Human.

It's been two months. Two months. Two months.

Two months that feel like two years.

Two decades.

In two months, I have transformed. I've peeled back the layers. I've felt. I've mourned.

Respectively: into a truer version of myself. Under which I hid. Love, fear, happiness, sadness, relief, pride, strength. My broken self.

We all want to believe that we will not break. On some level we know it is possible and so we cloak those fears in terms like, "I can't imagine" and "god forbid." We don't look at it. At the possibility of our broken selves. What we would do. What we would say.

Yet breaking - the great possibility of it - exists for all of us.

I broke.

And I am okay.

Healing - the great possibility of it - exists for all of us.

No secrets.

I've been putting on a brave face. My "I'm proud of my journey to wellness face." My "I'm not ashamed" face. My "kicking postpartum depression's ass" face.

All of those faces are genuine.

But really, what choice do I have? Sit around feeling sad about all that's transpired? Feel embarrassed about my rather public (at least in my personal life) unraveling? I can't hide in my house forever, so I haven't hid in my house at all. I've gone to the grocery store. The playground with the kids. Boot camp. I've seen friends and neighbors, people who know a lot, people who know a little, people who know none of it. I've worn my brave face.

In a few weeks, I have some events to attend where I'll be seeing people I haven't seen for a while. People who might have talked to someone who talked to someone who...read my blog. Or talked to someone.

And though I've said and stand by the fact that I'm not ashamed, I am aware. Of what might be said when I get up to refresh my drink. Of nervous smiles greeting me hello. Of whispers. Of the awkwardness of the question, "It's been so long! How have you been?"

I am aware of judgement. Of ignorance. Of the fact that sometimes people get only half a story. Of the fact that stories often get very twisted.

The truth?

I'm scared. Because there's at least a tiny part of me that wants to cry all of the time. That wants to scream out an explanation and education to everyone who might have heard. That deep down, cringes as my imagination runs wild about what people might think. What they might say.

There are two sides to this coin. On one, I know the facts. I understand the statistics. I believe mental health is a spectrum and I'm suspicious of anyone who claims to permanently operate on the extreme end of healthy. But the other side is where ignorance lies. Where it's easy to pass judgement on a good day, even easier when it's a topic we don't understand or discuss openly.

I am getting well. I can't believe where I am now in comparison to where I was a month ago. Truly, I can't believe it. I've worked my ass off. I'm proud. Hopeful. Confident.

I'm also angry, sad, and self-conscious.

We don't get to pick our journey. Just how we handle ourselves as we travel.

This particular journey?  Effing blows. How I'm handling it? I'm doing my best.

And onward.

Let's take a pro-longed commercial break.

My return to blogging was short lived. I'm taking a blog-vacation while I focus on becoming well.

I still encourage anyone who is struggling with or knows somebody who is struggling with PPD to reach out for help. These are great places to start: http://www.postpartum.net/Get-the-Facts.aspx and http://postpartumprogress.com/.

PPD is treatable and temporary. And far more common than most people think.

So I'm signing off for now...but not quietly.

A few thoughts to share before I'm back laughing about the time I went bat-shit crazy:

-Fuck stigma.
-Fuck ignorance.
-Fuck anyone who thinks this is my fault, that I brought this on myself, or that having PPD makes me any less of a mother. I'm a fantastic mother. I take amazing care of my kids. Their health, well-being, safety, and happiness are my first priority in life.
-If you're going through something similar to me, you're not alone, help is out there, and you can get better.

So with love and lots of F bombs, I'm off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of sanity.

(Saying fuck a lot feels cathartic, and pretty fucking awesome right now).

Flavor.

It's been a beautiful, crazy, amazing, and stressful year. My driver's license, which I renewed this fall after a particularly eventful and sleepless night, looks oddly out of sequence with the last one, taken the day after I returned from our honeymoon - tan, rested, and glowing. The stress and exhaustion has taken a toll on more than just my driver's license picture. I've been introduced to entirely new worlds of how-crazy-I-can-become on next to no sleep and lord knows how many hours of nursing and bouncing babies.

Things are getting easier now. The exhaustion and craziness are fading away. But every now and again, I'm confronted with a reminder of how things were. It's in these moments that I realize Kyle really deserves a medal, or at least some good therapy.

