anxiety, parenting

First Time, Again

Filling out FAFSA forms by night, chasing children at the bus stop by day

All in a day’s work for the parent of wide-ranging offspring

In the dark of a living room where the TV has just been turned off

In the glaring sunlight where the diesel fumes roil

Anxiety can spring up anywhere.

When worrying about dotting all the i’s and filling all the coffers for this teen

Awakens ancient fears and failures in your own teen psyche

When bedtimes and days off and firm first grade routines

Rekindle similar sibling struggles

Each struggle distinct and yet one in the same

One span of the time space continuum that stretches and loops back upon itself

You have been here; You have done that

It is now difficult in new ways.

anxiety, Living, motherhood, Survival

Much Ado About Nothing

I’ve had one full-fledged panic attack. With all the anxiety over all these years, one full-fledged horrible panic attack. That’s pretty amazing and pretty lucky. The lid-about-to-boil-over effect is one of my body’s favorite go-tos. Lately, it’s switched over to heart palpitations when my mind starts racing. The other night as I lay in bed thinking of all I wanted to accomplish, my heart ticked up.

See, I was faced with two whole days by myself.

Well, sort of. The kids, on school vacation, were leaving partway through Wednesday and returning partway through Friday for a sleepover at their grandparents’. My husband was working, but we’d have the evenings together.

But as I lay in bed the night before this whole evolution started, I felt incredibly disjointed. I’d be waking with the kids the next day and making sure they had all the underwear and rain jackets and stuffed animals they’d need for Grammie’s. Starting the day as mom, and then transitioning to . . . what? A quasi-homemaker washing the laundry of my own that I haven’t had a chance to wash, but would like to wear since I’ll be my own person for a day or so? Run the errands I didn’t get to yesterday because I can do them in half the time kid-free. Or switch straight to sloth because I can sit on the couch and watch a movie uninterrupted in the middle of the day? The pull of doing all the things – and needing to do some of the things – versus the things I wanted to do for my soul’s survival were ramping me up. Or, more accurately, the fact that I was going to run out of time before I ran out of things to do – and my people came home.

When my baby – at the time – started kindergarten, I found myself floundering as I tried to fit indulgent baths and writing time and house projects in the six hours of each school day. I actually restarted therapy because I was so lost. After years of never being alone, I thought I couldn’t wait until I finally was. And I was right. But, as any mom of a certain number of years will tell you, whether you mean to or not, so much of yourself becomes the mom-self that when there suddenly is a void – be it from kindergarten or college – you unexpectedly find yourself flailing. So the switch of me-time flipped from famine to feast – and it still wasn’t enough. I found myself dreading the return-time of the bus – because I hadn’t done enough, been alone long enough. And I hadn’t even decided what I was going to do for work now that all my kiddos were in school. My therapist told me I wasn’t ready to go to work; that I needed to unwind a bit more before I contemplated what was next.

And then I got pregnant. [Insert bitter ironic laugh here]

Next month that baby will be three. We’re contemplating sending her to preschool next year so I find myself facing the same quandries of what to do with my ‘free’ time as I did three and a half years ago. But I’m starting a little early this time. My eldest is old enough and owns a phone now so for a few hours a week I put her in charge of her sisters and sneak away to write, think. I can already feel that I have much work to do on myself to prep for the actual work. Plus, even on those days it’s me and the baby while the others are at school, I still dread the return of the bus.

These two days are a microcosm of that feeling; what elicited that heart-pounding panic in the dim of my room the other night. I’m not back to square one. I’m working on such a backlog, such a deficit of self-care in the simplest sense of the word – like silence to think – that the return of my people, the resumption of the needs, demands, to-dos, freaks me the %*$# out. Not because I don’t love them. Not because I hate my life. Not because I could/should keep them away so I can do all my things. It’s unrealistic for me to think I could possibly catch up on all I’ve been wanting to do in one day to myself. But I think my ‘fight or flight’ is afraid I’ll never get any time to myself again.

So I lie in bed and run through every possible permutation of what I could do with my time, petrified that I won’t get it right and regret squandering my precious time to myself.

