Just. . . Breathe. . .

I have to keep saying this to myself this week.  See, we sign the papers on our new duplex tomorrow.  Yep.  Ten days before Christmas, and I'm going to be rushing from signing the lease to get to the office Christmas party on time.  I have laundry that needs folding, a kitchen that feels like a disaster (though I'm certain I've spent most of my week cleaning it), and so very much that still needs to be packed.

I've been unable to sleep all week.  I lay down at night, and my mind begins to race with the list of things I need to accomplish tomorrow, and the longer list of things I failed to accomplish today.  When I finally drift off, I spend the entire night locked in a dream where I am trapped somewhere (it's somewhere different every night) and have to spend my dreaming hours trying to figure out how to escape.  I wake exhausted from the effort, and start my day more sleepy than when I went to bed.

Last night, it all began again.  The racing thoughts.  The feeling of being trapped.  The near-panic of trying to do everything.  The stress of moving.  It all came rushing in the moment I laid my head down.

And that's when I gave in.  I took a deep breath, centered myself, and began talking to God.  See, I have this impossible urge to try and deal with everything myself.  And it never works.  I have to admit that I can't do it alone.  So, laying there, in the dark, breathing deeply, I told God everything.  And I asked for help.

For the first night in a week, I slept like a baby.  A dream began with Miles being taken from me - the catalyst for several of my 'trapped' dreams.  But I wouldn't allow myself to be trapped this time.  Instead, I walked straight up to the man who had taken him, sized him up, and knocked him flat with one blow to the face.  I picked up Miles and cuddled him, and slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

I will get through this week.  Even if I have to punch it in the face.

Juggling

I've always been one to balance several activities at once.  In high school, I did Debate, Forensics, Theater, Orchestra, Choir, and Scholar's Bowl.*  All in the same year.  And once I graduated, I continued that lifestyle.  I worked full time, took a full load of college classes, and participated in whatever struck my fancy.  While I was student teaching, I took it easy, and balanced life as a newly-wed with all of the planning, teaching, and homework that goes with student teaching.  Once that was over, I searched until I found the Festival, which immediately consumed every waking hour of my life.  I had always been good at juggling, and Festival was no different.

When I was pregnant, I expected that adding a child to our crazy lives would add another 5-6 balls to the dozen or so I was already juggling - a difficult task, sure, but one that I would master in no time.  I was confident that before long, I would be able to balance Miles with the rest of my life.  To extend the metaphor, I imagined the cheers and applause as I seamlessly continued to juggle, no matter what life threw my way.

And then Miles was born.

Juggling ceased.  I dropped every ball except for Miles, and still, I couldn't keep up.  I could feel the balls pelting me in the head as one by one they came crashing down.  And then PPA decided to toss in a few bowling balls, just for giggles.  I huddled protectively over my baby, tried my best to pick up the pieces, and hid from everything else.

It took over 15 months, and some strong medications, to get rid of the bowling balls.  Since then, I have slowly, slowly, started to pick up the balls, one by one, and begun to juggle yet again.  The balance isn't perfect.  And I drop the ball far more than I once did.  But, I'm juggling.  Slowly, and with much effort and help, but I'm juggling.

And this time, I am cheering myself on.

*Yes, I'm a nerd.

Re-Discovering Me

It's early.  All is quiet.  Everyone is still sleeping soundly.

Except me.

Way back, a million years ago, before Miles was born and my life became a crazy carnival ride, I used to be a morning person.  From a very young age, I remember popping out of bed with the rising of the sun, tiptoeing through the silent hallway, and reveling in the blissful serenity of the morning.  Something about the peace of those hours drew me out of bed, even if I'd had little sleep.

And then Miles was born.  And that pull, that desire to jump out of bed and greet the day, was replaced by an incessant exhaustion.  Life overwhelmed me to the point that all I wanted to do was lay in bed, covers tucked safely under my chin, and sleep.  Given the opportunity, I would have slept for days.  I had lost the desire to get out of bed at all.  When Miles would begin to fuss, I would reluctantly drag my butt out of bed, staring longingly at my pillow, and make myself face the day.

