Tag Archives: mental health

You Are Beautiful

27 May

This post won’t have a picture of me in a bikini.  It’s not about what I look like.  It’s about how I feel about what I look like.

There’s nothing that brings more dread come spring than the idea of bathing suit shopping.  No matter what your size or shape, something about having every inch of your curves exposed or hugged with spandex shakes your confidence.

I like to think of myself as intelligent and not susceptible to advertising’s dirty tricks.  And yet, as I stood in the mirror this week, trying on bathing suits in an attempt to walk that fine line between vulgar and mumsy, all I could think about was how I compared to the models displaying the suits online.

This is ridiculous behavior, I know.  But apparently I suffer from the same negative body image that I hope never to instill in my daughters.  Some of this was the depressive episode.  Depression lies – twists reality until you struggle to trust your own thoughts.  But I’ve honestly always been self-critical and dissatisfied with one or more parts of my body.

My husband was disappointed he missed the bathing suit fashion show.  ”I wish you could see you the way I see you,” he says.  I do, too.  He looks at me and sees the whole package.  He sees how well I am proportioned, how beautiful my big, brown eyes are, and how my form curves in all the right places.  I see the dimples on the back of my upper thigh, the loose skin remaining from my two pregnancies, and the extra pounds that snuck on during a well-deserved cheese bender.

Yes, I see you checking out that avitar on the right.  I realize I’m saying all of this with a weight and body shape that many women envy.  Perhaps some will dismiss this post as vain and silly.  But I think it speaks to the scarcity culture that Brene Brown writes about in Daring Greatly.  Never enough.  We’re all programmed to believe that we never have enough, are never thin enough, are never good enough.  And that our value is based on our accomplishments or attributes instead of being intrinsic to who we are.  Additionally, in a culture where women are valued more for their appearance than their intellectual contributions to society, it’s hard not to get lost in society’s beauty standard.

I happened to text a couple of pictures to good friends of mine in a moment of vulnerability.  I admitted my insecurities and they assured me I was beautiful.  And though my husband had said the same thing, it was them I was able to really hear.  These are women I believe to be stunning.  And when I look at them, I don’t see flaws.  I see their strengths.  I see their glowing skin, their long, wavy hair, their luscious lips, and their deep brown eyes.  I see their spirits, their histories, their stories.  It is the culmination of all these that make them beautiful.

Our conversation redirected me to look at myself the same way I see them.  It helped me shake free of the cultural bias and recognize my anxieties for what they were.

I hope you have women in your life like this.  Women who make you feel as beautiful – because our culture sure isn’t going to do that for you.  And if you don’t, seek them out.  They are worth the hunt.

So.  In case no one has told you lately?  You are beautiful.  Believe it.

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Logistical Nightmare

29 Apr

My oldest daughter will be 5 this fall.  And in the last few months, it’s become more and more obvious that she’s a little girl now and not my baby.  Along with her fashion sense and her ability to manipulate and lie, has come the desire to “hang out with friends.”  What used to be a play-date, arranged so mothers could escape the solitary confinement that is life with a toddler (or two) has morphed into a social life for my preschooler.

Other moms? Are ready at a whim to have neighborhood friends over and after-school visits.  Daily.  Until now, I haven’t felt any pressure to join in.  But I can tell the days of play-dates arranged days or weeks in advance are fading.

Which leaves me with one question:

If my house needs to be ready for company at a moment’s notice, when will I have time to relax in my pajamas with three-day hair and no makeup?

By “relax,” I mean chase my children around the house, refereeing their constant bickering and cleaning up the tornado they leave behind.  And by “ready for company,” I mean clean enough that I don’t end up on an episode of hoarders.