Obsessive, anxiety-inducing behavior. Not totally rational, though rationalizing every move, of course.

But this day and a half have produced some wins.

I got a haircut. I hand-washed those long-since buried bits of clothing. I scheduled two posts. I drank a latte and ate a muffin bigger than my head. I drank wine with my husband, enjoyed a new recipe with him without the kids turning their noses up, and watched a movie without turning the volume down. I reveled in lyrical literature. And stared into space a bit while my mind wandered.

There’s always the panic – or possibility of. There’s always something that could be done. There’s always doubt. But there are the good things, too. Here’s to looking in the middle distance enough – neither too closely nor unseeingly – to recognize them.

anxiety, Living, Poetry, Survival

Mind Over Water

Treading water only lasts so long

At some point,
the pull of the boat or dock or shore
becomes too much

The edge of exhaustion creeps up
The doubt of how much longer the legs and arms can cycle,

When will the muscles or lungs give out?

The hand must be able to reach out –

To grasp the solid surface
To heave the dead weight up and out of the abyss.

Unless you decide to float

To rest your head in line with the water,
Arch your back toward the sky
Let your hands and feet sway like seaweed

Rest and freedom come with this release
But also require relinquish of control:

The moment your ears slip below the surface,
Deadening the sound of the world above,
Open only to the gentle sloshing below

The origin of your breath so close to submersion
Your lungs expanding above and below the water
Your bottom threatening to pull it all under.

Possible panic in action and inaction
All at the thin line where the water meets the air

iStock

anxiety, Depression, Living, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Survival

Holiday Hangover

Is it Tuesday already?

It came as quite the shock this morning when I had to wake up and rouse myself and kids to face another school day. The holiday weekend seemed much longer than three days, as if we’d all already slipped into summer mode.

The long weekend was some weird sort of stasis. It was neither too long nor too short; not stupendous nor horrible. It was good. In the midst of PMS and prepping for my two-year-old’s birthday party, I managed to not lose my mind and then relax a bit and enjoy the rest of my weekend.

Yet, even though I cleared out a wood pile that had been lingering in the yard and set up my compost area; even though I cleared a garden bed and planted two long-waiting potted plants; even though I enjoyed laughing with my husband and girls as we ate our first outdoor ice cream of the season – my thoughts turned last eve to how it all may not have been real.

The fact that I survived and thrived may have been a fluke. The fact that I managed to not only be productive, but enjoy it; that I could not only enjoy my children, but feel joy with them; the fact that I wasn’t overly irritable, low, or unmotivated – I couldn’t just be in these wonderful feelings.

As I looked to a return to routine, I wondered whether I’d fail on my own. Without the buffer of helpers in the house, would I be overwhelmed with the task of caring for my little one? Would I feel trapped without the option of another set of hands if I had to tend to a household task or take a moment for myself? Would my mood plummet without the excitement of a holiday weekend and the drudgery of the everyday?

It is said that comparison is the thief of joy. Depression is as well. It’s also said depression is a liar. It is. It is telling me lies about how I may fail. And anxiety is helping spool out its prophecies far into the future.

I may have reached a point where therapies and supplements are finally coming together for my success. But I cannot trust that. If I do, the bottom of what I wish for so vehemently may fall out from underneath me. I may have just had a pretty great weekend. But even that, I can’t enjoy. Because I figure my balance is due and I must pay up at some point.

iSpot.tv

I look forward to celebrating the holiday where the right treatment and my own ability to sit in and take a moment for what it is converge; where no thing is the thief of my joy. That will be a true celebration.

anxiety, Living

New Year’s Anxiety

I don’t like New Year’s. There I said it. Bah humbug on me.

I can’t quite put my finger on it. There are many reasons, actually; perhaps that’s why I can’t choose just one.

It could be because, for years, it signaled the end of vacation. One day left to recover from a whole week’s worth of revelry, never mind one night of staying up late. But also, the start of a new cycle of anxiety. First, back to school as a student after no routine, no work, no peer pressure. Then, back to school as a teacher after no lessons to plan, papers to correct, or kids to sass me and throw my class off course.