At the time, I didn't even realize what was going on.  I told myself that I was just tired.  That I wasn't getting enough sleep.  I somehow managed to ignore the fact that I could sleep for twelve hours and still not feel refreshed.  I had lost a small part of me, and I didn't even know it.

Yesterday morning - and today, I awoke at 6:30, long before my alarm was set to go off.  I lay there, in the quiet of the morning, and suddenly knew that I could not stay in bed.  I silently got up, and tiptoed down the stairs, to enjoy the solitude of the morning.  I sipped on coffee, and read my book, and felt at peace with the world.

I had forgotten how much I love this.

Lovin' That Feelin'

I'm getting better.

I can tell when I'd rather take Miles to a park than sit at home with him.

I can tell when he starts screaming, and I feel the urge to run to him, instead of away.

I can tell by the excitement I feel when taking him somewhere new, instead of panic.

Sometime after Boot Camp, everything . . . just clicked.  Panic attacks became less and less frequent.  I began to feel happier, more connected to the world, less afraid of what might happen.  And I feel myself falling in love with my son all over again.  Seeing him in a new light, and enjoying things about him that I'm not sure I would have noticed before.

Last weekend, I finally got up the courage to ask Patrick and Stacey if they had noticed a difference.  I was afraid that this change was all in my imagination - things were supposed to get better, so I was pretending they had.  So, I had to ask.

I was pleasantly surprised when they told me that I seem happier.  More myself than I have been.

When I first posted about my PPA, I received a wonderful letter from a family member who had gone through the same thing after the birth of one of her children.  She wrote to tell me I was not alone.  That others had survived it before me.  That depression and anxiety does not define those that struggle with it.  That it is possible to be happy and productive again.

She was right.  And I love her for sharing.

Bad Day

I talk a lot on here about the progress I've made, and the good days I've had.  Because I am relieved that they keep coming.  And I'm optimistic that they are becoming the norm, instead of the exception.  But sometimes, I still have a bad day.

Yesterday was a bad day.  Our weekend was way busier than I had intended, and Miles' schedule got thrown entirely out of whack.  So, when Monday rolled around and it was time for work, Miles was not his normal cheerful self about it.

In fact, he screamed most of the day.  It was miserable.

Many attempts were made to cheer the child up.  Each was met with more and more screaming.  Eventually, I talked a young man who works there to take Miles for a walk around Faire Site so I could think.  As soon as they left the office, I put my face in my hands, and had a quiet little panic attack.  How the hell am I going to handle him all summer long if he has trouble with a couple of days a week?  How am I going to get anything accomplished with a screaming toddler demanding my attention?  If he and I can't handle a low-key Monday, how are we ever going to manage the stress-storm that is the final Friday before we open?

If I hadn't been at work, I would have cried.*

Instead, I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face.  I breathed.  I tugged on my hair, willing myself to think about something - anything - other than the panic rising in my chest.  I sat on the cold (nasty) bathroom floor with my knees pulled up to my chest, using the calm, quiet, safe place to calm down.

And then I flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and exited as though nothing was wrong.  Even now, when everyone knows about my PPA, I still can't admit to people when I'm actually having an attack.  I don't know why.  I just . . . can't.

Hours later, as I sat at the computer at home, in the quiet of the evening, while Patrick and Miles took a walk, I still felt that edge of panic.  All of my triggers, all reasons for panic were gone, and yet, the panic remained, steely and sickening in my chest.

So, when I sat down to write today's post, I wanted to be positive.  I wanted to be the optimistic person you have all seen recently.  But, it's just not in me to lie right now.  I had a bad day.  And that's okay.  As hard as I try, I can never make every day a good one.

Today, I will try again.

*I have this weird thing that I cannot cry in front of people I work with.  I don't know why.  I just physically cannot make myself cry at work.  I wish I could.  It would have been a nice release.

Can't Keep Up!

