Inevitable

If I could ask someone a specific question about my future, would I want to hear what they had to say? If what they said was just how it was going to be no matter how hard I tried or what I did. Would I still try? Crystal Ball by John William Waterhouse 

Would I still make decisions to steer my life in a different direction, knowing that it was always going to be what was predicted? Would it be considered determination to try against all odds or mere stupidity, like a mouse on a running wheel. Getting nowhere fast.

But at least the mouse gets exercise. She gets stronger than the other mice that aren’t trying. I’d rather be trying and strong, though my goal be futile, than complaisant and weak, waiting for the inevitable. So I may know the shattering waves will always crash against me, but would it not be better to be able to dive into them instead of letting them smash me with their certainty?

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Drugs (don’t worry it’s natural) 😆

I’ve started taking meds for depression and anxiety. Even if this postpartum stuff is temporary, I didn’t want to spend one more second wasting away the moments with my family and friends, good or bad.

It’s a natural one called Travacor. Certain amino acids and some vitamins to go with it make up the ingredient list. One of my best friends recently went on Zoloft for postpartum depression and it (literally) made her want to kill herself. Thus I’m trying the natural route first.

I’ve been taking Travacor for about a week now and I’ve already started to feel a difference. Believe me I was skeptical about it even helping, so I don’t think it’s a placebo effect. It’s not like you can just “snap out” of depression. They say it takes 2-3 weeks to really take full affect. Already I’ve been feeling more energetic, motivated, calm, happy, and hopeful without any groggy or mind numbing side effects. I’d say that’s winning.

Most importantly I’ve been sillier and more openly loving towards my children and my husband. I’ve been interacting with him more, calling him on the phone more (he’s on a long work stent right now), and I even feel my sex drive start to go up a bit. Winning plus bonus!

Except for me.

Postpartum depression is no joke. It had slowly taken over my life without me even realizing it. I’m not out of it yet… But I can see the light, and as I look back at that inky darkness, it’s terrifying to think about living in that place forever. Or even one moment longer. Swallowing my pride and denial was worth it already. 

Hold Me

I feel like a papier-mâché shell. One that’s old and cracking, with pieces blowing away with each gust of life’s storm. Empty, all but for some dust and sand that’s happened to blow in through the cracks.

I once held life. Now I’m tired. Too tired.

If I could just rest. If they would just let me sleep for more than an hour at a time. If I… Could I…would it…

imageImage Credit

I get glimpses of life and love surrounding me and I feel they’re warmth. My baby girl, who can’t help but smile, giggle, and coo at 4 am. My youngest son, who loves to cuddle and tell me he loves me. My oldest, whose imagination is bigger and wider than space itself. My husband, whose love has surpassed these walls countless times.

Their warmth permeates my skin and I feel right again for an instant. “How could I have ever felt so disconnected and blue?” I ask myself as I sip hot coffee.

Then my coffee turns lukewarm as if to mimic my insides. My passion… My drive… I know you’re there. Why have you hidden yourself from me? Anger. Why can’t I just follow through? Why can’t I be the glowing, giving soul I know is in there somewhere? Then the look of betrayal and hurt in my loved ones’ eyes.

I can’t do this. I can live, but I can’t do life well. I have so much more to give and it’s blocked by the ugliness in my mind.

Lord clear the path for me to come out of this empty shell. Give me strength to hold and love others. Imprison the impatience and anger that are sisters to this depression. Shackle their lies. Water down and wash away their thick sludge. Hold me for I cannot hold myself.

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Prelude to this post HERE

Defective 

I don’t want to write this out. Writing it makes it real. I want it to just be my imagination. I want to keep it as a passing thought each time I have to wake in the night for the kids. Wouldn’t it be easier to just not say anything about the numbness inside, the feeling that something is wrong and it must be all my fault.

But keeping it to myself isn’t fair to my husband, who just wants me to love myself as much as he loves me. It wouldn’t be fair to my kids, who just want their fun, happy mommy and not one that yells so much.

It’s been creeping into my every-day for a while now. It doesn’t just show up all at once. It’s been 6 months. Some days are better than others and so it can be misleading…having me think maybe nothing’s wrong really.

Postpartum Depression. Such an ugly label in my mind. I’m stronger than that. Right? I can rise above. I can do this. I’m not a whimp. My faith can carry me through. I can do everything my other mom friends are doing. I can handle it. I…I…just can’t.

Image Credit

I can see my normal, bubbling, sarcastic, laughing, silly, fun-loving self. I see glimpses of her. I remember her. Why can’t I get back to her?

Snap out of it! Just don’t feel this way. Exercise more. Take more vitamin B. Get more fresh air. Talk about your feelings. Read your bible more. I try. I promise you, I swear, I do. I try it all. And it does help for a time. But it’s still there in end. That haze.

The fog of sadness disguised as frustration, anger, numbness, un-motivation, forgetfulness, and anti-social disgust. 

Postpartum Depression. So common and yet I feel so ashamed. I love my baby. I love my kids. I love my husband. I love myself.  But with it, it’s impossible to control how I feel or, sometimes, to even feel anything at all.

 I feel like a failure. I feel weak. I feel overwhelmed. I feel defective. I feel like an outcast. I feel alone.

Now that I’ve said it. It’s real. It’s right in front of me and it’s ugly and not fair. But at least now I can get help. I feel lucky to have a few very supportive and understanding friends, along with my mom, and my husband.

I’m just tired of it defining my life. You can’t have me or my mind anymore you bastard. I’m gonna fight back. Not by my power, because right now I have none, but with the love from my loved ones, God, and the knowledge of those that have trudged this road before me.

