crazymama

Going back to school has been one of the most humbling experiences of my life with the exception of becoming a parent. I have noticed that 13 years since starting college for the first time there are a few things that still remain the same

• Young people think old people are dumb
• The hierarchy is still the same and is as follows from highest to lowest:
  • Cool kids, jocks, regular people, wannabes, old people and foreigners (ESL or exchange students from uncool countries), and finally special ed kids

  Please note that I, as an old person, am only above the mentally challenged in this hierarchy.

One thing that is a little different this time around is the categories that the wannabes fall in. In my day (1996, to be exact) there were really only two kinds of wannabes. Alternative chicks and sluts. Nowadays, there are many different kinds

Another thing that remains the same is how much the brothers on campus seem to still  like my stuff. I think it is because the jiggle in front lets them know I am coming and prepares them for the wiggle in the back.  One regret from college is that I didn’t sample more Dark Chocolate when I could’ve. Probably because where I went to school there wasn’t much. And I was stupid.

I am 32 years old and still feel out of place, awkward, and inadequate at school.  Isn’t that ridiculous? I have so much to offer but I still feel like I don’t measure up somehow. Intellectually, I could grind these children under my heel. Emotionally, I wonder if they think I am lame.

All the classes I am taking are the same path for anyone applying to the nursing program. Every day I look around and see my competition.

Every Tuesday and Thursday between lecture and lab I eat my lunch in the fishbowl that is the cafeteria. I plug in my headphones and listen to music that was made when these kids were still shitting their pants. I watch them from a distance and smile at the dance that is so obvious now but was as good as a foreign language to me when I was their age. It is unnerving and strange to hear them discuss problems which to them seem insurmountable and to me seem shallow and unimportant.

Most of the time I have to quell the urge to scream at them, “Don’t waste it! Don’t waste this time worrying so much about what anyone else thinks about you! Don’t follow the script that your parents, friends, or anyone else has written for you! None if it matters. Really, none of that matters.”

Would they believe me? No. After all, in their minds I am one step above someone who is mentally handicapped. But I cannot lie when I say that I am captivated by their innocence and wish for some of that back. Just enough to stop being so cynical about the world. Not enough to forget what is important.

The further I get away from the Zoloft the more I see how different I am becoming. This is kind of a scary thing for me. Not only am I having to confront who I was before PPD but I am also having to confront my old demons.

I typically feel like the worst mother in the world most of the time. It is only when confronted with stories like this one

http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/story?id=7980476&page=1 (toddler is strangled by Python that got loose) that I feel halfway convinced that I am not doing such a bad job. How crazy is that? I feel good in comparison to parents who let their pet python kill their kid?

Does anyone else have this laundry list of inadequacies in their head? Sometimes it gets so bad that I wonder if it would be better for the kids to go to daycare. Wouldn’t someone whose job it is to watch children be more patient, nurturing, and kind? That is their job, right?

I constantly wonder if I am too hard on my kids. Do I feed them too much junk? Do they watch too much tv?Am I giving them what they need emotionally? Do I hover too much? The list goes on and on.

Why didn’t anyone tell me beforehand that having kids would mean that my heart would be eternally resting on the shoulders of my two children?  If anything ever happened to them I don’t know what I would do with myself. I don’t think I would ever recover. I want them to grow up with the best of everything. I think almost every parent wants that (with the exception of people who let their python eat their kids). It is so polarizing that we as parents can take this desire to extremes. On one side you have total neglect and on the other you have helicopter parenting. How do I find the balance?

All I want is to do right by my kids. I just wish I knew what that meant. Why isn’t there some definitive instruction manual that lists a flowchart on how to raise your kids in the healthiest way possible?

In addition to trying to find the best way to parent my unique children, I am also trying to negate the script that is written from my own parents’ inadequacies in parenting… as we all do.  They did the best they could with what they had, which is what I am doing now. And yet, here I am at 32 years old still suffering from some of their wounds and desperately trying not to repeat the process with my own kids. Will W or A be writing a blog 32 years from now contemplating MY inadequacies as a parent? And if so, how terrible would that feel? Knowing that even my best wasn’t good enough?

Man, parenting is a mind fuck.

It has been exactly one year since my body gave me a giant “Fuck you!” in the form of PPD/OCD/Anxiety. In case you missed it, here is where that adventure all began.

http://18yearsandcounting.blogspot.com/2008/08/into-abyss.html

It has been the scariest thing I have ever dealt with in my life.

