I wrote the following post over a period of days a couple of weeks ago. I've tried blogging several times over the past month and just wasn't able to finish "adequately". I'm happy to say that a couple of weeks in Asher's development (and some meds for me) have made a bunch of difference, so the below is a reflection of where I have been...not where I am now (thank God!). Still, in the interest of honesty, I thought it relevant to publish, so here it is. I'll work on a more up-to-date entry (with photos of my little man!) soon.
*******
I have had posts rattling around in my brain for weeks, but no energy, time or presence of mind to actually write them down. I decided to put Asher back down to sleep after our 4 am feeding session so I could pump, and then thought, Hell, sleep would be nice, but I'm making myself crazy with the lack of blog posting. What stays in my brain causes me stress and strife, sort of like the feng shui adage, a cluttered house is a cluttered mind.
The last six weeks have been a blur, of course. I wish I could say a blissful blur, but that would be a lie.
I know what I'm about to write is normal - and I say this because I recently was given a booklet filled with essays written by moms, and could relate to nearly all of them - but life as a new mother is painfully difficult, stressful, self-doubt-filled, and not at all the dream I always imagined.
I guess that's part of the issue; as I read on another blog recently (forgive me for being unable to remember whose, but know your words are important to me!), all these years of infertility (it would be six in October), the loss of our twins and all the heartache associated with the two led me to focus so much on getting and staying pregnant that I really wasn't prepared for what comes after (when disaster doesn't strike). The last six weeks have been filled with mind blowing exhaustion, frustration of not understanding what this crying baby needs when all the obvious issues have been addressed, the emotional and physical pain of breastfeeding problems, the complete lack of time for myself, fear that I'm doing things wrong, feeling that I - who used to be so organized and on top of things - can't manage my time to save my life, wondering if I was cut out for this at all, thinking that perhaps that's why my twins died, because I couldn't have handled them, etc.
Layered over top of all of this - and probably behind a lot of it - is postpartum depression again, with a healthy side of its bitchy sibling, postpartum anxiety. Yep, despite my best efforts (as if we have control over these things) and the frantic consumption of my dehydrated placenta capsules as per label, PPD again has clouded my mind. I thought I was ok, but I will fully admit that the feeding issues with Asher really brought me to my knees, so that one day I was ok, and the next I was telling my counselor that I was concerned about myself. She told me I have "moderate to severe"PPD/PPA, had the talk with me about intrusive thoughts (bad thoughts that aren't things I'd come up with on my own but that are pervasive and overwhelming), and encouraged me to see my naturopath (today) for drug-free support options (if there are any). I've mentioned before my history of major depression; this obviously isn't my first rodeo. What I can say with conviction is that while there are times I have no interest in things and feel completely overwhelmingly depressed, most of the time I am very functional, 100% able to care for and bond with my son (who I am so in love with!), able to (and desiring) a shower and clean clothes, etc. I have little to no appetite (a symptom), I have a hard time seeing things with a positive eye, and am glad I still have 5.5 more weeks left of my leave so that hopefully, by the time I go back to work, I will have dug myself out of this with help and can go back feeling confident in my abilities to manage my life. Right now, a lot of the time, not so much. I've found myself cursing this town I live in for being so far away from my family and friends (because, damn it, it does take a village to raise a child, but moreso for the support of the mother, I think). I do have a dear friend who lives 45 minutes away from me and is also a mom of a little (Asher's best friend!), and we spent a few hours just talking and walking in the mall yesterday, something I really needed and wouldn't have done by myself. (Wouldn't you know, this child of mine, who lately is fighting every nap during the day and is therefore prone to major, epic, turning-purple/not-making-vocal-sounds/full-body-sweat meltdowns once or twice a day - to the point where he can only be interrupted by blowing in his face - fell asleep and slept almost the entire time in his stroller.)
