Part Two

This is what it's like to have... whatever I have.

• Doing anything sucks. It's physically difficult for me to do simple everyday things, like:
• Put the brown sugar away. I thought to myself: Wouldn't it be easier just to take two seconds and put it in the cupboard now? That way it won't contribute to a bigger mess. You have do do it sooner or later anyway. Put the damn sugar away. Put it away. Don't leave it there. Don't walk away. You can do this. Your husband shouldn't have to deal with the pointless messes you make. It's easy. Put. It. Away.  It's still on the counter.
• Call the clinic and set up an appointment for the hobgoblin. He needs an appointment. Nothing bad is going to happen to you if you call. He's overdue for a checkup. You don't have to go out right now. You don't have to wrangle your children. You just have to pick up the phone. Just pick up the phone. I haven't called.
• Wash the dishes. It's not that hard. I don't get grossed out by the dirt in the sink, at least not enough for it to be a big deal. I'm just lazy. Lazy to the point that I'm fighting off tears because I want to be able to do this stuff without it turning into a big deal. I want to be like a normal person, who doesn't start shaking at the idea of doing a boring chore that I don't care for. The dishes aren't done.
• Call my Dad for father's day. Like, why? Why is that hard? Yes, conversations with my Dad can be awkward, but I don't dread them. I'll see him. Say, Happy father's day. How's it going? Show him the boys. No big deal. I didn't call.
• Downloading the software I need. I need it. I literally cannot work on anything to even attempt to have a work-at-home job without this software. It's not that expensive, not really. I tell myself, just boot up Windows and download the software. But I'm lazy. I'm so fucking lazy that the 30 seconds it's going to take to reboot the computer doesn't seem worth it. Nothing seems worth it. Because I also tell myself, You're going to fail at this, the way you've failed at everything. You can't focus, you can't complete anything. You've given up on school, not only when you dropped out, but a second time, before you even got close to going back. You are going to work menial crap jobs the rest of your life. Just download the software and try. But I don't. I still don't have the software.
• Doing things that are actually difficult is impossible. Things like:
• Editing my book. Yeah, I wrote a book. I've written several, actually, published two. I try to be proud of that, but it feels like I'm faking. And this particular one I finished in... I'm going to say 2011? Maybe 2012. And it's been sitting, unedited, on various hard drives for over half a decade.
• Work on my other books. Intellectually I know what I have to do: decide which one to focus on; commit to putting the others on the back burner; plot; write; plan artwork; make artwork; edit. Instead what I do is: nothing. After all, I don't even have the software necessary for the artwork. 
• Cleaning my closet. Yeah, no. I can't. I can't even contemplate that mess without shutting down. I'm kind of regretting thinking about it at all, actually, because I may have just ruined my whole day.
• Going to the store. You maybe think that going to the store belongs in the category above, of simple, everyday things. If that's the case, I assume you don't have a baby and a toddler. Because it's not just going to the store, it's a hurricane of chasing said toddler, changing said baby, putting on clothes, feeding, burping, getting spit up on, taking off clothes and putting on new ones, changing the baby again. Negotiating toddler clothing choices, pee breaks, finding keys, stocking the diaper bag, weather-appropriate considerations, where are the damn keys? Put your socks on. Put your socks on. You have to wear socks. Stand still, I'll do it. Forgetting my own socks. Where are the keys now? Forgetting the shopping list and deciding to wing it. Forgetting the baby blanket and giving up my jacket. Forgetting my sunglasses and feeling overwhelmed by my purse and the sun and the diaper bag and the jackets and hats and sweaters and everything else in the world and HOLY FUCK, THE REUSABLE GROCERY BAGS GOT LEFT AT HOME AGAIN. Still, I know it's doable. I know lots of people do it. No. It's better just to stay home.
• I'm not sleeping right.
• I'm always tired, but sleep is elusive. Sometimes I just have to stay awake until my physical exhaustion overpowers the noise in my brain.
• Once I'm asleep, it's deep. I feel physically heavy when I wake up. Like something is dragging me into the bed and pulling my eyelids closed.  Like I'm struggling to climb out of a hole with barbells tied around my ankles. 
• I can't finish anything I start. Not even this list.