Too many awesome things have been happening recently, so the updates you have read all week are usually at least a week old by the time you see them.  In an effort to catch up, here is another of my (in)famous lists.  I think I shall title this:

Cool Things That Have Happened This Week:


Saturday: Stacey and I hosted a baby shower for our dear friends Bethany and Shelby (whose mysteriously-named little boy is due in August).  The games were hysterical.

The cake was beautiful and delicious.

And the parents-to-be seemed to enjoy themselves.

All in all, a good day.

Sunday: I slept for an indecent number of hours, then spent hours playing with Miles, before wrapping up with dinner with Paul.  Not a bad day at all, I must say.  Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures worth sharing. :(

Monday: Took the Boy and met Bethany for brunch.  We had a marvelous conversation, and Miles was (for once) perfectly behaved the entire day.  It was glorious.  Even better, he fell asleep when we got home and napped for over three hours.  Then, we went outside to play, and he showed off his belly button:

Tuesday: Playdate at the Children's Farm with several friends and their kiddos.  A beautiful, relaxing trip which was sprinkled with lots of praise for my once again perfectly-behaved son.  I'll admit, I basked in it. 

Yes, that is my very active toddler, waiting quietly and patiently for his friends to arrive. *mommyglow*

Wednesday: After a week of playing around, Miles and I decided it was time to actually do some work.  Miles ran around playing nicely while I worked for almost an hour and a half straight, before he started getting cranky.  When asked what was wrong, he signed, "Food, please," so we ran to Arby's and grabbed some roast beef sandwiches (which he inhaled).  After lunch, he crawled up in my lap, gave me a huge snuggle-hug, and asked for his pacifier.  When I asked if it was naptime, he floored me by responding, "Yesh" and signing 'please'.  I rocked him for two minutes before he passed out.  I once again beamed with the delight of mommy pride. :)

And a bonus list, just for you loyal readers, who love them oh, so much, I'm sure. :)

Good Things I Discovered This Week:

• Something is working.  Whether it's medication, my renewed commitment to taking care of myself, a widening circle of wonderfully supportive friends, or maybe just the onset of an easier stage in Miles' development*, I have actually felt like a good mom a lot this week.  And that feeling has allowed me to remain calm and collected over things that usually throw me into a tailspin.  Hurray for a sense of normalcy.
• I have started to enjoy being around other people's children again.  Since I became pregnant with Miles, this has been a continuing struggle for me.  There are a few kiddos who have managed to endear themselves to me, but for the most part, I have had little interest in any kid except Miles.  This week, I found myself delighting in the antics of strangers' children for the first time in recent memory.
• I can be around babies without having a panic attack.  Even tiny ones.  And I think they're cute.  Which is good, since every freakin' woman I know is having a baby this year.
• Rather than freaking out at the thought of leaving Miles for even a few hours, I have started planning outings without him.  I have a date night with my charming hubby tomorrow, and a girls' night next weekend.  And I'm excited about it.
• And most of all, I've realized that, for the first time in a long time, I am content.  Thanks in no small part to all of you, who have supported me on this journey, and allowed me the room and given me the push I needed to get here.  I am so blessed to have each of you in my life.  Yes, even you, random internet stranger. ;)

*Please, oh please, let this be true!!!

Breakthrough

Yesterday was awful.  Completely and utterly awful.  Like Tuesday was biding her time to strike a day late.  Yeah, that kind of awful.

Miles is still working on getting those canines.  At least one of them is almost completely in.  The other three have all broken the surface, at least, but he won't let me look in his mouth long enough to evaluate past that.  Regardless, the poor kid is still a drooling mess of teething.  And he's still going through that growth spurt, though it appears to be winding down.

Now, we've added seasonal allergies to the mix.  The poor kid is forever rubbing his watery eyes, and snuffling his nose - which is leaking like a faucet all.the.time.  And when he sneezes?  I'm not even going to give you that visual.  Just trust that it's entirely disgusting.