One thing that has had frightening and disappointing familiarity is the speed at which people - mostly other mothers - discount the feelings and experiences of those of us dealing with troubles in what should be a blissful time. From having people tell me 10,000 times that at least my child can eat (don't say this to a babyloss mom...we know all to well what the alternative could be, and it probably isn't the one these ignorant women who say things like that would even think of), that it doesn't matter whether baby is fed from the breast or bottle (believe me, for someone like me, whose body has failed in this becoming-a-parent job so many times in so many awful, terrible ways, it DOES matter!), I am reminded (and revisited by that sick feeling in my stomach) of all the unintentionally hurtful things people (mostly women!) said to me after we lost the twins. Why is acknowledging someone's feelings and experience so difficult, so that instead we have to discount or one-up or minimize another?
Asher is wonderful, beautiful, perfect and still, unbelievably, mine. He has started smiling and cooing this week, and it's divine (and couldn't come at a better time for me emotionally). He knows I am his mama. My heart melts when his little hand grabs my arm in the middle of the night as I burp him after a feeding, when I'm the one who can ease his crying. I know I can meet his needs, maybe not the way I want to, but in a way that satisfies him (minus the over-tired meltdowns...still trying to figure that part out, and CIO sleep training is not something that Paul and I are comfortable with, thank you). We did end up taking him to a Portland ENT on July 8th after having a private Facebook conversation with the doctor late on the evening of July 6th (a Saturday!), where Asher was diagnosed with a stage 4 upper lip tie (ULT) and stage 4 posterior tongue tie (PTT), the most restrictive kinds. Mother's intuition is alive and well. We are thrilled we pursued this so aggressively. Even if Asher and I never have a full time breastfeeding relationship when it's all said and done (we're still trying, and making some headway), Paul and I know that by having his ties laser corrected, we will avoid the awful tooth decay, speech problems and head and neck issues usually associated with ties like these. (Turns out I'm tongue tied, too, and never knew it...and I am plagued with head and neck tensions, TMJ issues, etc.) The procedure was very quick, relatively painless, and probably easier on Asher than the stretches we had to 4 times daily for the subsequent three weeks were. (He and I both cried the first time, but it got easier, and now we're done.) I took him back to Portland two Fridays ago to visit with a highly recommended lactation consultant/herbalist/craniosacral therapist, and that was super helpful. Thanks to her, we are now breastfeeding at least once a day using a nipple shield for a deeper latch (he still hurts me without a shield). I am having supply problems despite a tincture she blended for me, so I may have a drug in my future to help with that...if I decide to continue with this. It has been terribly disappointing and frustrating, and the supply issues make it really hard to not internalize this experience and beat myself with it (even though Asher's anatomical issues caused it all to begin with, and I would certainly never chastise HIM for it!).
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Depression. Show all posts
Friday, August 16, 2013
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Food fight
I am in a perfectly vile mood today (methinks PMS, which I rarely encounter, is kicking my ass), so rather than let go that which seeths in my head, I'll instead write a post I've been cooking - pun intended - for many months.
I used to love food. I've never been a picky eater, although there have always been a few things I haven't enjoyed and/or have avoided like the plague (including bologna, liver or other organ meats, veal (on principle - this has been true since junior high or high school), Brussels sprouts (except with bacon!), and pan fried oysters, ew!). I like to cook, I like others to cook for me, I like to dine out...I'm pretty easy.
And then I got pregnant.
And plagued with all-day morning sickness, from 5 weeks 2 days pregnant through nearly the end of my pregnancy.
And (as I've mentioned before)...I started puking. This escalated from puking maybe once every two or three days to puking once a day to puking twice a day, usually right before (but sometimes after) a meal.
Fun? Hell no. I was miserable. Miserable, miserable, miserable. I once, at work, while sitting on the toilet peeing, got the very sudden urge to puke and congratulated myself all day for making it right between my legs into the toilet bowl without getting any on me or anything else. That only worked one time. I did plenty of puking at work. (Paul didn't catch me until the last week of the pregnancy...but he heard about it plenty!)