I’m not hoping to invite my daughter’s friends into a cover from House and Home Magazine.  I’d just like it if playmates and their parents were exempt from seeing my underwear on the bathroom floor and dried yogurt painted onto the kitchen table.  Currently, if we’ve scheduled a play-date, I probably made sure I would have time to wipe the boogers off my clothes and sweep the cheerios under a rug.  With two kids under 5, any attempts at picking up are merely exercises in futility, so tidying the house requires a nap time or the strategic sacrifice of one room while I clean another.  It’s a logistical nightmare.

So what I really want to know is: How do they do it, those families with tidy houses?  Just the idea of being “on” 24-7 leaves me feeling exhausted.  But I also can’t stomach the idea of friends (and even family) coming over to the disaster that is my house (and me) on a regular basis.  I need a few days a week when I can focus on my kids and taking care of myself.  Sometimes that means a shower and a trip to the library.  Many times it means crafts in our pajamas at 2:30p p.m.

I’m seriously looking for wisdom here.  Do you keep a tidy house?  What is your secret?  Or are you like me, hiding in your messy house?

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Don’t Call Them “Happy Pills”

15 Apr

It’s no secret that I take medication for my anxiety and OCD.  It’s in my intro on the sidebar, for crying out loud.

Every morning, it’s 1 1/2 antidepressant pills and 2/3 of a long-acting anti-anxiety medication.  And in the evening, another 2/3  of the anti-anxiety, along with my prenatal vitamin for lactating moms (yes, I’m still nursing), and lately some ibuprofen for my earache.

Medications

I don’t take them lightly.  After all, these medications are altering my brain chemistry.  I’ve worked closely with my doctors and therapist to find a medication combination that works for me while balancing the side effects.  I’ve considered the risks and have researched their effects on breastfeeding.  I’ve adjusted doses and schedules more times than I care to count.  And this is all after spending a year fighting against taking anything at all because of the stigma and my misunderstanding of how psychotropic medications work.

My antidepressant works by soaking the nerve cells in my brain with seritonin.  Seritonin is a neurotransmitter that is responsible in part for regulating the intensity of moods.  See, a normal brain releases seritonin, exposing the nearby brain cells, and then reabsorbs it.  My brain either does not produce enough seritonin or reabsorbs it too quickly.  SSRI’s (selective seritonin reuptake inhibitors) work by blocking the reabsorption process, thereby allowing the nerve cells to bathe in the seritonin for longer.  In my case, more is better.

The long-acting anti-anxiety medication increases dopamine levels and, along with melatonin,  has been shown in studies to rebuild neurons.  Dopamine is part of the “reward system” of the brain and is responsible for many functions, including mood, movement, working memory, learning, and motivation.

These medications work together to relieve the crippling anxiety and buzzing energy of my OCD and anxiety disorder, both of which have contributed to depression in the past.  They allow me to strap my children into my mother’s car and watch as she safely drives them for a sleep over without slumping to the floor in paralyzing fear that they will crash during the ride.  They help regulate my reaction to hormones like cortisol (the stress hormone; think fight or flight) during arguments with my 4-year-old.  Without this regulation, I am susceptible to anxiety-induced rage.  And most importantly to me, I couldn’t have slugged through the messy, emotional work of therapy had my seritonin and dopamine levels been unbalanced.

What they don’t do?  Is make me happy.  Instead, they allow me to feel the happiness that my unbalanced brain chemistry was robbing me of.

So do me a favor and don’t call them “happy pills.”  It makes you sound ignorant and makes me feel stigmatized.  It’s medication for a medical condition.  Period.

 

** I don’t have to remind you that I’m not a doctor, right?  I’m just one person sharing her story.  Medication decisions are personal and are best made with your doctor’s supervision.**

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So You Think I Shouldn’t Have Had Children

18 Mar

I’m an optimist.  Optimistic about situations but mostly about people.  I believe people are good.  I believe we are are more alike than different.  And I believe in the power of communication and connection.

So when I saw this tweet from Anderson Cooper’s @andersonlive two weeks ago, I hoped for the best.

ALParenting Tweet

The tweet was intended to foster controversy, but surely the general public doesn’t believe that moms are taking medications because it is “trendy.”  My twitter tribe took to their computers and responded in force.

