein in my hand, and it went on the side of my arm. I should have realized that this was a sign of things to come. We were excited, happy. Our labor nurse was wonderful. She was kind, attentive, and funny. I really wanted to have the baby while she was there to help us.
The pitocin was turned up every hour, until I was having contractions every two minutes that kept increasing in intensity. I wanted to hold out. No drugs. My husband was no help. He sat and read, or listened to music on the CD player that was supposed to be for me, to help me cope with labor. He held my hand in an unattached fashion until I told him to put the book away and pay attention, then he was better. I had friends there, and they helped. They distracted me and kept my spirits up. I finally asked for a narcotic at 2 PM, after 7 hours and only dilated to three centimeters. They broke my water so they could install internal monitors, and then gave me the shot of Stadol. I drifted in and out of sleep, coloring in a My Little Pony coloring book that my best friend’s daughter had donated to the cause. I could feel the contractions, but they no longer hurt as badly as before. I could cope, even if I was singing "Tainted Love" along with the beeps of the equipment.
My dad and grandma showed up around 5 pm as the narcotic was wearing off. My husband went to call some friends and family. My friends left to get dinner. My dad went to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my grandmother as the contractions came back with such a vengeance. I wanted to sit up, straddle the bed. The nurses kept scolding me, that they couldn’t get the baby’s heartbeat. I knew she was OK. I wanted to sit up, sitting up helped. My grandmother, bless her heart, patted my back and sat with me as I struggled through the contractions on my own.
I have never forgiven my husband for what I see as abandoning me, and I don’t know if I ever will. I don't think that he realizes even now how I feel about this. I am terrified that he'll do the same thing should I attempt a VBAC - I wouldn't give birth again without a doula, no matter what it cost me - because of my fear of my otherwise very thoughtful, attentive, and loving husband leaving me to go yack on the phone.
My midwife came back to check my dilation at around 7:30pm. My cervix had swollen shut. 12 hours of pitocin induced labor, broken waters, antibiotics for Group B strep, all for nothing.
“The baby is fine, her heart rate is great. She's tolerating labor just fine, but we’re going to have to do a c-section because of the Group B Strep and your water being broken.”
I was so tired by that point that I just wanted her out. “Can we turn the pitocin off, then?” I asked.
We sat around for another two hours, waiting for the obstetrician who would do my c-section. I called my mom, who left work early. My dad and grandma stayed around, which was nice of them. My friends came back, but they wouldn't allow Angie in the operating room – she was my photographer. The anesthesiologist came in and explained the spinal procedure to me, and I signed away my right to sue if I became paralyzed. I had a catheter inserted. I met the OB, and I trusted him immediately. I can’t explain why, I just did. My midwife would assist with the surgery.
I walked to the operating room under my own power, and clambered up onto the operating table. They gave my spinal in that forward leaning position I had wanted to spend my entire labor in while the nurse held my hand. She was a good nurse, too. The OR was so cold, and I was so tired. I just wanted to meet my baby. Kerwin came in, wearing scrubs, a hair cap, and shoe covers, and was allowed to sit by my head.
I don’t remember a lot about the surgery. I wanted to watch, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t feel anything, tugging or pain. I heard the OB say, “Heather, your baby is a stinker; she has her head right where I need to cut!”
I knew the moment they had pulled her out, because she started to scream. She was indignant, angry. I could feel her emotions flooding over me. It was 10:50 pm on August 27th. Happy birthday, baby.
“It’s a girl, right?” I said. Nothing about fingers and toes, just needed to know if it was a girl.
“Yes, it’s a girl!” my midwife called. “Wow, she’s chubby.”
“Wow, she’s chubby.” What? Wasn’t she supposed to be SMALL? IUGR and all that? TINY? We were expecting a five or six pounder. They sewed me up after I sent Kerwin off to the nursery with Freyja. It’s all a blur, that part.
I didn’t see her until an hour and a half later, all cleaned up and smelling like baby wash. She was beautiful. She was eight pounds, one ounce. She had a 34 cm head! One faulty ultrasound measurement screwed up my birth experience. One faulty ultrasound measurement marked me as high-risk, still marks me as high-risk. Intervention after intervention followed, just to “see if she was breech”.
I could probably pay for years of therapy, and it wouldn’t help. I felt cheated, robbed. I still do. I was so consumed by feelings of guilt and anger that I had a hard time bonding with my newborn. I wanted to bond with her so, so badly, and I didn’t. I had to fall in love with her over time. It wasn’t immediate, and I still wonder if I’m a bad mother because of it. Breastfeeding was an utter failure, and I still don’t know why. Was it because of the excess amounts of fluid pumped into me during 12 hours of induction and 36 hours of recovery? Was it because the ill-educated nurse came into my room at four AM and convinced a morphine-doped post-surgery me that my baby was hungry and I needed to use formula to feed her until my milk came in? Will it happen with another baby?
The postpartum period was incredibly difficult. My husband went right back to work and a new semester of college classes. I had little help at home. I still don’t know how I coped, just that I did because I had to.