With my misery, nausea and puking came a total lack of appetite. This was problematic, because with twins, you're supposed to gain 50 (!) pounds during the pregnancy, ideally the first 24 during the first 24 weeks of gestation. To do that, I was supposed to consume 100 grams of protein per day. Obviously, this was a big problem. By the time I delivered, I had just made it back to my pre-pregnancy weight.
In time, the only things I could stomach (literally) with any regularity were lemonade (lots), ginger ale, Saltines, Marie Callender's frozen chicken pot pies (once or twice per day, no joke!), some soup, milk occasionally, and chocolate Ensure Plus bottled shakes (my main source of protein). (A note on the Ensure Plus...vanilla is pretty gag worthy, but I once barfed up an entire strawberry Ensure moments after finishing it, and now strawberry-flavored, milk-textured beverages are forever out for me. It nearly came out my nose.) Cold foods really soothed my tummy more than hot, and to this day, they still do. Weird.
In the wee hours of the morning of August 5, 2011, before I delivered our babies in the hospital, I was famished and attempted to eat a sandwich and yogurt from the nurse's station. I gagged on the sandwich, but kept the yogurt down. (Good thing, too...it didn't count against me for anesthesia during my D&C seven hours later.)
Once I'd recovered enough from my delivery and D&C, I realized I was starving, really, really starving. We ordered food from the menu provided, and I ate like it was my last meal. Yep, morning sickness was gone, gone, gone.
That was one of the few meals I actually enjoyed for the next 8 or 9 months. I ate because I had to in the first three or four weeks of grieving, whatever was available and easy. Paul was the same. (The babylost tend to lack the energy or motivation to prepare meals, let alone eat them. Plus, it's hard to care about nutrition when you'd much rather die.) Later, we started eating the majority of our meals out, as is common for grieving parents (who have the means to do so). We would have frequent standoffs over dinner (we would switch parts about every other day):
P: "What sounds good for dinner?"
A: "Nothing. I don't know."
P: "Any ideas?"
*crickets*
P: "How about x, y, z, 1, 2..."
A: "No..."
This could interaction could last an hour or more, by which time we were truly eating our own stomachs and really crabby. I hated dinner time during those months.
Thankfully, that has mostly passed now. A few months ago I discovered Pinterest, and started pinning jillions of recipes that looked yummy, and that got me off my duff and cooking for us. Paul, too. We're doing much better in that department now.
But...
During the last year, we've also both been doing terrible things to our bodies with our eating. Way too much fast food, too often, mindless, emotions-numbing snacking, overeating, etc. It's not been good. I saw a picture of myself recently that really disgusted me, as if I wasn't already disgusted enough. That was it, the final motivation.
I joined Weight Watchers Online six weeks ago, and have lost 12 pounds. (This puts me at 6 pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, for reference.) My goal is to get back to what I weighed when I met Paul...7 years and (now, yay, me!) 18 pounds ago. So far I love it. I'm starting to feel good about myself and my body again. I've stopped punishing my body - and myself - for the last 11 months, for my body's failure of our greatest wish, and for my inability to conceive since. Monday I will go to work without the Bella Band that has been a fixture of my wardrobe since May 2011, the month I conceived. That in and of itself is freaking amazing.
I'm certainly not bikini-ready (that would require me to shave my legs, anyway, and anyone who knows me well knows there's about a snowball's chance in Hell of that happening), but I think I'll be able to walk into my 20-year high school reunion in a couple of weeks without the shame and self-loathing I've been carrying around the last year. *That* is an accomplishment.
I used to love food. I've never been a picky eater, although there have always been a few things I haven't enjoyed and/or have avoided like the plague (including bologna, liver or other organ meats, veal (on principle - this has been true since junior high or high school), Brussels sprouts (except with bacon!), and pan fried oysters, ew!). I like to cook, I like others to cook for me, I like to dine out...I'm pretty easy.
And then I got pregnant.
And plagued with all-day morning sickness, from 5 weeks 2 days pregnant through nearly the end of my pregnancy.