And it is also something I will never, ever be cured of.

I would like to say that the worst of it is behind me, which I really believe to be true. I don’t have panic attacks any more. My days aren’t consumed in spirals of obsessive thoughts so tragic and scary that the idea of suicide seems like a welcome relief from their torture. Yep, suicide. From the woman who volunteered for two years at a Suicide Prevention Crisis hotline. And trained volunteers there…on how to talk people down from committing suicide. Yeah, it was that bad.

I am beginning to realize that coming out of PPD for me is like joining AA is for some. Depression is a disease that doesn’t just go away. I really have to”work the steps” to make sure that I don’t fall into that abyss again. There are good days and there are bad days, even now. Unfortunately, I find that picking myself up out of the bad days to be harder now.

Does it sound strange that I am almost glad that this happened? Because it sounds strange to me and yet here I am thinking (typing) it. My life is different now, but seeing how badly this all could’ve turned out makes me grateful now that I am just here.

Even on the days:

When I am irritated with my children, feel like the worst mother in the world, imagine what a disappointment I am, relive the stupid shit I have done in the past, do petty things that I should be above (like gossip, tell white lies), and generally get on with the mucky part of being human and fallible.

When I am feeling low I basically just remember that normal low can’t really touch PPD low. Because, HOLY FUCKING SHIT, PEOPLE, I AM ALIVE! I am breathing! I am here! I made it one year! Yes, I am shouting this because it is so monumental. One year ago I might not have thought it would be possible to ever be here. Even be doing something as simple as talking about PPD without feeling like I am drowning in it is huge.

I’m glad I made it.

I still do really stupid things that seem really ungrateful. I don’t give thanks for each moment. I don’t appreciate all my “blessings” all the time. I do wish for time to speed up (while wiping W’s poop explosion from the bathtub yesterday)  or slow down (while the children are occupied and not hanging on my legs) depending on the circumstance. But, as I mentioned above, this is part of the human condition.

I am human. I am still (mostly) whole. I am alive. I am grateful for that. Because that right now is everything.

Zoloft is now completely gone. I still have some withdrawals but am feeling like my old self again. My current quandary is that I don’t really know who that is anymore.

I still obsess about death. It is not all consuming like it was when I first was diagnosed with PPD but there is not a day that passes when I don’t think about it in some shape or form. Sometimes the old panic starts to swell up and sometimes I feel peaceful when I think about it. My current peaceful thought is that when I am dead i won’t know the difference. If there is nothing waiting for me after death then I won’t have any idea. My body will be rotting in the ground, the world will keep turning, and time will move on. All I can hope for is that I lived and loved well.

Now that the Zoloft is gone I am amazed at how emotional I have been lately. I don’t know if that is just a lingering withdrawal symptom or me. Because I am having a hard time remembering who I am.

I have this amazing appreciation lately for human beings and the mechanics of living. Our bodies are so complicated and work so effectively. I don’t even know my body’s whole potential yet. I am always inspired of people trying something new and then finding out that they are really good at it. That, to me, is so uplifting. Its like we have this body that is uniquely made like no one else’s and most of us really have no idea what it can do.

I know this post is all over the place but that is how I feel. Like I am just this person here who has all this hidden potential that is untapped, waiting for me to discover it. Like some kind of cosmic gift from my ancestors and all of those that lived before me. Thousands and thousands of years of people living, making babies, and then dying went into the creation of me. If my mom had waited one more month to get pregnant with me I would be something completely different. In fact, I wouldn’t be me at all.

Why am I here right now, in this period of time? What is my purpose in life? What can I do to live to my full potential? I wish I knew.

I totally understand Brenda Slaby. You may or may not have heard her story (http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Story?id=5935342&page=1) but a couple of years ago she left her daughter in her minivan in the school parking lot where she worked. All day. In the hot summer sun. Her daughter was discovered later that afternoon, dead in her car seat.

After this happened, Slaby was thoroughly trashed on the internet and news as “America’s Most Hated Woman.” I watched Oprah’s interview with her sometime last year and was deeply moved by what I saw.  My heart ached for this woman who will live with her daughter’s accidental death at her hands for the rest of her life. I cannot imagine that pain.

Slaby recounted feeling like she had to be everything to everyone: wife, mother, employee and had put her life on cruise control. Right now I totally get that. Why do we fall into this trap?