I never even knew exactly what I dreaded. And I guess that was precisely the point. The unknown. I was out of my groove and didn’t know what to expect upon jumping back into it. That was what terrified me.

And then I had kids. Little babies at home who depended on me and only me when Daddy went back to work after the holidays. Where I’d been easy breezy and in control with him home, the thought of doing the same things without him under the same roof made my muscles clench. Not because I couldn’t or hadn’t before or wouldn’t now, but because of the unknown. What if something happened I couldn’t handle?

On December 31^st, I shovel enough calories to counteract the headache-inducing powers of the bubbly I’m sipping and learn just how out-of-touch I am and how sad the state of popular music is by the broadcast performances. I eat and sip and flip channels to force myself awake till the magic hour when all I’d like to do is curl up and go to sleep. And for all that build-up, all that empty effort, all that’s left after a sweet kiss with my hubby – is a void.

Outside my house, barely lit by the moon. Lack of light fits the theme. Taken December 30.

The absence of a year past, the new one not yet started. The hole where merry holidays once were. A cold, dark, silent winter stretching before me. Exhaustion. Let-down. The unknown.

To say I ponder the absolute unknow-ability of an entire upcoming year in one night would be false. At least not consciously. But perhaps that’s part of why I hate New Years. Each year, with December 31^st, I’ve closed an expected chapter in that point of my life. I’ve made it through the holidays, with all the tradition and routine that comes with. I’ve made it to the end of the calendar year. Even if I’ve not completed all the to-dos, I can rip that page out of my proverbial planner because that time has passed.

To what? Is the question.

To a person with anxiety, a new beginning, a new chapter is not a fresh start. It is a worrisome reworking of the same fears and uncertainties that plague her at the outset of any unfamiliar venture.

When these same feelings return at the end of each holiday break, I wonder if I’ve ever grown up or grown past the fears I had as younger versions of myself. I haven’t taught for ten years – why should I still fear returning to work!? Well, I do and I don’t. A nightmare classroom doesn’t await me. But as one of the highest stress times of my life, that scenario is my psyche’s go-to when it fantasizes fear. And in that all too familiar low after the holidays, it’s easy to build the set for the familiar script.

Now, both consciously and subconsciously, I get to ponder what I want from this portion of my life. I get to question my worth as a mother, why naptime may be the favorite part of my day, why I don’t get down on the floor and play blocks anymore. Why I swear, why I say things I judge fictional mothers for saying, things that make me sure I’m killing their spirit but utter anyway. I get to think about how much I want to write, and what, and how I don’t have time for that. I get to choose how to mete out my volunteer time and what I feel I have to do, not what makes my soul sing because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I get to think about how the days fly but are often filled with crap.

This has been a New Year’s tradition for so long, it’s hard to separate out what is holiday ennui and true anxiety. I’m beginning to think the anxiety is the one sure thing that isn’t going to change from year to year.

anxiety, motherhood, Survival

Grocery Delivery: Soup to Nuts

I stood in the bread aisle of the regional chain grocery store and my head spun. White bread. I just needed a loaf of white bread. One somewhere left of high fructose and right of nutty wonder so my kids would eat it. The options stretched away from me ad infinitum and I felt myself being pulled down a slippery chute lined with smooth plastic bags striped in red and yellow. The baby stared up at me from the cart. I knew my window of her compliance wouldn’t last forever. Nor would my will to survive. Yet I was struck inert. I didn’t want to be here anymore, in this bright, overwhelming environment; neither did I have the energy to reduce this bread conundrum down to digestible size.

And this was a quick trip to the grocery store.

http://capl.washjeff.edu/

I’ve written before about well-meaning old ladies at the grocery store; running people down in those infernal race car carriages – grocery store annoyance has been done. One would think an overabundance of choices and the money to buy them, within reason, would be a fabulous experience. But buying groceries is an emotional burden.

When my third baby was still a baby, maybe before I even realized I had postpartum depression and really needed it, I started ordering groceries through a delivery service. It may have had something to do with my physical limitations following her birth, but it saved me mental anguish as well. Have you ever taken three children to the grocery store? Even if you haven’t, just stop a moment and imagine.