And (as I've mentioned before)...I started puking. This escalated from puking maybe once every two or three days to puking once a day to puking twice a day, usually right before (but sometimes after) a meal.
Fun? Hell no. I was miserable. Miserable, miserable, miserable. I once, at work, while sitting on the toilet peeing, got the very sudden urge to puke and congratulated myself all day for making it right between my legs into the toilet bowl without getting any on me or anything else. That only worked one time. I did plenty of puking at work. (Paul didn't catch me until the last week of the pregnancy...but he heard about it plenty!)
With my misery, nausea and puking came a total lack of appetite. This was problematic, because with twins, you're supposed to gain 50 (!) pounds during the pregnancy, ideally the first 24 during the first 24 weeks of gestation. To do that, I was supposed to consume 100 grams of protein per day. Obviously, this was a big problem. By the time I delivered, I had just made it back to my pre-pregnancy weight.
In time, the only things I could stomach (literally) with any regularity were lemonade (lots), ginger ale, Saltines, Marie Callender's frozen chicken pot pies (once or twice per day, no joke!), some soup, milk occasionally, and chocolate Ensure Plus bottled shakes (my main source of protein). (A note on the Ensure Plus...vanilla is pretty gag worthy, but I once barfed up an entire strawberry Ensure moments after finishing it, and now strawberry-flavored, milk-textured beverages are forever out for me. It nearly came out my nose.) Cold foods really soothed my tummy more than hot, and to this day, they still do. Weird.
In the wee hours of the morning of August 5, 2011, before I delivered our babies in the hospital, I was famished and attempted to eat a sandwich and yogurt from the nurse's station. I gagged on the sandwich, but kept the yogurt down. (Good thing, too...it didn't count against me for anesthesia during my D&C seven hours later.)
Once I'd recovered enough from my delivery and D&C, I realized I was starving, really, really starving. We ordered food from the menu provided, and I ate like it was my last meal. Yep, morning sickness was gone, gone, gone.
That was one of the few meals I actually enjoyed for the next 8 or 9 months. I ate because I had to in the first three or four weeks of grieving, whatever was available and easy. Paul was the same. (The babylost tend to lack the energy or motivation to prepare meals, let alone eat them. Plus, it's hard to care about nutrition when you'd much rather die.) Later, we started eating the majority of our meals out, as is common for grieving parents (who have the means to do so). We would have frequent standoffs over dinner (we would switch parts about every other day):
P: "What sounds good for dinner?"
A: "Nothing. I don't know."
P: "Any ideas?"
*crickets*
P: "How about x, y, z, 1, 2..."
A: "No..."
This could interaction could last an hour or more, by which time we were truly eating our own stomachs and really crabby. I hated dinner time during those months.
Thankfully, that has mostly passed now. A few months ago I discovered Pinterest, and started pinning jillions of recipes that looked yummy, and that got me off my duff and cooking for us. Paul, too. We're doing much better in that department now.
But...
During the last year, we've also both been doing terrible things to our bodies with our eating. Way too much fast food, too often, mindless, emotions-numbing snacking, overeating, etc. It's not been good. I saw a picture of myself recently that really disgusted me, as if I wasn't already disgusted enough. That was it, the final motivation.
I joined Weight Watchers Online six weeks ago, and have lost 12 pounds. (This puts me at 6 pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight, for reference.) My goal is to get back to what I weighed when I met Paul...7 years and (now, yay, me!) 18 pounds ago. So far I love it. I'm starting to feel good about myself and my body again. I've stopped punishing my body - and myself - for the last 11 months, for my body's failure of our greatest wish, and for my inability to conceive since. Monday I will go to work without the Bella Band that has been a fixture of my wardrobe since May 2011, the month I conceived. That in and of itself is freaking amazing.