Screen Shot 2013-03-17 at 5.26.47 PM Andrea Tweet

And then just when I was beginning to think that people would understand that mothers are treating their illnesses, I made the mistake of visiting the comments on the Anderson Live FaceBook page.

FaceBook Screenshots Screen Shot 2013-03-17 at 5.34.38 PM Screen Shot 2013-03-17 at 5.34.14 PM

The PPD Blogger community responded in force there, too, with thousands of words about stigma, motherhood, and mental health.  And there *were* comments that reasonably placed the responsibility to determine who genuinely needs medication on the shoulders of the medical community.  But I was shocked at the large percentage of folks who believe that people suffering from mental illness just shouldn’t have children.

These folks believe that mental illness is a character flaw and possibly a death sentence – they believe that because I take medication for anxiety, I shouldn’t have had children.  Because I am an optimist, I choose to think they are just uneducated, products of a culture awash in stigma and misinformation.  I hope that with exposure to education and to individuals who thrive (yes, even as parents) despite their diagnosis of “mentally ill,” they might change their minds.

But if not – if they still believe that the mentally ill shouldn’t procreate because of a perceived burden on unborn children and society in general, let me ask this:

If an ideal life is the criteria on which a person’s right to reproduce is to be based, who among us would ever have children?

Would these same dissenters tell a paraplegic to refrain from starting a family because of the difficulties the children may encounter being raised by a parent with some special needs?  Should my diabetic friend and advocate Melissa have not had children because her disease puts her at risk of disorienting low blood sugars?  What about a parent suffering from a genetic disorder that may be passed onto their child?  

I am just like any other person treating a medical condition. Make no mistake.  Though they are invisible, my anxiety, PPD, and PPOCD are (or were) medical conditions.   20% of the US population suffers from mental illness, with the average age for onset of symptoms being 30.  That’s one in five.  Your neighbors.  Your sisters and brothers.  Your friends.  And quite possibly your parents.

If you are a mother with a mood or anxiety disorder, I want you to hear that those trolls above?  They are wrong.  I know you.  I know how hard you work to keep yourself healthy and happy.  I know that despite your mood swings, you are a loving parent who lights up your child’s life.  And though you may need the assistance of medication and therapy to combat your anxiety, you bring to their world your talents, your strengths, and there is no better parent for them.

Don’t let the ignorance of a few Facebook comments cloak you in shame.  We are all flawed.  It’s what makes us beautiful and real.  As people and as parents.

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I’m Doing It Right: The Flu Edition

15 Feb

It’s no secret that it’s been a challenging few months health-wise in this house.  I’m honestly starting to weigh the costs and benefits of the oldest’s time at the germ factory we call preschool.  I mean, I *do* want her to learn to read, but I also like being able to breathe through my nose.  I’m torn.

And I don’t know about you, but I think back to the days before kids and long wistful for a time when one could recover from the flu by spending a week in bed.  Back then, having the flu was like a vacation compared to this torture.

So what exactly am I doing right?  I realized this week that I have the medical knowledge befitting a second year medical resident when it comes to my kids and illness.  I have dosages memorized for acetaminophen, ibuprofen, benadryl, and sudafed, and know exactly which one to use based on the symptoms.  I can keep a running record of times medication was dosed for each of us and can identify early symptoms of dehydration and know how to mix my own electrolyte solution.  And perhaps most impressively, I have cared for a sick four-year-old, the worst of all patients, with gentle concern and patience.  I have changed more dirty diapers this week than I think in the last 4 months combined – something I never thought I’d be able to handle before having kids.  All while being sick myself.

In so many moments where I heard my inner-critic whisper, “You can’t do this.  It’s too much,” I shut her up with a silent chant of “courage.”

I know that everyone gets sick, and everyone takes care of their sick kids, but this week feels like a triumph for me.  Sometimes it’s the little things.  Or the things that seem big despite their smallness.  Winning those battles is an exercise in courage.