The log-in to my account was serenity.

Having a chipper delivery person walk bags of groceries right through my kitchen door while the children ran and hid in the other room? Priceless. Hell, I’d even take a cranky delivery person. I remember ordering a sippy cup for my toddler for delivery in those early days. Order a non-grocery item from the grocery store? At that exorbitant price? Oh, you’ll bring it to my door? Okay!

Those days, it was all about survival. When the older two went off to school and the baby was more manageable, I ventured back into the arena, but pregnancy and infancy number four retired me once again. And this is the baby in the cart now.

For an anxious person with too much on her plate, walking through a mine field of choices is almost too much. Locating ingredients for a recipe, weighing options within ingredients, prices, health concerns. Now multiply that by five other family members. Multiply that by three meals a day, seven days a week. Compound that with the dread of having to come back for forgotten ingredients. Stick a baby in the cart. Or three free-range children with sticky fingers, no concept of economics, and food ideas of their own.

There are downsides to delivery as well.

Delivery fees, of course. However, new customers get coupons for free or reduced delivery for several months. There is also a flat fee for delivery for a year, which is a tough pill to swallow initially, but actually more cost effective overall.

That obsessive behavior in aisle two? Must be done at home, on-line and in a flurry of cookbook pages. Thought of each meal must be made by midnight on Tuesday night so your family can eat for the next week. And if you forget something – you might have to go to the store in person anyway! GASP!

There are some ingredients you just can’t get. When my husband started moving toward a plant-based diet, I couldn’t get nutritional yeast from the site I use. Guess that doesn’t fly off the warehouse shelves in these parts. But that could happen in any brick and mortar, too.

Overall, grocery delivery saves a piece of my sanity that might otherwise shear off and shatter on the floor of the bread aisle. And to me, the price of delivery is worth all the serenity it buys.

anxiety, childbirth, Maternal Health Month, May is Mental Health Month, motherhood, postpartum depression, pregnancy

Locked On

They put the baby lo-jack on the umbilical stump.

If I had to choose one phrase illustrating how relaxed my most recent and hopefully last tour of a maternity ward was, that would be it.

It may not seem like much, but to me, it’s a huge deal.

Over six years ago, it was an errant lo-jack slipping off my baby’s slender little ankle that precipitated my fall into postpartum mood and anxiety disorders (PPMAD). Her squirming and that slipping gave my irrational mind the fuel it needed to doubt whether I was taking home the right baby.

I haven’t had that fear this time or denial or doubt, and the nurse only mentioned that additional bit of information as we headed for the elevator, but it capped our visit in the best way possible. As the elevator doors slid shut, I looked at my husband with relief and said if she’d told us nothing else, our tour was worth that one statement.

It’s an odd sensation that washes over one as she walks the floors she knows she’ll next be pacing in pain. To see the calm, the fresh beds, the quiet daylight streaming in the windows. I know the harsh fluorescent lights will glare, the linens no longer be fresh, the quiet replaced with beeps and moans and directions. It’s enough to put anyone on edge – either a woman trying to anticipate something she’s never experienced before or one who knows all too well what to expect.

This fourth tour I’ve taken was the least anxious I’ve ever been, however. It was due in large part to the relaxed community atmosphere of this particular ward. I think I also have finally realized that how ever much I dread labor, there is no way around it, only through it.

The nurse was very low-key, gentle and calming, as she shared information and answered our questions. When I asked about labor positions and modifications due to a weak pubic bone, she explained how the end of the bed came off, a yoga ball could be used, a kneel or squat bar . . . she even said she’d make a note in my chart to request an automatic PT consult after the birth. I wanted to hug and kiss her.

And then she made my day even better when she shared the positioning of the lo-jack. I hadn’t mentioned anything about my postpartum experience last time. I hadn’t mentioned that a tiny locator device could be such a trigger. I hadn’t expressed any concerns about security. Maybe it was just that we were approaching the locked door of the ward as the tour ended, but she told us hospitals have changed procedure to attach the device on the umbilical stump because it can’t fall off.