I'm certainly not bikini-ready (that would require me to shave my legs, anyway, and anyone who knows me well knows there's about a snowball's chance in Hell of that happening), but I think I'll be able to walk into my 20-year high school reunion in a couple of weeks without the shame and self-loathing I've been carrying around the last year. *That* is an accomplishment.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A day early
In some ways I feel like I'm writing this post early, on the eve of the 11-month anniversary of losing our babies, but at the same time, no. Today is 11 months since my water broke. Eleven months since the very worst day of our lives.
The last month has not been fun. Between me battling my own depression demons and Paul's coming to light (which renders me helpless...the man is my rock, my always-upbeat partner...he can't be down!), very painful and difficult conversations about the next steps in our journey to a take-home baby, a couple of painful fights (one in front of our friends in support group, which was embarrassing until I heard later that they'd already been there, done that), the last couple of weeks have been especially tough.
And...
Next month will be here before we know it. The enormity of a full year of grieving feels like a meteor making a slow fall to Earth, the two of us watching, sure it's going to land right on top of us. I can't believe I've survived a year of this. Truly. I expected - and even wished for - this crushing grief to kill me dead. I had nothing to live for, no reason to be here, except for my husband. And still, I got up most days, showered and dragged myself to work, to errands, to meetings. The routine finally got to be routine, and the clouds lifted a little bit more with each passing week, letting a little more sunlight in. I've had some fun, some full-blown belly laughs, and fewer and fewer tears.
Am I still broken? Yes, inside, but showing it outside less. Am I still angry? Yes, often, but not quite as often. Can I believe, still, that this is my life?
No.
I spent some time in the last 11 months beating myself up for turning into a better person because of this, not being more humane or more loving or more...I don't know, something other than me. I read a lot of babyloss blogs, and there are always a few who write about being better than they were for the loss of their child. I'm just me...trying to navigate this loss, this life, trying to clutch onto that elusive hope that we will have at least one healthy take home baby. My head spins with wondering how this week's test results will turn out as my body continues to be in the way of getting pregnant again (Clomid Challenge test, a repeat AMH draw, and a repeat hysteroscopy for those of you in the know), wondering whether Paul really means yes when he says he's now open to donor egg IVF (something I've already come to terms with and am ready to undertake), how we're going to come up with a satisfactory answer to psychologists' questions about our nearly 5-year infertility struggle and the loss of our babies when we go through the donor egg process. It's just a lot. My head is full, and yet I feel like I have nothing to write about. I don't know what's up with that. Maybe it's just a slump. I can't stay in those dark places too long. It's dangerous.
Rather than spend too much time enjoying my pity party, I've been working on doing little things I enjoy, and tackling chores I don't, like pulling weeds (actually, some weeds are hugely gratifying to pull, but the vast numbers make this chore overwhelming...and given we pulled very few over the last 11 months, the suckers have a distinct advantage). Somehow, picking up and focusing on the little things helps keep my mind unstuck from the quagmire of sadness and what if's and should be's. That's a good thing...
The last month has not been fun. Between me battling my own depression demons and Paul's coming to light (which renders me helpless...the man is my rock, my always-upbeat partner...he can't be down!), very painful and difficult conversations about the next steps in our journey to a take-home baby, a couple of painful fights (one in front of our friends in support group, which was embarrassing until I heard later that they'd already been there, done that), the last couple of weeks have been especially tough.
And...
Next month will be here before we know it. The enormity of a full year of grieving feels like a meteor making a slow fall to Earth, the two of us watching, sure it's going to land right on top of us. I can't believe I've survived a year of this. Truly. I expected - and even wished for - this crushing grief to kill me dead. I had nothing to live for, no reason to be here, except for my husband. And still, I got up most days, showered and dragged myself to work, to errands, to meetings. The routine finally got to be routine, and the clouds lifted a little bit more with each passing week, letting a little more sunlight in. I've had some fun, some full-blown belly laughs, and fewer and fewer tears.
Am I still broken? Yes, inside, but showing it outside less. Am I still angry? Yes, often, but not quite as often. Can I believe, still, that this is my life?
No.