Last night I tossed and turned until 12 am over a Math test I had taken and not done well on. I was so stressed out about my score that I couldn’t sleep. The RN programs in California are so competitive that getting less than an A in any of the prerequisite classes could mean not gaining admission. My average right now is at 87%, 3% less than it should be and I am having a hard time getting past it.

I consider myself an intelligent person. I mean, I got through one of the hardest programs in the country, the Naval Nuclear Power Program (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naval_Nuclear_Power_School). Looking back on that time, however, I remember how stressed and crazy I was back then. That program killed my first marriage and lead to an eventual nervous breakdown that I don’t talk about very often.

As Brenda Slaby found out, treading water when you have lives that depend on you is not only a shitty way to live but it is dangerous. Getting cut while walking the knife edge is not just a possibility but an eventuality.

Added to this stress is the fact that I am almost completely weaned from Zoloft. Without my doctor’s consent or knowledge. I feel like myself again, for better or for worse.

I am consumed with doubts. When do you know when it is time to admit you are in over your head? Can I really handle being in school and being a Mom? What if I just can’t be everything to everyone?

I have always considered myself a strong person. Having PPD made me doubt that for a very long time. Now I am wondering if perhaps our definition of strength is what is killing all of us. Who ever said that being strong means never admitting that something is beyond your capability or control? Perhaps being strong really means coming to terms with the fact that sometimes no matter how hard you work or how hard you try there are limits to what you can do. Maybe strength is the ability to let go.

Next month marks the one year anniversary of my Post Partum Depression/Anxiety/OCD diagnosis. This is a milestone in a couple very distinct ways, but first and foremost it means that my time with Zoloft may be about up. I guess typically you are medicated for year to eighteen months after your diagnosis, depending on how well you are doing. I have been delaying calling my doctor for an appointment because I just don’t want to deal with it.

Deal with what? Any of it.  Deal with the possibility that I am not well enough mentally to come off my medication. Deal with the possibility that I am. Why is this troublesome? Because in either case some change is going to occur and I am not sure how I am going to deal with it.

True confession time. I did something really stupid two weeks ago.  I purposely didn’t take my Zoloft before I went to bed. Just to see what would happen. I felt great the next morning until Dr. Google told me that the halflife for Zoloft was about 24 hours. Around 3pm I got a searing headache. Then I felt nauseous and dizzy. I made it through about an hour of that before I took Zoloft again and still felt off for the next couple of days.

I don’t like feeling like a slave to this pill, but I have to face the fact that going cold turkey is just not going to be possible. I had withdrawal symptoms after less than 24 hours. Just writing the world withdrawal makes me shake my head and sigh. I don’t like the idea of anything having power over me like that.

My PPD anniversary is also forcing me to confront another glaring truth. I have changed and I will never be who I was before PPD again. Some days the knowledge of this makes me feel so bogged down and sad. I don’t know if who I am now is better or worse than who I was before. The emotional compass I had before seems to have lost its true North and I can feel the little arrow spinning and spinning around in my head looking for it.

I am tired of feeling unsure about my purpose. I am not the kind of person that climbs a mountain and then reminisces fondly about the journey to get there. I am the person who grumbles all the way up to the top, dragging my feet and questioning my reasoning for doing it, then is startled when the trail has ended because I have spent too much time looking at my feet.

In that extremely contrived metaphor, I guess the mountain is my whole life and the trail is the path I am taking now. Of course, when I reach the top I will have a few moments to look back on the journey and then I will die. Will I spend my whole life shuffling my feet, grumbling and questioning my purpose until suddenly the trail runs out beneath me?

A year ago I would’ve been quick to answer, “NO!” Now? Ugh.

Thanks to reader Sarah for reminding me to post a breast update. I forgot that some people might be reading this who don’t know me in real life and have no idea that I have had my mammo results for about a week now. Brace yourself for a long and involved update.

Back when I was trying to get pregnant I joined this message board for other women who were trying to conceive. Some of them had diagnosed fertility issues, like me, or had experienced multiple losses, like me. We would all wait in breathless anticipation for the milestones that would guarantee a viable pregnancy.

In fact, some of us had gotten so good at anticipating disappointment that we were able to pre-judge the outcome of the the viability ultrasound based simply on the demeanor of the technician who was performing it. Chatty and happy with the ultrasound screen turned towards you = extremely good sign. Quietly concentrating with the ultrasound screen turned quickly away = impending doom.