By the way, I saw today courtesy of Chookooloonks.  If you don’t know who Ze Frank is, you’re in for a treat!

 

JamesandJax.com

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I’m Doing It Right

6 Feb

Thank you to my friend Story over at Sometimes It’s Hard for giving me a little nudge and allowing myself to feel like I can write without polishing.  A list it shall be.

I’m linking up with Jaime at James and Jax to celebrate the things I’m doing right, which I so desperately need to stop and examine because the last few weeks have been exhausting.  It seems I am not to get a break this winter and instead each member of the family is going to contract every possible germ in the area.  Thankfully, the baby’s double ear infection is clearing up and I think (knocks on wood) we’re all on the mend.

So what have I done right lately?  When I stop being so hard on myself, quite a bit as it turns out.

  1. When faced with a baby who screamed from 8pm to 4am last Wednesday night, I stayed calm, asked for help, and did whatever I could to make the baby comfortable.  She finally crashed, laying her body across me, and there was a moment of sweetness in being her home.
  2. Instead of losing my mind when my plans to shop at Target (for the dish detergent we desperately needed) fell apart, I just texted my mom for some help.  I asked for a few Cascade pods to get me through a couple of days.  She showed up with two big boxes.
  3. Every time the preschooler or the toddler have pushed my buttons today, I stopped and took a breath before speaking or opening a door.  I needed that breath and I’m glad I remembered it.

So that’s it.  Because it’s late and I’m sure the baby will need me tonight.  What are you doing right these days?

JamesandJax.com

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Gifts of Imperfection – Exploring the Power of Love, Belonging, and Being Enough, Week 3

24 Sep

You can find previous chapters using the page navigation above.  Brene’s book can be purchased HERE.  It’s awesome.

Gifts of Imperfection – Exploring the Power of Love, Belonging, and Being Enough

When we spend a lifetime trying to distance ourselves from the parts of our lives that don’t fit with who we think we’re supposed to be, we stand outside of our story and hustle for our worthiness by constantly performing, perfecting, pleasing, and proving. Our sense of worthiness—that critically important piece that gives us access to love and belonging—lives inside of our story.

Brown, Brene (2010-09-20). The Gifts of Imperfection (p. 23). BookMobile. Kindle Edition.

I think back to my teens and twenties and feel like I wasted years and years attempting to “fit in.” Isn’t that what we all do in high school?  Try to figure out who everyone wants us to be?  I wish I could say that becoming a mother matured me beyond this behavior, but it only redirected my attention to who I was supposed to be “as a mother.”  I looked everywhere for the answer.  Parenting books.  Friends.  My own mother.

Brene calls this “hustling for worthiness.”  That phrase hits me right in the gut because I know the pain of changing in an attempt to belong only to find belonging slip through my fingers.  Worthiness was always just out of reach and clothed in self-doubt.  I was supposed to love snuggling my baby all night.  I was supposed to be happy staying at home.  I was supposed to feel like my baby and I belonged together.  Supposed to.  If you’re ever wondering if you’re hustling for worthiness, listen for those words.  They are my red flag.

The other portion in this chapter that resonates with me is about love.

To begin by always thinking of love as an action rather than a feeling is one way in which anyone using the word in this manner automatically assumes accountability and responsibility. — BELL HOOKS

Bell Hooks, All About Love: New Visions (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, Harper Paperbacks, 2001).

She shares the quote above and gives examples of times she’s struggled with practicing love in her own life.

I truly love Steve (and, oh man, I do), then how I behave every day is as important, if not more important, than saying “I love you” every day. When we don’t practice love with the people we claim to love, it takes a lot out of us. Incongruent living is exhausting.

Brown, Brene (2010-09-20). The Gifts of Imperfection (p. 28). BookMobile. Kindle Edition.