With that one bit of information, that I hadn’t known I needed to hear or was even a possibility, my mind opened up. The iron grip of anxiety I’d unwittingly been living with lifted – if only enough to let me breathe. To see that this labor and delivery and recovery will be different. There will be no fear concerning the baby.

I am hers, she is mine. Everything will happen as it should.

flickrhivemind

anxiety, Identity, Mental Health, motherhood, parenting, Survival

Without Wee, Within

I am very much inside myself lately.

Thinking about what needs to get done,
Worrying about pain and exhaustion,
Waiting for my next chance to lie down

I weigh this alone time
for its relaxation
vs
opportunity to accomplish,
both sans wee ones

Motherhood has brought me to this state
and yet, it’s all in my head.

I struggle and strive to survive
for them
yet yearn for me

powercube.net

anxiety, Children, motherhood, Uncategorized

Bonus Day

Yesterday, the first day of spring, my children had a snow day from school.

No, the irony does not escape me. Yes, I realize our region of New England does not preclude such occurrences (one blizzard happening several years ago on April Fools’ Day – apparently Mother Nature has a healthy sense of humor every year). Alas, the snow totals fell drastically short of the predictions and the sun shone and snow melted by what would have been dismissal time.

As I lay in bed Sunday night, after receiving the robo-call from the school department, I was more relaxed than usual knowing I wouldn’t have to rush the kids out the door the next morning. I did say to my husband, however, that I wasn’t looking forward to a whole day inside with the kids. He agreed with me that my comment didn’t exactly sound nice, but I’ve gotten used to some quiet school days as a respite. Plus, I’ve been having iPad battles with the oldest (see previous post), all the girls have been having battles with each other, and I just end up yelling.

It made me laugh, then, when a friend called in the morning, saying I had a ‘bonus day’ with the kids. None of us were dressed. I’d been on my phone all day. They’d bounced between their rooms, the Wii, iPad, and computers. Her use of ‘bonus’ implied unexpected and appreciated quality time. I think I was on vegetation/survival mode.

I finally got my butt in gear enough to strip all three of their beds, a task – believe it or not – they’d been bugging me to do. My very particular middle wanted tightly tucked sheets. My little wanted new blankets. The oldest sleeps with such reckless abandon her bed was just torn to shreds. I figured with them home, perhaps they could help me. I also hoped I’d find my middle’s long-lost library book shoved under her mattress. Ha ha!

When I pulled the bunk beds out to sweep for books and animals lost to the abyss, I made the mistake of leaving the room for a bit afterwards. We all know what empty spaces and crevices and unexpected configurations are for, right? For me, it meant extra room to tuck in those pesky sheets on the far side of the bunks. For them, it meant fill with stuffed animals and baskets and blankets!

'Sure I know what would solve this problem. More floor space.'

Or personal space . . .

Suddenly, awash in piles of bedding flooding the hallway, random crap scattered everywhere on the bedroom floors, another step added to an already unwelcome task – I was transported back to days when all three were pre-school. When it was one step forward, two steps back. When it was literally shoveling shit against the tide. When keeping them happy and/or entertained and a house with the least order of squalor attainable and some semblance of sanity was a nearly impossible balance.

And I was scared.

I was reminded what life was like with a house full of littles. As the sole caregiver, comforter, cheerleader, coach, craft guru . . . I am well aware that I need not be all these things at all – and certainly not all at once. But my anxiety treats any deviation from a perceived plan or expectation as a misstep, a notch closer to irritation, panic, anger. It makes me hide in a corner of my couch, balled up in my pjs, content to try nothing rather than get frustrated with things not going according to plan. Or overwhelmed by the enormity of a whole day with all these people – when it should be about the moments.

Even when summer vacation starts and I have not only the new infant, but the older three, it will not be the same as those insular days when they bounced off the walls like ping-pong balls. They are not all toddler and preschool age. They can have some independent and alone time. Even while I tend to the baby, they can play on their own or swing outside. Hopefully they will understand that I won’t be able to – nor should I – entertain them all day. Hopefully I’ll remember that, too.