I can’t be embarrassed or ashamed anymore. I have to be humble and brave all at once. For my kids. For my husband, my family…for me.

—————

I luckily don’t have extreme PPD and so I don’t have every one of these symptoms. (Like not connecting with my baby or wanting to harm myself or my kids.) But if you have any of the following, please seek help for your sake and the sake of your kid(s). It is SO common and IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!

So…If you are wondering what postpartum depression looks like, here are some symptoms: 

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You may [also] have postpartum anxiety or postpartum OCD. For a more complete explanation of PPD and PP anxiety/OCD, this is an extremely accurate and easy to understand article.

You ARE NOT alone. 

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The morning after this post is here.

007

Whenever I knock over a glass I’m trying to avoid or bang into something right when I’m trying not to wake the baby (which is often), I think one thing: 

I’d be a horrible spy

LMAO what?!? Why does this come to mind whenever I’m clumsy (which is always)??? Like I have people wanting me to apply to become a spy? I’m ridiculous.

#tiredmommythought #howDOyoubecomeaspy

Out of Gas

One hour people. That’s all I have. My mind’s racing. So much to write. One hour. Wait, what!?! 40 minutes. Crap. Okay. I can do this.

This is me right now.

Currently listening to this and I recommend listening with headphones in to drown out other…. Noise. Their WHOLE album is awesome-sauce so I recommend a checkout. 

Music in. ✅

Wine….uhhh…. In. ✅

Self appearance: reflecting real life. ✅

One hour is what I asked for…just for me. The strings I had to pull to get it? Let’s just say it was complicated. But alas, baby is safe with Grammy. Boys are having fun with daddy.

What to do with an hour? Come here of course. Focus. My mind has been COMPLETLY wrecked and scattered with everything going on and so many things to do. Laundry. Switching out kids clothes for bigger clothes. Storage. Boxes. More laundry. Switch out toys for other toys. Found HUGE box of baby toys. Big boys are more interested in them than baby is and baby still just wants to cling to me all day. Thank GOD for baby carriers! 

Hey awesome site btw.

I find myself momsplaining all the time. What’s momsplaining? Here’s an entertaining explanation. I fall victim to acting the part of the victim all the time. It’s a weakness. I’m not proud of it. I hate it actually. What do I hate more, my fat knees or my tendency to try and make people realize how stressful my life is….yup the second one. Bar None. Why can’t I just shut up and keep on truckin!!?? Ugh.

So my momsplaining rant for today is that I haven’t had a moment to JUST be myself in…. Beep boop beep (calculating)… 3 weeks. Ok so that’s not that bad right? Think of the last time you got to poop alone. Was it today? Was it this week? If you said yes then you can go ahead and keep listening to my momsplaining. 

My husband has only one week home this time around and then will be gone for 3 weeks. So out of 1 1/2 months we only get to be with him for one week. 7 days. Then it’s just me. Cue to my thought cloud picturing me putting on warpaint and shin guards. (Also to listening to a lot of this.)

I’m putting on my mommy armor people. Exaggerating? With two tackling boys and a teething baby there isn’t much exaggeration needed.

For the next three weeks I will be without my darling hubby to help me. I’ll be all alone on the front lines. Trying my best to keep it all together. Keep the jello from falling out of the colander while three little monkey gremlins shake it with delight, so to speak.

So I have an hour people. (Actually 8 min now gaaaah!) and what am I doing? 

Refueling.

Three things I know about myself and refueling:

  1. I need to be held
  2. I need to be alone
  3. I need music

Touch fills my tank. And don’t make me ask for it, just hug me for longer than 5 seconds. Full me up.

I need number 2 and 3 together. The wine isn’t a must but it’s a freakin bonus. (So if you haven’t noticed by now I am a Christian AND I drink alcohol once in a while-just like Jesus did -yup- and I’m working on a blog post about that- more to come soon). I have to be alone to clean out teach shattered thought scraping my brain like sharp glass. And the music blows it away. Carries it like a crisp September breeze to the first fallen autumn leaves. Yes. There it is. My tank. Filling. And I drink it in so desperately. 

Slowly now, momma, just slow down. Close those eyes and breathe. Feel your chest and stomach billow. You MUST find YOU in order to REALLY take care of those youngins and your lover. Build yourself up in a way that only YOU know how. Don’t apologize. Don’t feel guilty for doing it. Feel guilty for NOT doing it.

You don’t want to become zombie-mom. You know her. Dark, glazed eyes. Teary. Can’t handle spilled yogurt. Doesn’t know what she wants at the Starbuck’s drive up because no one has asked her what she has wanted in 2 weeks. Becoming her is common but dangerous. Don’t lose you. Find it. Take a moment. STEAL it if you must. 

It’s importance is golden. Essential. Utterly fundamental. You have got to keep yourself to give yourself.

So go fill your tank. 

We will thank you for it. 

Logo!

Hey guys I created a logo! Took me forever because of half hairless monkeys climbing all over me all day but here is the ‘prototype.’ Any suggestions!?

First Version:

Second Version:image

I like my second version much better. The words are more clear and the image is brighter. What do y’all think?

My husband, being a guy and, well, my husband, thinks it’s sexual. The point I am making with this logo is that I am saying the phrase and the look on my face is one of shock/surprise/oh-my-gosh-I-can’t-believe-you’re-drawing-with-your-poop. It’s not my “O” face. Believe me. That face doesn’t look this pretty.

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