The stress of parenting small children (or even just the stress of everyday life) can make us forget that love is something you do.  My husband likes to say that he told me he loves me the day we got married and if that changes, he will let me know.  He practices love each day  instead.  This chapter reminded me that though I might tell him I love him every day, when I snap at him in an anxious moment, I am not practicing love.  And when I lose my temper with No1, I needed to be more mindful of showing her the love I feel for her.  It’s not easy, and not always possible.  But being mindful of how important my everyday actions are to the people around me has helped me feel more connected to them.  It makes me want to explicitly teach the language of worthiness to my children.

Let’s talk.  Can you think of a time when you felt true belonging? How did you get there?  How did it change your interactions with others or your perception of yourself?

How do you hustle for worthiness?  I know I fall victim to believing that perfection will lead to worthiness for me.  And pleasing.  I am SUCH a people pleaser and am actively working on learning to say no, putting myself first.  Is it performing, perfecting, pleasing, proving?  Or something else?

Disclaimer: I purchased the book Gifts of Imperfection on my own and am not being compensated for my review of the book or for promoting it. I receive no kickback from any of the Amazon links provided above. I simply love the book and want to share.

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PPD and Marriage

14 Sep

Marriage is hard.  Marriage with children is challenging. Marriage with PPD is formidable.

Think back to your dating years.  Now imagine you arrange a date with a guy who has everything.  He’s handsome, smart, funny, caring.  He loves cats and doing dishes.  He washes his hands after using the restroom.  He compulsively buys presents – can’t help himself.  He picks you up, you drive to a restaurant on the beach, and find the perfect table for watching the sunset.  And then a loud man drags a chair over to your table and plops down in-between you and your date.  He blows cigarette smoke in your face as he introduces himself as Horace.  He talks over you and your date all evening, spitting chunks of food as he complains about every possible detail.  When you get up to use the restroom, he takes it as an insult and spends the rest of the evening sulking.  You finally ask your date who this man is and he tells you that Horace goes everywhere with him – they are rarely apart.  At times during dinner, your date seems to waver between being annoyed with Horace’s antics, trying to shut him up, and egging him on.  One thing is for sure. . . if you see your date again, you’re going to be spending time with Horace, too.

Would you go on a second date?  I mean, you really like this guy.  But Horace?  Who has time for him?  He makes spending time with your man nearly impossible and even seems to change who he is entirely at times.

Sometimes I think that’s how my husband feels.  I KNOW he loves me.  I know he believes in me – in us – and the life we are creating together.  But he’s fed up with Velma*.  I used to take his frustration with my anxiety personally and felt like he was angry with me.  In my defensive state, I would argue about how hard I was trying and tell him he wasn’t being supportive enough. But I’ve come to understand that he’s entitled to be angry. . . I’m angry.  I hate having an anxiety disorder and on my worst days, I want to whine and scream  like a child about it.

My husband just wants the partner he married.  He wants me – just me – with no Velma standing at my side, whispering that I’m not good enough and tricking me into starting an argument over something silly.  He wants to have fun with the woman he fell in love with over ten years ago.  He wants me to be happy.

It’s relatively easy for me to say this and take responsibility for giving his feelings respect because he is the definition of support. He takes the kids on weekend  mornings so I can catch up on sleep.  He is standing behind my decision to postpone the mood stabilizer so I can continue to nurse the baby.  He gently reminds me to take my medication if I’m feeling overwhelmed, and he adjusts plans to meet my needs.  We are a team this time.

His anger?  Isn’t AT me.  It’s FOR me.  For us.  And thought it may hurt some days, I have to afford his feelings the same respect he gives mine, and support him as he processes them.  After all, marriage is hard enough already with two kids.  We don’t need Velma’s lies about his frustration to make it any more difficult.

*Velma is the nickname the online PPD community has give to depression and anxiety.  We frequently tag our tweets about PPD with #velmasucks or #velmaisabitch or (my favorite) #velmaisalyingho. It’s a way to signal that we’re struggling and that we know that our mental illness is a separate entity from ourselves.