And to take each moment one at a time for what it’s worth – not worrying the whole day away before it’s even started.

angst, anxiety, Faith, medication, Mental Illness, motherhood, postpartum depression, Recovery, Spirituality, Survival

Not Mutually Exclusive

There is no need to shame a control-freak, God-fearing Catholic. There is no need to add to the torment she has already inflicted upon herself.

Yet, that is exactly what I found a quote from Marianne Williamson doing last night.

It has been six years since I started medication therapy for my postpartum depression and anxiety. Six years of low dose, slight increases, attempts at doing without – and it still serves me. And yet, a small part of me still questions my need for it.

Why isn’t this glorious life God has given me enough reason to rejoice? Why aren’t the three gorgeous gifts of heaven that are my children a daily cause for celebration? Am I not grateful enough for God’s blessings that I need an antidepressant to merely function, never mind embrace this life?

Catholic guilt is a strong force, but not one I blame for these thoughts. I confessed to my pastor that I feared my mental struggles were tied to a crisis of faith. I worried that turning to secular talk therapy turned me away from God’s gentle care. I fretted that medication was a crutch that kept me from leaning on God’s healing power.

My pastor told me that spirituality is an important piece of one’s healing, but not to the exclusion of other beneficial treatments. My trained counselor was helping me process my feelings without judgment and not keeping me from turning to God for quiet reflection. And if prescription medicine existed in God’s world, created by one of the people He put on this earth, why would I not avail myself of this beneficial tool? Most importantly, my pastor told me that God did not cause this suffering to befall me. It was not a punishment for some wrongdoing or turning away on my part. If I gleaned something good from the experience, perhaps God allowed the growth in me, but He certainly did not beset me with these troubles.

As always, the rational mind, while fully aware of such life-affirming and freeing arguments, still can fall prey to its irrational side. I thought I’d have no problem reading the social media post that started a furious online debate about postpartum mood and anxiety disorders. Yet, as I did, I felt some of the angst I’d been slowly putting to bed for the last six years come creeping back up.

marianne williamson

This statement plays to all the fears of the postpartum mother. The guilt of needing medication to enjoy the miracle of life and her role in it. The fact that she can’t come to terms with ‘normal’ changes in her body chemistry. That she has somehow failed by not meditating enough; praying enough; eating healthily enough. And then to judge her own success by the love of others – something over which she has no control. Or does that speak to the love she fails to feel for her child?

I am only living a modicum of successful motherhood because of the very real diagnosis of postpartum depression and its treatment with medicinal drugs. And yet, this statement still elicits a shameful, guilty feeling in me. After SIX successful years of such treatment.

What of the mother just beginning to wonder if she is struggling postpartum? What thoughts and feelings assault her when she reads this? She is already doubting herself and ‘succumbing’ to the crutches of medicine. She already thinks she’s failed. And now to tell her it’s all a ploy by ‘Big Pharma’?

‘Big Pharma’ is not issuing me any big paycheck. I’ve written thirteen different posts about the decision, pros/cons of taking psychotropic drugs, most notably Happy Pills. When the news initially hit that new recommendations called for all pregnant women and mothers to be screened for depression this was my reaction:

I never dreamed news that was so obvious to me would be seen as a negative by others.

I’m going to imagine that Williamson’s comments were born of the assumption that those standing to make a financial gain would encourage a mindless mass to pop a pill and forget their troubles – and a meaningful life. I do not encourage anyone to medicate their troubles away without also doing the hard personal work of introspection and spiritual growth. Meds are not successful in a vacuum. They must be supported by close medical monitoring, therapies, and lifestyle changes.

Choosing medication is not a mutually exclusive option over meditation, prayer, and love.

I fear that the way Williamson’s stance has been presented, the ensuing social media storm will portray just that. God-fearing people do not fear medical marvels. God-fearing people do not judge others for decisions they make concerning their own care. God-fearing people would never want someone to suffer needlessly while thinking it was a fatal flaw of character.

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Category Archives: anxiety