I recently had some say to me, "I don't know how you do it all," and it took all of me not to break down and cry at them that I can't and don't "do it all." No one can and no one should. At the very least, not all at once.
Facebook has the ability to make us all look far more stable and successful than the mercurial beings that we are in reality. Everyone is drawn to paint themselves as the perfect career woman or homemaker, mother, popular chick, or all of the above; and when we don't conform to that, we're told to stop complaining or told that we're exaggerating.
I'm no exception to this. I'm a procrastinator, tend to be lazy, my house is perpetual cycle of rooms that swing between a disaster and marginally tidy, have a "to-do" list as long as my arm, sometimes I can't stand my kids even though I love them to bits, and I'm always doubting myself to some degree.
My Facebook doesn't usually show that. I love posting the highlights of my day. I go through my profile at least once a day, and use it to remind myself sometimes that I do have a pretty good life in comparison to what is out there for a lot of the population.
You know what, though? I feel like sharing what really has been going on inside my head and some of my history. It has been eating at me for the past year and I want to get it off of my heart without giving too many details. I have been told by some close to me that I should always be careful what I say and I what I share, but I feel that if this can help someone else then it is worth sharing.
I was always told I was bright, that I could go as far as I wanted academically, that I could be whoever I wanted to be "when I grow up," and that I had "so much potential." To a degree this was all true; I even skipped grade 5. While this was okay academically, socially it was a disaster for me.
I wasn't emotionally equipped to handle the difference between my mental age and physical age, as well as the difference between myself and my classmates in such a small class (8 students). I started to tailspin. I stopped doing homework to try to look more "cool," but my parents were upset by B's, C's, and even a D or two taking up the report card of their previously straight-A daughter. They told me over and over that they knew I could do better. I knew I could have done better, too. And even now as a parent, I do not fault them at all. They knew me. They knew my potential. They just didn't know the internal struggle I was going through that I did not share with anyone until recent years.
In early high school, I started a relationship. I know now that it was not healthy. Being raised Christian, there were aspects of that relationship I couldn't consolidate with how I was being raised, and even then, I was doubting who I was and what I believed. On the outside, I followed the motions of what I thought I was supposed to do, but inside I was falling apart. Little by little, I was being torn apart by the dichotomy and charade of what was expected of me, what I was developing into my own belief system, what I was raised to believe, and who I really was inside. At 16, I understood I was depressed and talked to my doctor. He put me on an antidepressant (Effexor), didn't warn my parents about the "black box warning," and sent out a referral for me to see a psychiatrist.
Two weeks later, on November 5th 2006, I broke. I was 16 years old, and I attempted suicide. I couldn't go through with it, and I told my parents I felt like committing suicide. Because there is history of mental health issues in my extended family, they took me seriously. They asked me what I wanted to do, and I said I wanted to go somewhere safe and that I was scared I would hurt myself. I am forever thankful for them. My parents took me to the hospital. They went through triage with me. They waited in the ER with me until 3AM when the psychiatric nurse did my evaluation. My dad stayed the night in the ER with me to help me feel safe when there wasn't any room in the psychiatric ward until the next morning.
I was a patient in the adult psych ward because there was no room in the adolescent ward. My stay lasted 5 days. I left with more of a different medication (Wellbutrin and Cipralex), another referral, and strict instructions to follow up with either a psychologist or counselor in the meantime. After finally finding a somewhat good counselor and an amazing psychiatrist, I began to get better. I eventually weaned off of my medications and went on a low dose of Prozac for a short time under the supervision of my psychiatrist.
I moved on.
Life changed.
I began to see the world as it was and is.
I became an agnostic and humanist, something I realize I was all along.
I made new friends and had adventures.
I left the guy I was with for 3 years.
I met my future husband.
I married.
I gave birth to two beautiful boys.
After giving birth to Arthur, my second son, I started breastfeeding successfully for the first time. Something started happening that I wasn't familiar with. I started having panic attacks every time I breastfed. Then, I started having flashbacks. I had intrusive thoughts. I had thoughts of throwing my beautiful, deeply wanted and loved son down the stairs. I stood sometimes at his crib, too scared too move, too scared to hold him, and yet too scared to set him down.
I had broken again.
This time was different. I knew this wasn't my fault. I knew who I was and am. I knew it wasn't me. Yes, I was scared, but I knew that I could reach out and that I could get help that I needed.
I got help. I reached out. I told my midwife. She screened me and sent out a referral. I was contacted by the perinatal mental health department. I was reassured: "Tell us everything, even if you are scared to say it. We will not take your child for you having thoughts. You are demonstrating you are a good mother by reaching out and not harming yourself or your child. Tell us everything. What are you thinking? How are you?"
And you know what? I was connected with the help I needed. I saw a psychiatrist who specializes with perinatal mental health. I went back on Prozac and saw a therapist. With the therapist, I worked through the trauma that was causing me to have flashbacks and panic attacks. I hadn't even talked with my previous psychiatrist about the trauma because I didn't understand it at the time. I kept breastfeeding. I've weaned off of the Prozac and am still breastfeeding. And you know what happened?
I moved on.
My life isn't all roses. I still doubt myself. I still have a flashback or two maybe a month. I still get panic attacks once in a while. I have social anxiety. I have generalized anxiety. I had post-partum anxiety and depression. Yes, these are all just names for symptoms, but that's okay. What do those names do? They help me express where and with what I need help and understanding from others.
I joked to my sister once that I rotate my focus between 4 things: my sons, my house, my coursework, and me/my marriage. I can only do one thing at a time. I can only do one thing well at a time. I succeed in one and the others suffer. Then, I move on to the next. I slowly rotate between each of those four things and it somehow looks like I do it all. Right now, today, it's coursework. My sons are in daycare, my house is a disaster at best, and I'm running on empty right now while gaining back some of the weight I lost over Winter. My life is always in some degree of craziness and disorder.
What you all get to see is the bits I get right.
I can't and don't do it all...
And that's okay.
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| My usual, exhausted, non-makeup self. |
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