Climbing Out of My Hole of Depression

I have been suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed with a knock-down case of depression. I’ve wept every day for an entire week. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach has left me barely interested in eating. I lost 4 pounds last week alone. That probably isn’t a good thing.

I just cannot shake this horrible sadness. It has consumed me.

So very sad.

And helpless.

I cannot feel the foggy veil of depression lifting. I don’t know how to make it go away.

This is the first time since March that I have felt like I might need to see my therapist.

It was just one year ago this past week that I had my second miscarriage and had to re-evaluate the idea of taking anti-depressants because therapy didn’t feel like it would be enough.

I stopped taking Prozac when I found out I was pregnant with Huggy Baby in January. Three months later I stopped going to therapy.

Sure, the pregnancy was at times stressful but I was doing okay. I had my support system in place and for months I didn’t feel like I needed therapy—or drugs—to feel “right”.

Then a couple of weeks ago it started creeping in. A week ago it hit me hard and full on.

I wrote that six weeks ago.

I’m better today. Not perfect. Just Better.

I think I was trying to stuff my feelings and pretend there wasn’t anything wrong. Talking about it? Talking about it would inevitably lead to uncontrollable tears.

Tears that embarrass me in my inability to turn them off.

But addressing that there was problem despite the tears has been a really important step towards healing for me.

What I’ve come to realize is that I need to be open. I need to be a better communicator. I need to learn to nurture myself.

I have no idea how to do that.

Holy Crap—A Tale of Postpartum Constipation

I had forgotten how painful some things are days after you give birth.

Not how sore you may be from having your stomach cut wide open and a human pulled out from an incision much narrower than the actual human—thankfully skin is has a good amount of elasticity. Or how sore your ladies bit and the resulting episiotomy from having to push another human through a hole that is once again much smaller from the actual human coming out (see prior note about elasticity of the skin).

Instead, how ridiculously painful that initial latch on when breastfeeding can be for the first couple of weeks or so. My toes curl every time Huggy Baby latches on the right side.

Or, how painful that first crap can be after giving birth.

I pooped for the first time on Friday since the morning of my c-section the previous Sunday. Five days without pooping. I don’t suggest you try it.

I do strongly encourage you to take the stool softeners they offer in the hospital. Religiously.

Even with four days of double doses of stool softener in me, my maiden post-birth poop practically made me pass out right there on the toilet.

It was like passing a brick through a keyhole—without the blessed elasticity of skin that my stomach offered me over the last nine months.

Be forewarned: Once you commit to the process you cannot give up. There is no going back.

So brace yourself.
Push like you mean it.
And don’t be surprised when you shed actual tears of relief when it’s over.

A Different Kind of Sadness

It’s a weird thing, this sadness that I’m feeling over the miscarriage on Sunday. It’s a different kind of sadness than the one I experienced back in January. That was a devastating sadness. Losing the baby the first time completely blindsided me. I never expected that to happen. It had never happened before and when it did I felt so helpless. So scared.  And I suffered.

I was broken. I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t function at work. I was a massive mess.

Everyone knew I had been pregnant so everyone would have to know I lost the baby. Not this time.

We hadn’t told a soul that I was pregnant so who we told the news of the miscarriage was at our discretion. Still is. It isn’t something that you just work into a conversation. Or want to.

I think that is why going to work on Monday was so much easier for me this time. Nobody knew a thing at that point. My loss—and my pregnancy for that matter—was still my secret. There were no sad knowing eyes cast upon me that day.

This time my sadness is different.

This time I feared losing the baby from the moment I found out I was pregnant. This time I expected it to happen and hoped beyond hope that I would be wrong. I so wanted to be wrong. I wanted my body to be right again. I wanted another blissful pregnancy like I had with G-tot. I tried to convince myself that it would be okay.

But still the fear lingered on.

And when I lost the baby on Sunday, I wasn’t so surprised this time. I knew there was nothing I could do to change what was happening. I knew I was helpless and I just had to ride it out. So I let the sadness consume me and tried to remind myself that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. Life just sucks sometimes and apparently it has to suck for me right now.

This sadness feels like one made more of stoicism. One that says, “My god you’ve been changed by the pain you’ve suffered in the past year.” It’s a sadness that lodges itself deep into my heart and nestles knowingly up against devastating sadness left behind months ago. It’s a sadness that says I am strong in my suffering and I will carry on. I will be okay.

Live Freely

Not too long ago I was thinking about the way I live my life from day to day. What I found was that it is not necessarily the life that I want to be living. Now don’t get me wrong, I love certain aspects of my life. Much of my life is really great. I’m so thankful for that. But too often I’m living a life that is just okay. And that is my fault.

Frankly, I’m tired of mediocrity.