There's so much to do and I just can't. 

Part One.

The truth is, I'm depressed.

When I was younger, I didn't really believe in depression. I knew it existed, but shamefully, I was usually of the just power through ilk. You know, the people that think that just going for a walk and putting on a happy face will cure what is mainly an excuse to abstain from your own life. Mostly I blame this on my own ignorance and stupidity, but I'll lay a small - nay, tiny - part of it at the feet of experience; the only two people I knew with depression were also entitled, incredibly self-centered and in one case, incredibly selfish. So, while they happily lived off their parents well into adulthood and expected everyone around them to like the same things, to take their cues when planning social activities, to pay them for jobs half-done (and so on), it was easy to dismiss other aspects of their behaviour - being withdrawn, not being able to hold down a normal job, staying in bed all day - as laziness and selfishness.

After reading and researching, I started to come around to the idea that this was a real thing and not an excuse to avoid living a normal, productive life.

And then I got PPD. Looking back, I can pinpoint the moment it hit.  My parents were visiting. It was a horrible visit, though I doubt they'd see it that way. They spent the entire time baby hogging (including walking away with the monster in Walmart at 2-3 weeks), comparing the monster to my older brother (he was a clone, they were the same, my brother did the same things at that age, the monster was my brother - ad nauseam), making inappropriate jokes and comments about breastfeeding, suggesting that the monster only wanted me for sustenance, essentially ignoring me to focus on the baby and just basically taking up my space and destroying my fourth trimester. My mom had been visiting my sister and her new little one, the monster had been crying crazily for ages due to gas. My Dad had finally backed off, given back the monster and gone to look at something on the computer (the one my mom set up when they came to stay and paid every scrap of attention not taken up by the monster to). I was sitting on the couch, holding the monster, finally able to breathe, holding back tears from utter exhaustion (the monster never slept longer than 2 hours at this point). My mom came home, sat down on the couch and held out her arms, asking if she could hold him because she hadn't talked to him all day. I couldn't answer. I couldn't say a word. Logically, I should have known that she would never try to take him from me if I said no, but I just had this overwhelming sense of panic that she would, so I just clutched him tight to my chest and fought back the tears and wished everyone would just leave me the hell alone to hold my baby in peace.*

Then it came in waves. I was glued to the couch with a cluster-feeder because I'd realized that I couldn't safely feed him in bed, so even at night, all the feeds happened on the couch. I felt completely trapped, like I didn't have ownership of my body, like I would do nothing but breastfeed for the rest of my life, like eventually, in indent in the couch from my ass would be deep enough to swallow me whole.  I would, on good days, take him out to the park, keep him in his stroller or lie him on a blanket and read to him. On bad days, I would just hold him while both of us cried. But there were a lot of good days.

Until he was around a year old, we got by. I thought my unending fatigue was from a lack of sleep. I thought my propensity to burst into tears for no reason was a result of normal postpartum hormones. I thought I was doing ok. I never said anything to Mr. Wolfman about it, or if I did, I downplayed what was going on. I remember one day I just started sobbing and couldn't stop. I called my sister and she came and we went for a walk, and the next day I felt better and it was easier to pretend that it was a one-off and sweep it under the rug. Then I started to get angry. Not like normal FTP frustrations, but fits of absolute, whole-body-shaking rage. For the first time, I worried I would inadvertently hurt the monster, being too rough getting him dressed when he struggled, or pulling too hard on his arm when he tried to dart into traffic. That's when I finally (on the advice of my birth board) contacted the mental health unit at the hospital and set up an appointment with a therapist.

I saw her exactly twice before Mr. Wolfman decided to take a second job without consulting me. I knew he'd applied, but the deal was that it was only an application and we would discuss it if he was offered the job. So he was working 16 hour days and there was no longer a time when I could go to therapy. It did get bad enough that I tried once more on his day off, but my therapist was going to be away for a few months and the substitute was AWFUL. He didn't listen, cut me off, blamed everything on his own weird fantasy of us living in our town because Mr. Wolfman made me (Mr. Wolfman doesn't like it here. I don't either, but it was my idea to come) and didn't do his fair share of work with the baby.  He tried to convince me that I wasn't depressed, just tired (my previous therapist said nothing of the kind and didn't act stoned like this fool, so I'm inclined to follow her opinion over his). So that was the end of therapy. And then I did nothing. I just sucked it up until it went away.