While I was waiting for my mammo/ultrasound in the little dressing room in my underwear and a hospital gown, I couldn’t help but reminisce about those earlier times when I had done the exact same thing six years prior (albeit for different reasons). For most people, once the little 2nd line shows up on the pregnancy test it is time to start shopping for maternity clothes. For me, there was no shopping for maternity clothes or even admitting pregnancy until the heartbeat of the baby was visible on the ultrasound.

I would mentally prepare myself for disappointment while waiting to be called. While the tech was performing the ultrasound, every little nuance of her behavior was catalogued and mentally reviewed so that when the results were given to me by my OB/GYN I was rarely caught by surprise.

This time was no exception. I watched the tech’s face with intense, armpit-sweating concentration.  Here are the results:

At first the exam began quietly = not good.

Next, she asked me to show her where the lump was again = ?.

She found the lump with her fingers and said “Ah, yes, I feel that.” = not good.

She kept the screen turned towards me = good.

Started chatting with me as she was doing some measurements on the screen = very good.

Told me I had “very dense breast tissue” = ?????

Came back from a consult with the radiologist and told me to go home and wait 3-5 days for my results = good

When the tech had first led me back to her room, there was a woman sitting in a tiny sitting area just off of the corridor. She was tapping her foot nervously but gave me a smile as I shuffled past almost as if to say, “We are in this together, my friend.”I smiled back nervously, glad for the reminder of communion with another women for all of these things we women share but rarely discuss.

As I was putting my clothes on after my exam the door to the tiny room opened and I caught the tail end of a conversation from within. An official looking woman in a white coat was standing in the doorway and the woman who had smiled at me previously was sitting in the chair, this time gripping her purse in her lap.

“Tomorrow is my day off so I won’t be the doctor performing the biopsy. I just want to say good luck. Take as much time as you need in here.” With a quick pat to the seated woman’s shoulder the doctor left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

doctor touching you in any way= not good

Walking out to the car that day, I remembered years ago leaving the doctor’s office after being told that I was about to miscarry for the first time. The day was absolutely beautiful and I watched people milling about the parking lot just doing ordinary things. For some reason, even though I was dying a thousand deaths inside, the world had not ceased to stop turning for everyone else. I was surprised to see that the howl of agony that was building inside me was not shared by anyone else. How could so much pain be contained so neatly and completely within me when it felt at any moment I could supernova then collapse inside myself with the grief of it?

So Sarah, to answer your thoughtful question, I am healthy and doing well. I am so grateful for that. I am almost ashamed, however, that I am okay. Because somewhere out there is a woman who probably isn’t.

Those who know me best are probably thinking, “Sometimes?” in their puny, shriveled up little brains. But for the uninitiated, this may be a startling revelation (ala Jimmy Hoffa’s final resting place). Yes, people on anti-depressants can be un-happy.

I didn’t know this until I started taking them. What I imagined would happen when I started popping Zoloft for PPD is that all of a sudden there would be a sparkling, brand new Cate.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed with love for this world that I feel as though I am going to shatter into billions of shards of Cate that fly through space right into the sun. For example, driving home from school Thursday evening I came over the glorious foothills into my town and the sun was just beginning to set behind some clouds. The rays of the sun had changed the clouds to a color that can only be described as blue-purpely-gray with orange and yellow rays piercing through.

Or singing along to a Dispatch song while driving home from an afternoon at the park:

I desperately want to love and accept all my fellow human beings.  We are all amazing creatures. And most of us are just trying to be good people and live happy lives.

There are strings to this dark balloon inside me that I just cannot cut. Something deep within me wants to be crotchety and bitter. I could probably take a whole bottle of Zoloft and still feel this way. Almost like a part of me is afraid to let go and be happy.

Why is this? Things are rarely peaceful within me. I want so desperately to be free from the burden of judgment.

Ah, but when the rays of the sun poke through the clouds I feel as though I am suffused with light from within. These moments give me hope that one day I will be free from the burden of constantly judging myself against other people and always finding myself lacking.

Until then, I will keep on dispelling the myth that people on anti-depressants are never un-happy. One bitter epithet tossed in the direction of an old man cutting me off on the freeway at a time.

I am the youngest patient in the waiting room by probably 30 years. I guess that is what you get when you live in a town with one of the largest Active Adult communities in Northern California and the Dr. you are seeing has an office right across the street. I was a little suspicious about this being the case when the appointment scheduler reminded me to bring ALL my prescriptions in with me, in their original bottles for the Dr. to see.