We’re thinking about a second baby. I have the “right” kind of incision, and I’m hoping for a home VBAC. Birth should be fulfilling. It’s such an incredible, life changing event. It shouldn’t be managed and medicalized. It should take place with those you love, in a secure and comfortable environment where one can surrender to it. At least, that’s what I believe.
(I do feel I have to mention that my husband now knows the error of his ways and has been a marvelous and excellent father since he first laid eyes on Freyja in that operating room. The picture below is from her second day of life.)
Freyja's Birth
32 Weeks.
“I think she’s breech, but I can’t tell because of all your padding!” The nurse-midwife said, in a good-natured teasing manner. We had a good relationship, and she knew how best to get through to me. “Let’s send you for an ultrasound to make sure, if she is, there are some exercises you’ll want to do before she gets too big to flip easily.”
The husband and I nodded; another look at our growing baby was okay by us. Little did I know that agreeing to that ultrasound would start a steep, slippery slope of myriad interventions that would end in what I truly believe, for me, was birth trauma. I’ve learned a lot about labor and birth in training to become a doula – and yes, it was my birth experience that pushed me in that direction – enough to know that what happened to me just shouldn’t have happened at all.
32 Weeks, 5 Days
Checking my voicemail on the way home from work, I found a message from the scheduler at the clinic. “Heather, this is Josi, from the midwives office. I need you to call me back as soon as possible!” Driving down the highway, I dialed the number, my hands shaking and my heart in my chest. I could feel Freyja moving around inside of me, but it didn’t reassure me.
“Your ultrasound showed Freyja as too small for dates. She’s not growing properly, and we need you to come in for a non-stress test as soon as you can.”
I drove straight there, after calling Kerwin at work to have him meet me at the clinic. I got hooked up to the machines and the sound of Freyja’s heartbeat filled the tiny monitoring room. The midwife came in, not MY midwife but one of her partners. “I’m afraid we have to diagnose the baby with IUGR. That means –“
I cut her off. “Intrauterine growth restriction. I know what it means.”
I had twice weekly NST’s leading up to my due date. Every one was fine. I had weekly Doppler ultrasounds to measure the blood flow from my placenta to the baby and how the blood moved through the umbilical cord. Every single one was normal, even the one on my estimated due date as I napped on the table while the tech phoned the results into my midwife. I was terrified at each ultrasound, most of which were scheduled while my husband worked, terrified that they would say “She’s not growing, she hasn’t grown. The blood flow is bad. We have to induce you now. We have to get her out now.”
40 weeks, 3 days.
I wanted to be done. I walked and walked. Miles, it seemed. The baby was still floating, her head not engaged in my pelvis. The midwife checked my cervix. A fingertip dilated. She wanted to sweep my membranes, but I hadn’t dilated enough.
“You know we can’t let IUGR moms go more than a week overdue.”
“I know.”
“Let’s schedule an induction for Friday morning. That’s my call day.”
Small comfort. I went home and read. I wondered if I was favorable for induction. They wouldn’t induce me otherwise, right?
How naïve I was. How foolish and naïve, and impatient and excited to meet my baby.
41 weeks
We arrived at the hospital at 7:30 am, having high hopes that we would be parents by the afternoon.
We got checked into our room, and they came to give me my IV. They couldn’t find a vein in my hand, and it went on the side of my arm. I should have realized that this was a sign of things to come. We were excited, happy. Our labor nurse was wonderful. She was kind, attentive, and funny. I really wanted to have the baby while she was there to help us.
The pitocin was turned up every hour, until I was having contractions every two minutes that kept increasing in intensity. I wanted to hold out. No drugs. My husband was no help. He sat and read, or listened to music on the CD player that was supposed to be for me, to help me cope with labor. He held my hand in an unattached fashion until I told him to put the book away and pay attention, then he was better. I had friends there, and they helped. They distracted me and kept my spirits up. I finally asked for a narcotic at 2 PM, after 7 hours and only dilated to three centimeters. They broke my water so they could install internal monitors, and then gave me the shot of Stadol. I drifted in and out of sleep, coloring in a My Little Pony coloring book that my best friend’s daughter had donated to the cause. I could feel the contractions, but they no longer hurt as badly as before. I could cope, even if I was singing "Tainted Love" along with the beeps of the equipment.
My dad and grandma showed up around 5 pm as the narcotic was wearing off. My husband went to call some friends and family. My friends left to get dinner. My dad went to go to the bathroom, leaving me alone with my grandmother as the contractions came back with such a vengeance. I wanted to sit up, straddle the bed. The nurses kept scolding me, that they couldn’t get the baby’s heartbeat. I knew she was OK. I wanted to sit up, sitting up helped. My grandmother, bless her heart, patted my back and sat with me as I struggled through the contractions on my own.
I have never forgiven my husband for what I see as abandoning me, and I don’t know if I ever will. I don't think that he realizes even now how I feel about this. I am terrified that he'll do the same thing should I attempt a VBAC - I wouldn't give birth again without a doula, no matter what it cost me - because of my fear of my otherwise very thoughtful, attentive, and loving husband leaving me to go yack on the phone.