I could go on at length about what's going on now, but I honestly don't have the time or the energy. So I'm leaving this here as part one, and I'll add parts two and three, about my current suspected ppd/ppa and my life-long anxiety issues, when I have some energy and drive.



*I know it seems like it, but I don't blame my parents for my PPD, I think they just pushed it to the surface. All of their crap was well-intentioned crap, but hopefully it isn't too big of a mystery to them why they're no longer invited to stay the night in my home.

It's Been a Thousand Years

... or at least it feels like it. In any case, it's time for an update.

The monster is 2 years, 8 months today, the hobgoblin just passed 12 weeks. They both continue to be wonderful.

Monster, despite his total refusal to eat just about everything, keeps on growing and seems pretty healthy. He continues to amaze us with things like being able to name all 50+ of his toy cars, using words like similar correctly and trying to learn everything about everything (most recently, studying world maps and asking where places are). His newest obsession is knowing why printed words say what they do, which makes every bedtime book take about 1000x longer, because knowing what it says isn't enough, he has to see where and how each word is spelled. The result of this is that he decoded his first word. He has quite a few sight words, but this was the first one he actually sounded out. He also taught himself to count to 10 in French, because why not?
 
He's really taken to his new role as a big brother, and is really protective of the hobgoblin. If we call the goblin any disparaging or silly nicknames (ie: Stink-butt) we are emphatically told "He is NOT an Stink-Butt; he is an hobgoblin"). The monster is slowly allowing some leeway, but mostly we're expected to refer to the goblin by his full name or one approved (and common, not at all silly) nickname. As is proper for a big brother, he doesn't feel these rules apply to him, so he is allowed to call his brother "Poop."

The Hobgoblin's personality has really come out to shine. He's pretty laid back and easy going, and really only cries if he's wet, dirty, hungry or gassy. He likes to be held and snuggled, but he doesn't mind being put down for long chunks of time, which is a lifesaver with two. He's very vocal and loves to laugh and smile, and getting a smile and a coo out of him is as easy as offering him one first. He's also a giant (but no longer in the 95th percentile), now wearing mostly 6 month clothes and the stuff that's on the bigger side of 3-6. If he keeps up like this, I think he'll end up taller than the monster, when all is said and done.

Me, I'm not doing great.

After 3 trips to the ER, I ended up having emergency surgery to have my gallbladder removed. That was a few weeks ago and I'm pretty much physically recovered. The process dicked up breastfeeding for a bit and I hated being away from my kids, pumping and dumping because of painkillers and everything else that went along with it. Mr. Wolfman was a rockstar and carried everyone through (though I'm pretty sure neither boy got a bath the entire time I was in the hospital).

At the hobgoblin's 2 month well-check, I did the questionnaire for PPD screening and scored pretty high. I need to pull myself together and go through the mental health intake process today, because I don't want it to get out of hand like last time. I just feel run down and panicky all the time. Basically anything beyond sitting still and doing nothing is immensely stressful for me. Basic things, like the boys' baths, are starting to slide. I have to fight back tears over minor, ridiculous things. Yesterday, Mr. Wolfman made a special trip to the store to get me something I wanted. He also got cookies for himself, and I started to get upset because I couldn't eat the cookies (due to an allergy, Mr. Wolfman wasn't being greedy). I felt actually betrayed that he'd get cookies I couldn't eat. And then, of course, I felt like a ungrateful child, getting whiney and upset because him taking the time to go out and get me exactly what I asked for was somehow negated by him not also getting me something that I hadn't asked for. And then the supreme guilt started to creep in, which I think is the backbone of PPD and PPA. I just constantly feel like I'm not doing enough, or like what I do is wrong, like my kids are suffering, my marriage is suffering, my mental health is suffering, my future is non-existant, I'm going nowhere and it's all my fault. Guilt, and a constant feeling of being overwhelmed, of not being able to cope, of not being good enough.