To top it all off, Miles woke up at 5:00 am yesterday morning.  And stayed awake.  He had his 18 month well child check at the doctor.  It was an hour of whiny, cranky, clingy toddler in a tiny room, asking repeatedly to go bye-bye.  He was so upset, the doctor had a hard time making all of the checks she needed to make.  And then, as the final insult, he had to get a shot.  He hasn't carried on that much about a vaccine since his first ones at two months old.  It was dreadful.

Miles fell asleep in the car on the way home, so I opted to pick Patrick up for a quick drive-through lunch.  After a twenty-five minute nap, Miles woke up, cranky, and more tired than before.  The afternoon was no better.  He whined and carried on, screaming if I was not touching him for more than a few seconds.  Eventually, he passed out on my lap, and slept for another 45 minutes.  And woke up cranky.

In short, it was the sort of day that usually throws me into multiple panic attacks, and leaves me crying and shaking in a corner by the time Patrick gets home from work.

Not yesterday.  I was frustrated.  I was exasperated.  But I was calm.  At one point, panic crept in, threatening at the edges, waiting for an opportunity to take over.  And I managed to fight it off.  With a lot of effort and a little bit of time and luck, I banished that panic from my body.

The meds are beginning to work.  Yesterday was proof.

Notes to Self

1) Take your damned pills.  Every.single.night.  Failure to do so will result in multiple, uncontrollable panic attacks at extremely inconvenient times.  Like in the middle of a photo session with your son.  Not fun.

2) If you've forgotten your pills, and have barely recovered from your last, physically painful panic attack, going to a crowded buffet for dinner is a bad idea.  Seriously.  Don't do it.

3) Going to the craft store in the last couple of hours before they close, however, is a good idea.  The smell reminds you of happy things, and helps calm you down.  Also, the prospect of craft projects gives your mind something to focus on.  And so long as everything is on sale, you can even justify a smidge of retail therapy.  Which also helps.

4) Your husband deserves a medal for dealing with all of this, fielding Miles the entire time, and still being in a happy, upbeat mood.  Definitely a medal.  Or a cake.  He may prefer a cake.

Good Day

I had one.  Yesterday.

I woke up, and felt . . . calm.  No hint of the panic that has lurked at the edges of my consciousness for so long.

I kept my cool as I managed to clean house and do laundry, with Miles helping, or playing beside me.

I played with Miles, relishing the joy of simply being present in the moment.

I fought off a panic attack that threatened to ruin my day.  I stepped outside, and took a deep breath, steadying myself, struggling for control.  And I won.

I ate dinner with friends, and enjoyed their company.  Not once did I feel the overwhelming urge to flee from the room that I have felt so often in the past year and a half.

I know that I am not out of the woods, yet.  That there will most certainly be bad days in the future.  For all I know, today could be a return to panic.

But yesterday was good.  And that's a good place to start.

Answers

In the past few days, I've had several people call to offer support, as each one hears about my diagnosis.  They always ask questions.  They always want to talk about it.  And I'm not very good at providing answers.  So, here, in a nutshell, is what has been going on.

After Miles was born, I began having panic attacks.  At first, they were relatively mild, and usually as a reaction to some real possible danger.  I was terrified of taking him anywhere, but staying at home made me restless and anxious.  I was certain that he had stopped breathing, or was too quiet, or would never stop screaming.  That he was sick and I didn't know.  Or that any number of other things were wrong.  I figured it was normal new mom stuff, and would fade away once he got a little bigger.  So, when people asked how I was doing, I told them I was fine.  Stressed, a little overwhelmed, but fine.

Before long, the newborn stage had passed.  Miles could hold his head up on his own, and smiled and cooed.  I could now put him down for minutes at a time to play quietly on the floor.  I had gotten good at taking him places, and did so often.  I accepted the fact that I would make too many trips to the doctor over something that turned out to be nothing.  And yet, the panic attacks continued, and actually got a little worse.  I figured it was the lack of sleep I was getting.  Surely, once I started getting a decent amount of sleep on a regular basis, I would feel better.  So, when people asked how I was doing, I told them I was fine.  Tired, and still a little overwhelmed, but fine.