On Saturday:

Kyle walks into the dining room where I'm feeding the babies some lunch.

"I have something to tell you."

I look up at him. What could this be? I offer a tentative, you-can-totally-tell-me-anything-and-I-won't-get-angry "okay."

"It's not a big deal. But I don't want you to be upset." He punctuates this with a nervous laugh.

"Well what?" My mind races.

Long pause.

"I don't want you to buy me plain potato chips any more. I want flavor. Always at least some sort of flavor."

"Oh." I start to breathe again. "Okay."

Flavor. How reasonable. But it makes me wonder.

Just how scary was I?

bella.

One time when Bella was a puppy, we made the mistake of letting her "chew" on several corn cobs. She was on her sixth one when the thought finally permeated the cheap plywood of our skulls that hey...where are the previous five cobs...OH LORD IS SHE ACTUALLY EATING THEM???

Ten days and zero poops later, we were at the vet's with one seriously backed up puppy and several hundred dollars worth of x-rays confirming the presence of six mushy corn cobs, all neatly lined up in her intestines.

Overly anxious and slightly neurotic pet mother that I once was, I asked the most pressing and logical question that popped into my head: "Is she going to die?" When his laughter died down, the vet sighed and looked at me.

"Just you wait. She's the center of your universe now. But in a few years you'll have a baby, forget about the dog, and then come in crying and wanting us to fix it because she's developed all sorts of behavioral problems."

Well thanks, jackass. Love the bedside manner.

I angrily explained to him that there was no way I would ever allow that to happen. Explained that Bella was special to me. I couldn't tell him that maybe I wouldn't have a baby in a few years. That I was trying and it wasn't working. And that Bella was the stand in, the willing recipient of my excess maternal energy.

For two years, our little mother-baby/pet owner-pet relationship worked. It was ignorant bliss. She absorbed my sadness and helped me feel needed. She stayed by my side as I ran and ran and ran. I petted her, adored her, babied her, nurtured her. We went to puppy class, to the beach, to the relatives' for holidays.

And then I got pregnant.

At first I didn't think much would change. I was excited for Bella to be a big sister. I didn't have the energy to run and play, but we snuggled a lot and life went on.

And then my water broke.

In all the craziness that ensued, I remember one moment clearly. Kyle and I, rushing to get out the door and into the car for a frantic trip to the hospital. Blood, blood, blood. Everywhere. Scared Bella. Bella trying to run out the door with us. And Kyle yelling at Bella to stay. Yelling. Out of panic and fear and necessity. It was the first time either of us had really ever yelled at her.

What followed is mostly now a blur. Weeks in the NICU - functioning - barely. Bella staying at my parent's house. I could not stand up straight. Could hardly feed myself dinner. Did not have the emotional, physical, or mental capacity to wash a load of laundry. The idea of Bella coming home was terrifying to me.

I don't remember when she came home. I don't know if it was before or after the babies were released from the hospital. I only remember realizing that I could not be relied upon to feed her consistently, and delegating that job to Kyle. Eight months later, it's still his job.

Bella, my former muse, my joy and love, is rarely mentioned in my blog anymore. I've avoided writing about her because I'm embarrassed. Embarrassed of how often I walk by her and feel nothing but disgust for the burden that she is to me. Embarrassed because she deserves better and is stuck with me because I'm too stubborn to stop believing that things will change.

Embarrassed. Because when I pull into the driveway, she runs and greets me like I'm the most amazing person in the world. And with the belief that today is a new day. And the willingness to forgive and forget. And the wildly desperate hope that I will do something, anything, to help her feel loved once again.

Embarrassed, because she drops her head and sulks away when I tell her to "move it!" in my nastiest voice.

Embarrassed, because my dog surpasses me in loyalty, forgiveness, and unconditional love.

I'm searching for the day where I stop letting her down.

Help NiNi Bambini

NiNi Bambini is a maternal wellness center I go to with the babies and sometimes refer to in my posts.