Mr. Wolfman seems to have a better understanding of what's going on this time. If I'm honest, I think me being stuck in the hospital and our first attempt at an extended family outing opened his eyes to a lot of what I do day-to-day and how incredibly stressful it can be, even without ppd/ppa hanging over my head.

The hobgoblin needs something. A mummy's work is never done.

Finally

I finally set up an appointment to see my therapist.  It's not until the 26th (thankfully, that's the day before my parents arrive, so I won't need to have that conversation.  I'm realizing, slowly, that it would be a conversation, since "I have an appointment" would, at the very least, be met by expectant stares).

I really, really need that appointment, especially with Mr. Wolfman going back into the insane work schedule for another 5 weeks, as of today.

And now I need to cut this short. I'm getting irrationally mad at my toddler (he toddles, officially a toddler) for pushing boundaries, specifically, pulling on the power cord and opening the DVD drive repeatedly.

Extract Foot, Insert Humble Pie

This has been a long time coming.

I grew up with two parents who worked* and whether intentionally or not, they instilled in me a disdain for mothers who opted to stay at home.  When I was younger, I would use derogatory terms for them, like Suzy Homemaker and swear I'd never be one. I needed more from my life.

When my sister had her first, and became a stay at home mom, I was shocked by how messy her house always was, how she could spend days playing video games instead of doing fun activities with her daughter, how sometimes dinner didn't get on the table until 8:00pm.  Taking care of her house and child was all she had to do, after all.

Frankly, I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about - and neither does anyone else who's never been a stay at home parent.

It's hard to put into words the sheer emotional drain that's caused by being needed every second of every day, of waking up one morning and realizing that you're actually looking forward to taking a poo that afternoon, because it is the only time you'll get to yourself.  Of knowing that, no matter how drained you are, how little sleep you've had in the past week (or, let's be realistic, year), no matter how much you just want to curl into a ball and do nothing for, like, ten seconds, you need to buck up, suck it up and bring your A Game, Princess. Of knowing that this is your life, now and forever, no backsies.

Not that I want to take it back.  I love my son, and I'm so, so glad that I get to witness his milestones as they happen, and cherish those quiet moments that are completely insignificant to everyone outside of my family, rather than having them disappear into history unobserved.  Right now, my monster is asleep in my lap, 99% calm, 1% sensing my agitation, but comfortable, content, and loved.  My Dr. Pepper is getting flat and warm out of reach, and there's stuff I need to do around the house, but I'm the luckiest Mum alive, and I know it.

Today, Mr. Wolfman let me nap while he cleaned the kitchen.  A gold star moment, one would think. I got up and told him thank you for the glorious nap.  He told me he doesn't know what I'm doing all day, the baby was paying quietly and he managed to get the whole kitchen clean. He can't even understand where the mess on the counter came from**.  It felt like I got punched in the gut. May as well tattoo inadequate on my forehead right now.

Yes, I'm mad at him. Yes, I've told him.  But I can't work up the red hot ire that's become part of my day-to-day the past few months, for a couple of reasons. 1) I don't have the energy and 2) He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about. Oh, the baby was good for you for a whole hour and you got the kitchen clean? La-dee-frickin'-da. Now try not having a full night's sleep in over a year, spending months not being able to walk properly, give up half-your caloric intake to someone else and while you're at it, scrape some teeth across your tender nipples like ten times a day, and then clean the fucking kitchen.

Pity partying and ranting aside, it got me to thinking about how judgmental and ridiculous I was before having the monster and how completely ignorant I was about stay at home parenting. So I'd like to take a moment to sincerely apologize to every stay-at-home parent who I secretly judged, thinking that they had it easy, thinking that I had it harder as a working singleton.  Please forgive me; I knew not what I did.

Honestly, I feel like being a working parent would be easier in a lot of ways, but in no way can you quote me on that; I'm done with making assumptions and talking out my ass.