My midwife came back to check my dilation at around 7:30pm. My cervix had swollen shut. 12 hours of pitocin induced labor, broken waters, antibiotics for Group B strep, all for nothing.
“The baby is fine, her heart rate is great. She's tolerating labor just fine, but we’re going to have to do a c-section because of the Group B Strep and your water being broken.”
I was so tired by that point that I just wanted her out. “Can we turn the pitocin off, then?” I asked.
We sat around for another two hours, waiting for the obstetrician who would do my c-section. I called my mom, who left work early. My dad and grandma stayed around, which was nice of them. My friends came back, but they wouldn't allow Angie in the operating room – she was my photographer. The anesthesiologist came in and explained the spinal procedure to me, and I signed away my right to sue if I became paralyzed. I had a catheter inserted. I met the OB, and I trusted him immediately. I can’t explain why, I just did. My midwife would assist with the surgery.
I walked to the operating room under my own power, and clambered up onto the operating table. They gave my spinal in that forward leaning position I had wanted to spend my entire labor in while the nurse held my hand. She was a good nurse, too. The OR was so cold, and I was so tired. I just wanted to meet my baby. Kerwin came in, wearing scrubs, a hair cap, and shoe covers, and was allowed to sit by my head.
I don’t remember a lot about the surgery. I wanted to watch, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t feel anything, tugging or pain. I heard the OB say, “Heather, your baby is a stinker; she has her head right where I need to cut!”
I knew the moment they had pulled her out, because she started to scream. She was indignant, angry. I could feel her emotions flooding over me. It was 10:50 pm on August 27th. Happy birthday, baby.
“It’s a girl, right?” I said. Nothing about fingers and toes, just needed to know if it was a girl.
“Yes, it’s a girl!” my midwife called. “Wow, she’s chubby.”
“Wow, she’s chubby.” What? Wasn’t she supposed to be SMALL? IUGR and all that? TINY? We were expecting a five or six pounder. They sewed me up after I sent Kerwin off to the nursery with Freyja. It’s all a blur, that part.
I didn’t see her until an hour and a half later, all cleaned up and smelling like baby wash. She was beautiful. She was eight pounds, one ounce. She had a 34 cm head! One faulty ultrasound measurement screwed up my birth experience. One faulty ultrasound measurement marked me as high-risk, still marks me as high-risk. Intervention after intervention followed, just to “see if she was breech”.
I could probably pay for years of therapy, and it wouldn’t help. I felt cheated, robbed. I still do. I was so consumed by feelings of guilt and anger that I had a hard time bonding with my newborn. I wanted to bond with her so, so badly, and I didn’t. I had to fall in love with her over time. It wasn’t immediate, and I still wonder if I’m a bad mother because of it. Breastfeeding was an utter failure, and I still don’t know why. Was it because of the excess amounts of fluid pumped into me during 12 hours of induction and 36 hours of recovery? Was it because the ill-educated nurse came into my room at four AM and convinced a morphine-doped post-surgery me that my baby was hungry and I needed to use formula to feed her until my milk came in? Will it happen with another baby?
The postpartum period was incredibly difficult. My husband went right back to work and a new semester of college classes. I had little help at home. I still don’t know how I coped, just that I did because I had to.
We’re thinking about a second baby. I have the “right” kind of incision, and I’m hoping for a home VBAC. Birth should be fulfilling. It’s such an incredible, life changing event. It shouldn’t be managed and medicalized. It should take place with those you love, in a secure and comfortable environment where one can surrender to it. At least, that’s what I believe.
(I do feel I have to mention that my husband now knows the error of his ways and has been a marvelous and excellent father since he first laid eyes on Freyja in that operating room. The picture below is from her second day of life.)
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Clouds (looked at them from both sides, now)
Fall is here. The trees are pretty, the air is nippy, and it rains. Constantly.
I've been putting off making a doctor's appointment to restart my anti-depressants for the winter. I have SAD, and it gets pretty bad. I can't afford the good drugs, and generic Prozac doesn't really help me. It's harder and harder to get up out of bed, do my work, do anything. My temper is shorter and shorter.
I have insurance, but it's reimbursement-only. I can't be out the $96.34 for Zoloft, every month, for the 4-6 weeks it takes for reimbursement to come. I may be happy, but I'll be in the dark and freezing, because the other bills won't get paid.
Yet, I want to feel like getting out of bed and going to work.
This sucks.
I've been putting off making a doctor's appointment to restart my anti-depressants for the winter. I have SAD, and it gets pretty bad. I can't afford the good drugs, and generic Prozac doesn't really help me. It's harder and harder to get up out of bed, do my work, do anything. My temper is shorter and shorter.
I have insurance, but it's reimbursement-only. I can't be out the $96.34 for Zoloft, every month, for the 4-6 weeks it takes for reimbursement to come. I may be happy, but I'll be in the dark and freezing, because the other bills won't get paid.
Yet, I want to feel like getting out of bed and going to work.
This sucks.
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