So I decided at that moment to grab a pencil and a sheet of paper and write the ways in which I could live a life that was great. All the time.

Be more alive.
Be more aware.
Be more involved.

Take notice.
Slow down.
Enjoy it.

Get up earlier.
Be more active.
Enjoy the high of life’s little experiences.

Eat better.
Enjoy the good food.

Take stock of the important things.
Get rid of the unimportant—the clutter.
Be thankful.
Start a dialogue.

Love fully.

Writing the list was easy. Now it’s time to really live it.

Devastation and Loss

I lost the baby Saturday morning.

I’m devastated. I’m heartbroken. I’m numb.

I hate that this happened to us.

I watched my entire loss unfold right before my eyes and I was helpless. There was nothing I could do about it. That sucks so much. So much that I just want to spew expletives across the page as I weep with every word I write. Fuck you Master Plan. This isn’t a part of life that I ever wanted to experience.

I knew something was wrong. I knew it Thursday night with that first sign of blood. That’s why I called the doctor. The ultrasound confirmed a heartbeat. Then it all went downhill from there.

I never really stopped bleeding after that. I called the doctor again and was told not to worry too much about it. Try to relax. The ultrasound looked good. But the bleeding wouldn’t stop. So I called again. This time it was the on call doctor. She told me the same thing. I tried to explain that there was a lot of blood. So much blood. Too much blood. She told me if the bleeding persisted through the weekend and filled up a pad about every half an hour to call the doctor on Monday. She told me if I was passing the baby it would look different than bleeding with clots. So I asked her what it would look like. “It would be white and look like tissue.” she said.

I tried to relax. I laid down on the couch. I didn’t pick up G-tot. I watched a movie with JQ. And every single time I went to the bathroom the blood just seemed to pour out of me. I think I went through an entire roll of toilet paper on Friday. Then I went to bed and hoped that when I woke up on Saturday the worst of it would be behind us.

Instead I woke up at 3 o’clock in the morning on Saturday in excrutiating pain. I made to the bathroom and sat on the toilet not sure if I wanted to puke, poop, or pass out. I was shaking uncontrollably and the pain was almost unbearable. It was the same pain I felt when I started going into labor with G-tot. I could hardly breathe and when I finally got back into bed JQ wrapped his arms around me and helped me gain enough control to take long deep breaths. The pain subsided and I fell asleep.

When I woke up Saturday the pain was gone and the first pee seemed promising—no sign of blood. Or at least, nothing like the night before. But I was wrong. Oh so very, very wrong. The next trip to the bathroom would change my life forever.

*This is the part of the story that may be a little too much for some people.*

It happened sometime between 10:30 and 11:00. I went into the bathroom just like I had so many times in the past 24 hours and sat down on the toilet. I started to pee, the blood came with it and then I felt it. I felt it come out of my body. I heard it hit the water in the toilet. I didn’t need to look. I knew what had just happened. But I did look. What I saw I will never ever forget.

I called JQ into the bathroom and told him he needed to come alone. When he got to the door I told him I lost the baby.

“No. No, no, no.” he said.
“Yes. Yes.” I replied. “I know that is what just happened.”

And with that I turned around reached into the toilet and scooped our little zygote out with my hand. “See. This is not blood clotting. This was the baby.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to pick it up. I could see it through the blood stained water in the toilet. Even though it was stained with blood  I knew what it was. It was so frighteningly obvious what it was. I think I was just in shock and at the time it did not seem gross or wrong to me. But I can’t get that image out of my head.

I tried to say good-bye. I told the little zygote that I loved it. I told it I was sorry. Then I closed the lid to the toilet, put my head down on it and cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.

I’m devastated. I’m heartbroken. I’m numb.

I feel like a part of my soul has died and I have no idea how to move forward.


I often wonder…

How much is enough?
How much is too much?
Will I ever get it right?
What happens if I don’t?

Why am I so afraid of taking the risk and finding out?
When am I crossing the line from responsible adult to inhibited wuss?
Why do I feel the need to avoid things that might lead to a confrontation?

Why do I care so much?

I feel like there is a side of me that I don’t share. The side that may not always be pretty. The one that reveals a little too much. A side that might make some shift uncomfortably in their chairs reading about it. The side that some insist they don’t possess. I shared a little of that side in a post I wrote a few months ago. It wasn’t long, but to me it was bitingly powerful in its brevity.

I think about that post every time I open the dashboard. I see the title of the post sitting in the drafts pile. It always reminds me of that day. I wrote those words in a high emotional state. My feelings had been hurt and I needed to get out of my head. By the end I had a realization about myself that I’ve since been working on. Which is good. But the post itself doesn’t shine the most pleasant light on me or someone close to me. So I never published it. I’m pretty sure I ever never will.

And I’m not sure I’m okay with that.