*My mom was and has always been a huge workaholic, my dad has always worked long shifts to make ends meet.

**Um, that would be from cooking pasta sauce from scratch at your request, only to have you order takeout, decide to eat it later, then not eat it later, as well as cooking a separate batch for the monster without salt or onions, only to have him throw it all over the floor the second it was placed in front of him, thankyouverymuch.

Mr. Steps

So, the little monster has officially taken his first (proper) steps.  He can mostly walk across the living room now, which is amazing.  And, admittedly, terrifying.  He is growing up waaaay too fast, and it's kind of bumming be out.

I'm so excited for him to be walking and talking and everything, but I'm also wishing he could stay little just a little bit longer.  I imagine that all parents feel this way.

We've been trying to get a video to show the grandparents, but every time we get the camera out, he'd rather crawl.  Way of the world, I guess.

That's it for me for now.  I don't know if I mentioned in my last post that Crystal is away until August 4th. No idea what I'm going to do until then.  Nothing good on that front - PPD is eating my brain (there should be a PPRUA - postpartum raging un-explainable anger). Anyway.  Happy post.

Oh!  Also!  His first non-mum/dad word: Duh duh - which means Duck.

That about sums it up

So, I saw this yesterday evening, when I really needed to see it. It gives me hope, but it also drives home that I need help.  I can't get out of this on my own.

I don't believe I have chronic depression, but the way he describes the loud room, and all you can do is deal with how loud it is - that pretty much sums up how I've felt since getting back from the hospital. Actually, no.  How I've felt since my parents' visit.  I was tired as fuck, but I was coping pretty well before they came.*

There have definitely been moments of pure joy, but mostly I am just overwhelmed.  The monster is truly amazing, but I get hung up on his neediness and it's all I can do to just get through the day.

I don't know if I need medication, but I definitely need to go back to therapy.  I haven't been back since my last post - everything is just getting on top of me.  I was going to call today, and instead ended up scrubbing diarrhea out of my carpet.  So there's that.  Now I have to clean the kitchen and cook dinner and throw myself off the balcony.

OK, not that last part, but damn.  I need something.

Mr. Wolfman only has 1 more 16 hour day, then tomorrow is an 8 hour, then one day off.  But he's already said he's spending tomorrow afternoon sleeping, so I guess I don't get a break?

This was supposed to be a relatively upbeat post because of how much that video helped me last night, but now I'm just pissed off at the situation I'm in.  Mostly because I feel like I should just be able to snap out of it, but partially because I feel like I shouldn't have to.  I mean, if I had two jobs, but only needed one and Mr. Wolfman was telling me daily that he was struggling, not coping, drowning, needed help - I'd fucking quit one of my jobs. Or at the very least, call in sick for one day and try to work through it - or something.  I sure as shit wouldn't be signing up to take on extra hours in the fall.

I get that he just wants to provide for the family, and I get that with me not working, that must be a lot of stress on him.  But fuck.  I don't know how to get him to understand that I'm just not handling it well. I'm not cut out to be a stay at home mum generally and/or I have postpartum depression.  And, even though I know this likely isn't the case, I feel like a bath (alone, and without a crying baby on the other side of the door) and 8 hours of sleep could easily solve everything.

That's a pipe dream, of course.  It isn't going to happen.

Right.  Cooking and cleaning.  Time for myself is just a silly idea, and I should put it out of my head.


*Not saying my parents gave me PPD, but their visit was ill-timed and certainly didn't help matters. And I do think that all their baby-hogging and all of my Dad's weird, passive aggressive comments and shit did a number on my brain.

Ok, so she's a therapist...

... and I had to cancel my last appointment.

Mr. Wolfman has decided to work 2 jobs again this summer, despite the fact that I made it pretty clear I'd rather he didn't. Again.  I mean, he can obviously make his own decisions about what he does with his time, but, as I pointed out to him, he's also deciding what I'm going to do with my time, because now I'm 100% responsible for the monster, 100% of the time.

Plus 100% of the housework (although Mr. Wolfman did clean on his singular day off, so I just have to maintain the status quo).