I spent some time in the last 11 months beating myself up for turning into a better person because of this, not being more humane or more loving or more...I don't know, something other than me. I read a lot of babyloss blogs, and there are always a few who write about being better than they were for the loss of their child. I'm just me...trying to navigate this loss, this life, trying to clutch onto that elusive hope that we will have at least one healthy take home baby. My head spins with wondering how this week's test results will turn out as my body continues to be in the way of getting pregnant again (Clomid Challenge test, a repeat AMH draw, and a repeat hysteroscopy for those of you in the know), wondering whether Paul really means yes when he says he's now open to donor egg IVF (something I've already come to terms with and am ready to undertake), how we're going to come up with a satisfactory answer to psychologists' questions about our nearly 5-year infertility struggle and the loss of our babies when we go through the donor egg process. It's just a lot. My head is full, and yet I feel like I have nothing to write about. I don't know what's up with that. Maybe it's just a slump. I can't stay in those dark places too long. It's dangerous.
Rather than spend too much time enjoying my pity party, I've been working on doing little things I enjoy, and tackling chores I don't, like pulling weeds (actually, some weeds are hugely gratifying to pull, but the vast numbers make this chore overwhelming...and given we pulled very few over the last 11 months, the suckers have a distinct advantage). Somehow, picking up and focusing on the little things helps keep my mind unstuck from the quagmire of sadness and what if's and should be's. That's a good thing...
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Right where I am 2012: 9 months, 3 weeks, 0 days
Angie over at Still Life With Circles started an annual blog project called Right Where I Am last year, and I thought I'd participate. The point is to write about how you are as a babyloss mama in grief today, not yesterday, not tomorrow, but right now.
*******
Right now, I'm physically sore and exhausted after Paul and I finally rallied and got started on a big project we've had planned since before we conceived the twins: the creation of a new raised garden bed area. The project has turned out to be much more involved and difficult, physically (for me, at least) than expected...although the fact that I busted my ass this morning with my 8-year old push mower, trying to tame our front lawn (if you can call it that) and flower beds (no kidding, I mowed my flower bed, that's how country I am) hasn't helped anything. I have a blister, sore feet and sore muscles to show for it...and a sense of starting something, accomplishing a part of something, a feat neither of us has been able to pull off since we lost Aliya and Bennett last summer. We've been stuck in this grief- and depression-induced inertia, with the best of intentions, of course, but no energy or motivation to actually get started. On anything.
So, this is something we started, and can finish, hopefully this weekend. That's huge. And when we're done? Ah...yes, more time to grieve. More time to question and ponder. We're probably staying busy today to try and blot out the bad feelings we earned yesterday at our big IVF clinic consultation. Suffice it to say, it did not go well, more because of the vibes we got than anything. I'll write more about that in a later post.
As far as grieving today, though, I'm in a very ok place, and I hope that Paul is, too. We've had some laughs, got really, really dirty (aside: don't make fun of your hubby's dirt half-mustache when you aren't aware you have a giant dirt smudge on your cheek yourself, smarty pants!). He's still outside, trying to tame our massively overgrown backyard, so tall in spots that the dog seriously doesn't have to hardly squat to pee! It's really that bad. (I think he might have mowed the patio, too. It would figure.)
That's where we are...living, or trying to, grieving in spurts, trying to get a fire lit under our feet so we can get something done. We're not supposed to write about how we were feeling before, but you know if you read this post. I'm much, much better now. My counselor pointed out, as I noted how deep my low trough was compared to where I emerged late last week and still remain, that while anti-depressants are certainly a tool we can look into if I need it, "Really, it's just grief, sweetie...it's all just grief."
Amen.
*******
(I just looked outside to find my husband mowing the patio, as expected. As I watched, he ran over the dog's Nylabone and shot the thing in three pieces three different directions. One piece actually landed in our new garden, many, many feet away (like 40+). Progress, not perfection!)