He was very thorough when he took my history. Surprisingly, tears welled up in my eyes when we got to the whole Post Partum Depression stuff. His eyes widened a bit when I mentioned the OCD and Anxiety part…I guess obsessive thoughts about death aren’t as appetizing as a pretty, melancholy mother a la Sylvia Plath (without the sticking your head in the oven and turning it on part).

He asked if I had experienced the OCD and anxiety prior to having PPD. I wanted to reassure him that I was, in fact, not completely bonkers and at the same time was a little irritated that he even asked. He asked if I was feeling better and I awkwardly described that things have indeed been better, although the thoughts of death have come back slightly since I found that pesky lump in my left breast.

Its been there for about three months. Just chillin’ in old Lefty. Not getting bigger, but not going away. I figured I would give Lumpy time to go away before I completely went bat shit crazy and freaked the fuck out. He didn’t, and I haven’t yet. (Don’t ask me why Lumpy is a he and not a she)

So, in answer to your question, Dr., yes I have gotten better. Because finding a lump in my breast 9 months ago would’ve been heroin-binge, staying awake for three days, robbing a liquor store, and jumping off a bridge worthy. Right now its just a gallon of ice cream and a pitcher of margaritas worthy.

That is progress, I think.

To be continued until after my Mammogram June 9th.

Once, when I was probably in the 4th grade and at about 9pm on a weeknight, I called 911. See, I had gotten out of my bath and discovered that I was all alone in the house. At that time we lived on 5 acres out in the middle of nowhere so when I say I was alone I was really alone. My mother had been with me in the house but sometime while I was gone she had disappeared.

It was a windy evening and I remember hoping that the wind would carry my voice with it to find her and bring her back to me. “Mom? Mom, where are you,” I called into the darkness. She didn’t answer.

I started to panic. From a young age I was afraid of someone breaking into my house and hurting me or my family. That night I kept seeing a scary man pushing down the front door and stealing my Mom away from me. I was sobbing when I called 911, certain that something must have happened to her to take her to a place where she couldn’t hear me calling out for her.

The 911 operator had me look for her purse first. It was still there, which meant she hadn’t run down to the store for something. Yup, car was there too. “Honey, don’t cry. I am sure your Mama is fine,” she said. “I am sending a sheriff to your house right now. We will find her.” By this time about 30 minutes had passed since I had discovered her missing.

The phone I was using was an old rotary in my dad’s office. From the open office door I could hear the front door close quietly and I knew without looking that it was my mom returning from wherever she had been. “She is back,” I said to the 911 operator as quietly as I could. I am sure the relief in my voice was palpable and the operator’s voice was sympathetic when she responded, “That is wonderful, honey. I will let the sherriff know that he isn’t needed this time. Take care.”

Slowly I came out of the office to see my mother standing just outside the door.

“Who were you talking to,” she demanded.

Afraid, voice quavering I responded, “A friend.”

“Must not be a very good friend if she made you cry.” Damn.

“Yeah. Well I am going to bed.” I knew that the longer I prolonged the conversation the bigger chance there was that my extremely perceptive mother would figure out what had happened. I wanted to tell her I was scared when I couldn’t find her.  I didn’t.

Now that I am a Mom I understand. She was probably sitting out in her garden. The warm, soft breeze, earthy smells, and croaking frogs were her only companions. For a few stolen moments her thoughts and feelings were hers and hers alone.  Reality came crashing in way too soon, I imagine. She sat there, listening to me call, knowing I was safe and wondering how long she could make her moment of freedom last. Her mistake that night was that she lingered too long.

There are times during the day when I think motherhood is going to swallow me whole. Like nothing of mine is or ever will be sacred anymore or when it is I will be too old and dried up to appreciate it. Invariably, responsibility always intrudes in the form of the baby waking up from her nap and my son banging on the bathroom door when I have the audacity to lock it. There is never any silence here without the promise of the other shoe dropping soon.

Sometimes I steal away, daring not to tell the kids where I am going. I race down the hallway, trying to make my time alone last as long as possible. I count the precious heartbeats. I breathe. Inevitably I hear the pitter patter of little feet running and a little voice calls out, “Mama? Mama? Ma-MA!”

Damn, only 30 beats that time. I let it linger as long as I can stand to, but always remember how it felt that warm summer night to call out to my Mom and have no answer. “In here,” I sigh.

When he finds me he always says the same thing. “There you are Mama! I was LOOKING for you!”

Me too, son. Me too.