This is a wonderful (not quite) paradox.  The more Mr. Wolfman works, the more stressed I get, the more moments of anger and anxiety I feel, the more I need therapy.  But, the more he works, the less time I have for therapy.  He only has one day off (not my regular appointment day) and everything non-work-related or that needs a car, needs to be done that day.  Woo fucking hoo. Still, I'm going to call and see if I can move my appointment to that day.

On top of missing out on therapy, the farmer's market which I've been looking forward to all winter is now a no-go, because even though Wolfman has that day off, it's (as above) his only day off.  And even if I wanted to be mean and tell him, too bad, you can spend 5 hours looking after the monster that day, I can't because I have no time to make anything to sell, no time to pump, no time for anything.

We'd also planned on being really outdoorsy this summer, going hiking and such. Yeah, no.  Looks like I just get to push the monster around town in the stroller and occasionally go to the park.

Ok, this is getting a little woe-is-me, so I'm going to cut myself off before I launch into the rant about not being able to drive anywhere... ugh.

Counselor? Therapist? Who Knows?

So, I'm not sure what the professional qualifications of the woman I saw are.  But she works out of the mental health office in the hospital, so I'm going to assume she knows what she's talking about.  I see her again this week, and then every two weeks going forward - although I'm already getting anxious about this cutting into family time.

She was exactly what you'd expect, down to the leggings and long, flowing shirt, necklace tied in a knot.  Like out of a movie.  The first thing she asked me was how do you feel about being here.

But, despite initially seeming like a caricature of a therapist, and the strong feeling that she was going to produce healing crystals at some point, on talking to her, she is actually pretty down to earth.  She started out very softly, but I think once she realized I'm not scared or overly fragile, she adjusted her approach and we just talked.

So it was all very good, and I think it will be good to see her again.  I've had a couple more angry spells, but (I think) I did a good job of not showing my anger to the monster.  I didn't yell or say anything mean.  Outwardly, it was more like frustration, even though inside, I was raging - though still not as bad as last time.

I still haven't set anything up with Dr. Illegible.  I think I'm going to wait until I get my bloodwork done.

Mr. Wolfman is great, but I don't really think he understands any of this.  And even though he does a tonne around the house, he seems to feel like I'm not doing enough. - and he really isn't getting it when I tell him I'm doing everything I can.  I was hoping that my going to see someone would make him realize how serious this is, but alas.

I think that's it.  the monster is back to waking up all the bloody time, and I am TIRED.  But, I'm going to walk into town, buy some household stuff, and if I feel like treating myself (I do) a pinwheel for the garden.

PPD? & Online Support

My birth board isn't a support group - but boy do they know how to act like one.

I posted on there, because I've finally come to the conclusion that I'm probably suffering from PPD or PPA and I need help.

Yesterday, I got incredibly angry at the little monster for no reason.  Like, wanting to hit something, fists clenching into balls angry.  I shouted at him.  He didn't cry.  I would have broken down and sobbed if he had, but in a way it made it worse, him being all small and stoic.

This wasn't the first time I'd gotten so angry, and there have been more crying-for-no-reason spells than I can count.  A lot of the time I'm great.  Happy and in a good mood and loving being at home with the monster.  And a lot of the time, I'm this other person, who gets angry and snaps at her baby for no reason, the bitch I give dirty looks to when I see her in Walmart.

So, I posted on my birth board, and driven by their words of support and encouragement, I promised to call today to set up an appointment to deal with this.  And I did.  My appointment is on Thursday, and I'm hoping it'll be the start of getting me sorted out.

I need to set something up with Dr. Illegible as well, which I don't want to do, because I have this irrational feeling that he'll be disappointed in me and I don't want him to worry about the monster.  He seems to genuinely care about the monster, and is always remarking on how beautiful he is and telling me to enjoy him.  Small town and a fair number of Docs, so he may not have any other patients who are babies.  Anyway, there's a chance this could be related to my thyroid as well, so seeing Illegible is a must.

I think that's it for now. I'm in a pretty good place at the moment.  Going to fill up the splash pool for the monster, if the weather holds.