This amazing business provides critical support to expectant parents and new moms by providing a warm and nurturing environment for support groups, baby play groups, and SO, SO much more. Having this resource has helped me make it through some of my darkest days as a new mom. And I shudder as I write that: Darkest days as a new mom. After wanting to be a mother for so long, should there really be dark days? Shouldn't I spend every day basking in the wonder that is new life? NiNi Bambini has helped me to reconcile this nagging question. Being a new mom is hard work - exhausting - and working through that doesn't make me ungrateful or less of a mom. It makes me human. NiNi Bambini has provided me with a safe space to explore my transition and growth as a new mother. Every community should have a NiNi Bambini.

So I'm sad when I consider that this business is struggling to stay afloat in these difficult economic times. And I'm frustrated, because Wal-Mart will make it through, despite the fact that it adds no character or sense of life to my community.

Recently I worked with some of the other moms from NiNi Bambini to nominate this little business for a $100,000 small business grant. This grant would make a world of difference for so many families that will walk through NiNi Bambini's welcoming doors.

I hope that you'll join me in supporting NiNi Bambini by clicking the link below and endorsing our nomination. The more endorsments, the better the chances that it will be chosen.

Every new mom needs support.

Please visit Shine A Light and endorse NiNi Bambini...thanks!

Demise of the sexy sweatpants.

Fish oil is amazing.

Rather than treat my PPD with antidepressants, I talked to my doctor and we agreed to try high doses of fish oil first. It's working.

Considering the sleep deprivation I'm dealing with, I really feel fantastic. In fact, I've been feeling so good that I've started to think about drinking the whole damn bottle of the stuff.

Because if some is good, more must be better.

I bought liquid fish oil. I'm not sure why. It was probably cheaper. I do not recommend liquid fish oil.

I bought peach flavor. It tastes like peach. And fish. And it's oily.

But even so, the effects were so good, I kept thinking about how I'd probably feel like Oprah if I drank the whole bottle.

And then one Saturday my sweet husband got up early with the babies and I was able to sleep until the luxurious hour of 8am. Feeling rested, I staggered out into the kitchen and was taken by the peachy smell my house had taken on. A little sleep, and you wake up to a world that's just peachy fresh.

And fishy.

Apparently, he'd opened the refrigerator and the fish oil, eager to help, had jumped out at him, crashed to the floor, and suffered from a lacerated cap.

Peachy fishiness had permeated our home. His sexy sweatpants (which I swear are actually sexy) were drenched. One of the babies had a new sheen to his little head. My kitchen floor had a polish I'd never seen. It was everywhere.

The floor and baby were quite washable.

Less washable? The sexy sweatpants.

I politely instructed that the sweatpants go directly into the laundry.

MISTAKE.

Considering my laundry pile and the rate at which I address it, it is nothing less than wholly inappropriate to ever suggest the addition of anything that is wet, smelly, or generally disgusting to said pile.

By the time the sexy sweatpants were washed, they had permeated the laundry pile for no less than a sturdy week.

The entire load came out smelling. And friends? Peachy fish is a dream when compared to the rancid rot that came out of my dryer.

Fish oil is delicate stuff. Unstable, I'm told. Rots easily.

I threw the entire load back into the washer. Did not pass go. Stepped over the massive laundry pile, and washed the shit out of that laundry.

I Dawned it, twice. As in the same treatment they give the poor sea animals after Exxon spills copious amounts of oil into the oceans. I followed my Dawn treatment with the works: every laundry product that I have, in massive quantities. Twice. I ran three rinse cycles.

Hopeful, I held my breath and threw it all into the dryer with four super scented dryer sheets.

The result? A dryer that smells like rotten fish. A trashcan full of clothes.

Farewell, sexy sweatpants.

I've switched to capsules. And lemon flavored, this time.

Really? I have no idea what I'm doing.

I realized this about a month ago and had a little HOLY CRAP moment. It's like I woke up one day and all of a sudden was responsible for two little people, who probably expect some sort of competency from me.

Before the babies came, I thought I was totally prepared. I had my cloth diapers washed and folded. My Dr. Sears Baby Book was ready and waiting in the living room. I had even read it.

And then the babies were here.

The diapers got dirty.

And Dr. Sears wasn't here to help at 3am.

Sometimes it seems like perhaps I'm better suited to just getting really crazy good at Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook.

But you know what? I think these babies kind of like me.