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Giving Up Control

31 Aug

My mom is ever the boy scout.  Prepared for anything and everything.

Yesterday while we were out shopping she picked up a microwavable syrup bottle.  Apparently my dad fails to read warnings and almost melts Mrs. Butterworth on a weekly basis.  When we got back to her home I noticed that she had saved the packaging.  She explained that it had a 5-year warranty, and should any of the seals leak, she wanted to have the paperwork handy.  After stapling the receipt to the warranty, she filed them together.  I don’t know about you, but I figure when I spend $5 on a syrup bottle that I’m accepting a risk.  If it should break after 5 years of dutiful syrup-warming, then at least I got my money’s worth.  If it falls apart after three days, I call it a $5 lesson.  But not my mom.   I told you.  She’s prepared for everything.

I truly admire her organization and preparation, and I have to say that it’s come in handy on more than one occasion. When I have forgotten my toothbrush on a weekend at the lake, she always has an extra.  She has sterile strips for paper cuts in her bathroom cabinet that I have used more than once.  Need a foldable luggage carrier?  Boom.  Apple corer? It’s yours.  Forget about your gynecologist appointment and need someone to watch the kids?  She kept the day free just in case.

She was a stay-at-home-mom and cared for me and my two brothers in much the same way back then.  She is an amazing mom, and the best grandma a kid could hope for.

But.

I’m beginning to think all those years of being prepared for absolutely everything played a part in the development of  my OCD – specifically my need for control.  Deep down when things go wrong, I find myself sure that I could have prevented them if I just had just planned better.  And thus I tend to anticipate anything that might go wrong and overcompensate by over-planning.

It’s as if I’m waiting for the house to spontaneously combust for no reason.  But instead of the typical safety precautions like smoke alarms and fire extinguishers, I’ve summoned the fire department and sit patiently aiming a fire hose at the roof just in case.  It’s difficult to relax when you’re holding a fire hose.  For one thing, it’s heavy.  And its exhausting trying to maintain control over its pressurized contents.

I want to be clear.  I do not blame my upbringing for my mental health issues.  But I do think it’s helpful to look at contributing factors like societal conditioning, personality, birth order, and life and childhood experiences when I’m trying to work though my anxiety.  If I can find fault in an idea I always accepted to be true based on my past, than I just might have a chance at letting it go.

Giving up control of the world around me means giving up responsibility.   It’s liberating to give myself permission to simply respond to difficult situations instead of feeling the need to prevent them.  I don’t always succeed at this venture, but when I do, I feel my anxiety melt away.

I’m truly grateful to my mom for teaching me responsibility.  But in the spirit of self-care and mental health, I’m going to try to be a little less careful from now on.  But only a little.

 

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Tweet, tweet. Boom.

8 Apr

Todays’ HAWMC prompt is to write about the best conversation you had during the week.  I’m going to apologize in advance for subjecting you to this.

Hubs (looking out front window): Boy, the robins sure do love the lawn after it’s been aerated.

Me: I bet it makes the bugs easier to catch.

Hubs: What we really need is to genetically modify robins so that as they dig for worms in the lawn they also drop grass seed.  That would save me so much time.  Of course, then they would need some sort of biological advantage so they would survive better than the regular robins.

Me: You mean, like make them bigger?

Hubs: Yeah.

Me: Or make them bulletproof?

Hubs: LOL.  We could give them little tiny bulletproof vests.

At that point in the conversation, I started picturing a very bloody version of the Sneetches.  At one point in time, a silly conversation about outfitting wildlife with kevlar wouldn’t have been possible for me.  After No1 was born, all I could talk about was the baby or my anxieties about the baby.

And that, my friends is why this is the best conversation I had this week.  It had nothing to do with PPD, anxiety, or children.  It was just a funny moment between a husband and a wife.  This time around, I’m not taking that for granted.

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