Eventually, after months of anguish and fighting, Miles finally began sleeping through the night.  After so many months of sleeplessness, I was finally getting eight hours of sleep, almost every night.  And yet, the panic attacks continued, and actually got a little worse.  I figured it was the stress of work combined with the fact that he still didn't nap very well.  In fact, every nap was a struggle that left me exhausted both mentally and physically, leaving me unable to do much besides stare at the wall, enjoying a few moments of peace.  Surely, once his naps got better, when I wasn't fighting him every.single.day, then the panic attacks would stop.  So, when people asked how I was doing, I told them I was fine.  Weary of fighting him, and still overwhelmed, but fine.

And then, he started napping well.  And I got a guaranteed hour (minimum) of time to myself every.single.day.  And I was getting time out of the house by myself, too.  And yet, the panic attacks continued.  And got worse.  Much worse.

One night, about a month ago, I laid in bed, trying to sleep, and yet entirely incapable of doing so.  Panic held me paralyzed in its grip.  My chest was so tight, I could barely get a breath.  Every muscle in my body was tense, preparing for fight or flight.  The force of the panic was tangible, a very real weight on my chest, rendering me incapable of moving even an inch.  I could not even find my voice to call for help.

There was no reason for the panic.  It attacked, from nowhere, and for no reason I can name.  To this day, I cannot tell you what caused that attack to begin.  But, it did, and it was awful.

I laid there for what seemed like hours, though in reality it was probably only a minute or two, searching out any sign of comfort.  From the corner of my eye, I managed to catch a glimpse of the moon, behind a tree.  The curtain had gotten caught, and a tiny sliver of nature shone in.  Its effect on me was immediate.  My muscles began to loosen.  My breathing began to regulate, and the weight began to lift from my chest.  I rolled over, pulling my knees to my chest, and squeezed my pillow tight, sobbing with relief.

The next night, I told Patrick about my panic attacks.  I had finally admitted that what I had faced for almost 18 months was not normal new mom stuff.  It was an illness.  One I had tried to ignore, and had tried to get past, but one that persisted.  I had avoided the diagnosis like the plague, not wanting to be sick.  Not wanting to admit that I was sick.

I have postpartum anxiety.

If you have any other questions about this, please leave them in the comment section below.  I have a really hard time talking about this aloud.  Writing about it, however, is therapeutic.  So, ask away.  And I will try to answer.

Comfort

I started my new medication Friday night.

Saturday, I woke up feeling dizzy, and nauseous, and disconnected.  All expected side effects, but still not very pleasant.  While Patrick and Miles prepared for their day, I made myself a nest on the couch and settled in for a day of television.  Truth be told, I felt pretty awful.  I didn't want to move.  In fact, all I wanted to do was curl up and cry.  As though the panic attacks weren't bad enough, the medications made me feel horrible.  It just wasn't fair.

And then, Miles crawled up on the couch with me.  He sat down against me, and held my hand, stroking my fingernails, and occasionally squeezing my hand.  He stayed there for half an hour, barely moving, just holding my hand quietly.  As though he knew exactly what Mommy needed.

Normal

For eighteen months, normal has been being completely overwhelmed, all the time.

Normal has been always worrying, over everything.

Normal has been feeling like everyone is judging me, all the time.

Normal has been feeling like everyone was right to judge me.

Normal has been panic attacks that have become more and more frequent, and more and more unbearable.

Not anymore.  This afternoon, I finally talked to my doctor about this.  All of those things I thought were a normal part of motherhood?  Are not.  They are the symptoms and the results of Postpartum Anxiety.

I am on my way toward a new normal.  One that does not include panic attacks, or constant insecurity.  But one that does include medications, and a diagnosis I was afraid to get.  Because it means I am not normal.

Regardless, it is my new normal.  And I am tired of hiding it.  Tired of pretending everything is normal.  It's not.  And there is nothing wrong with admitting that.