And maybe I don't need to know what I'm doing all the time. Maybe that's not even all that important.

This is my family. I get to figure it out.

Slaying the pink elephants

There are big, clumsy, pink elephants in the room of my subconscious. They are postpartum depression pink elephants. I'm ready for them to leave.

The more I've tried to convince myself that I will not think about pink elephants, the harder they've grown to ignore. It's time for a new game plan.

I desperately longed for my babies for years. I will not allow POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION to take this time from me. I accept that I cannot control what comes my way. But I am a mother, a wife. I am me. It's my move.

So I'm getting down to the dirty business of dealing with IT.

I'm choking down disgusting fish oil and getting out of the house. I'm talking about it when I want to and not talking about it when I don't. I'm acknowledging intrusive thoughts.

I'm blogging about it because terrible things happen because of POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION. Because it seems like something that happens to other people and because we're altogether far too dishonest with ourselves and with each other.

And if ignoring the pink elephants makes them stronger, I will use that to my advantage. I'm outing them. I am owning up.

Infertility did not define me. POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION does not define me. I am me. I am wife mother sister daughter friend niece granddaughter cousin neighbor blogger.

I am me.

Acquiescence

A couple of years ago, in a rare moment of infertility-induced hysterical clarity, I pulled into a tattoo parlor on my way home from work and had them stamp the word "Acceptance" on my back.  Courier new, font size twenty.


I should have had this stamped on my forehead.


People who see this tattoo might think I'm bragging about my ability to roll with life's punches.  And sometimes they probably think I'm a recovered meth addict.  Neither happen to be true.


It's simply a reminder.  A reminder that might serve me better if I had really committed the first time around and slapped it on my face rather than between my shoulder blades, where, incidentally, I rarely look.


I thought infertility was life's lesson to me in acceptance.  I got it.  I gave myself over.  I let go.


It only seemed logical that in my happily-ever-after, life would always be easy to accept because I GET IT NOW and people who GET IT don't have to get spanked by life's little lessons.


I have these two perfect little beings.  I waited and waited for them.  They are here and I cannot stop being acutely aware.  Aware of my love for them, my amazement that they're real, the absolute miracle of it all.


Aware that I feel resentful at anything and everything in my life that takes me away.


I don't know if I want to acquiesce to that.

My milkshake...

...contains no milk. At least no cow's milk. And now no soy milk either. And coming soon to a breast near you? No wheat, nuts, or eggs.

Turns out what I thought was a harmless bout of baby acne on Rhys' face is actually a raging food allergy rash. Seeing as though my scathing letter to infant GERD has yielded zero results in the miraculous reflux-healing department, on Friday we carted ourselves off to the doctor for some professional assistance.

Here's what she said:

"Get yourselves to a good pediatric gastroenterologist."

"No more delicious food." (I'm paraphrasing here. It sounded something more like, "No dairy. No soy. We may need to look at cutting out wheat, nuts, and eggs.")

And then she said this:

"You have postpartum depression."

Ah what? Me? Me.

And I do. And I knew it and didn't want to know it.

Ignoring it? Didn't make it go away. Made it worse. Made it bigger and stronger until one day WHAM! it hit me in the face like a brick.

A few risk factors for postpartum depression: history of infertility. Traumatic childbirth experience. Premature delivery.

In the first month or so after the babies were born, I felt like I'd pulled the wool over the sly little eyes of PPD.

I was so proud to be okay.

Looking back, I can tell you that more than anything, I was just in shock. Shock that my babies were born two months early. That I had real, live, beautiful babies that were mine.

And god how I love those babies. Their sweet soft skin. The way they clasp their little hands in front of their bellies. That they look at me with big toothless grins and love and adoration.

I'm trying to figure out words to paint this picture - to show that for me, postpartum depression doesn't mean rejecting my babies or feeling disconnected - just the opposite. And to show that I know that it will pass and I will be okay and they will be okay - that I know that even now I AM okay and they ARE okay. And that I hate to put labels on everything and maybe this is just a part of life - of going from zero to sixty in no time at all - of going from the abstract idea of babies in my belly to real, living, breathing, loving babies in my arms.

But I don't know how to paint that way.