*******
Right now, I'm physically sore and exhausted after Paul and I finally rallied and got started on a big project we've had planned since before we conceived the twins: the creation of a new raised garden bed area. The project has turned out to be much more involved and difficult, physically (for me, at least) than expected...although the fact that I busted my ass this morning with my 8-year old push mower, trying to tame our front lawn (if you can call it that) and flower beds (no kidding, I mowed my flower bed, that's how country I am) hasn't helped anything. I have a blister, sore feet and sore muscles to show for it...and a sense of starting something, accomplishing a part of something, a feat neither of us has been able to pull off since we lost Aliya and Bennett last summer. We've been stuck in this grief- and depression-induced inertia, with the best of intentions, of course, but no energy or motivation to actually get started. On anything.
So, this is something we started, and can finish, hopefully this weekend. That's huge. And when we're done? Ah...yes, more time to grieve. More time to question and ponder. We're probably staying busy today to try and blot out the bad feelings we earned yesterday at our big IVF clinic consultation. Suffice it to say, it did not go well, more because of the vibes we got than anything. I'll write more about that in a later post.
As far as grieving today, though, I'm in a very ok place, and I hope that Paul is, too. We've had some laughs, got really, really dirty (aside: don't make fun of your hubby's dirt half-mustache when you aren't aware you have a giant dirt smudge on your cheek yourself, smarty pants!). He's still outside, trying to tame our massively overgrown backyard, so tall in spots that the dog seriously doesn't have to hardly squat to pee! It's really that bad. (I think he might have mowed the patio, too. It would figure.)
That's where we are...living, or trying to, grieving in spurts, trying to get a fire lit under our feet so we can get something done. We're not supposed to write about how we were feeling before, but you know if you read this post. I'm much, much better now. My counselor pointed out, as I noted how deep my low trough was compared to where I emerged late last week and still remain, that while anti-depressants are certainly a tool we can look into if I need it, "Really, it's just grief, sweetie...it's all just grief."
Amen.
*******
(I just looked outside to find my husband mowing the patio, as expected. As I watched, he ran over the dog's Nylabone and shot the thing in three pieces three different directions. One piece actually landed in our new garden, many, many feet away (like 40+). Progress, not perfection!)
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Waving the white flag
I have, in the last hour, come to the realization that my depression is getting to the point where talk therapy and acupuncture may not be helpful enough anymore. The daily burden I carry in my heart and thoughts has me underwater more often than not lately. While I'm no stranger to antidepressants, having taken them for 7 solid years during my 20s, I never thought I'd have to consider them again.
This is not something I take lightly. A dear friend, who has known me since junior high school, expressed surprise when I admitted several months ago how much I struggled with being on antidepressants back then, how inept I felt. She said I handled that time in my life with grace, which couldn't be less how I saw myself then.
Now is no different. In fact, it's probably worse. But I have to face the fact that I mostly feel like *I* am getting worse. I know we've been warned to expect 18-24 months of hard grieving for the loss of our twins, but I can't fathom plodding along for another 9-15 months the way I am now.
A search of Dr. Google indicated at least two meds are safe to use during ART and pregnancy. My counselor had surgery and has been out, so I'll have to wait until next week to talk this through with her.
It doesn't make me happy to consider meds again, but a) not much does make me happy right now, and b) I know that, as a tool, meds can help. I need to do what I can to help myself.
This is not something I take lightly. A dear friend, who has known me since junior high school, expressed surprise when I admitted several months ago how much I struggled with being on antidepressants back then, how inept I felt. She said I handled that time in my life with grace, which couldn't be less how I saw myself then.
Now is no different. In fact, it's probably worse. But I have to face the fact that I mostly feel like *I* am getting worse. I know we've been warned to expect 18-24 months of hard grieving for the loss of our twins, but I can't fathom plodding along for another 9-15 months the way I am now.
A search of Dr. Google indicated at least two meds are safe to use during ART and pregnancy. My counselor had surgery and has been out, so I'll have to wait until next week to talk this through with her.
It doesn't make me happy to consider meds again, but a) not much does make me happy right now, and b) I know that, as a tool, meds can help. I need to do what I can to help myself.
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