Lipstick Days.

 

I found it rolling around in my makeup drawer, clearly forgotten – at least two years old.  I turned it over and read the label at the bottom.  ”Smitten” was the color.

I don’t wear lipstick.  I never really have.  I could never handle the pressure of having to reapply, and to this day have not found a color that looks better than the color of my own real lips.  It felt foreign to open it up… slowly run it across my lips… I even smelled it.

I heard my son begin to cry in the baby monitor, and cursed myself for the very little amount of writing, or cleaning, or personal grooming, or anything I got done during this hour to myself.  I paused for a second and looked at myself in the mirror.  My lips were smitten but my eyes were dull.  I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, keenly aware that I had no place to go and nothing to look forward to besides the next room to get the baby and to pick up my other son from school.  If I was lucky, I could also fit in a visit to the grocery store.

 

This bout of depression is particularly murky.  I’m not “sad” or “blue”.  I just feel settled into the idea that nothing feels good.  I feel far away from my kids… my husband… my wants… my dreams.  Sometimes I’m angry and resentful… but most of the time I just don’t care.

It’s been a couple weeks in this place.  I know what triggered it, but can’t seem to climb out of it.

I barely had the energy to command my hand to put that tube of lipstick to my face… but I needed it.  It felt slightly weird… and colorful… and frivolous.  It helped for a little while.

The next day I wore a skirt and I went to visit a friend.  That felt good for a little while too.

I know I have good things in my life – my brain knows this.  I know I have a million things to get done.  I know at some point I’ll feel better.

But right now, I can’t see my way to fixing my insides…

a few things on the outside are about all I can muster.

But it’s something…

it’s an attempt…

and I’m talking…

and I’m open to a few more lipstick days to come.

 

JenniChiu

 

 

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Mommy Nani Booboo’s personal 2012 in a nutshell – without the nut… or shell.

 

2012 started with a pitiful bang for me as I was lost in motherhood, and struggling with depression.

The intense colic of my second born had me spinning in circles, and unwillingly participating in shopping cart roller derbys.

The new home we had moved into turned out to be a nightmare and during one of my many attempts to make our surroundings better, Arm and Hammer tried to kill me.

I battled my way through the first couple months of the year like only a parent with kids under five can.  Eventually, I was rewarded with the best 15 minutes in a long time.

After realizing motherhood has made me into a big fat liar, I needed to find a way to be courageously honest, and finally came clean to my husband and you about the Postpartum Psychosis I suffered with my first son.

2012 was a year that I was extremely grateful for the cyber-campfire that is blogging.  I wrote these words to you in a post about why I will never quit blogging.

A blogger strokes the keyboard, reaches through the computer screen, and taps you on the shoulder.  A personal blogger writes to make you feel, to make you laugh, to make you think.  A blogger (a good one) feeds your humanity.  And the best part of it all, the absolute best, is that you also feed mine.  It may actually be a tipped scale in my favor.

When I’m honest in my writing, it makes me feel human.  But when you, the readers respond… it makes me live.

Social media continued to be my addiction in 2012, and once again I attempted to control how everyone in the universe uses Twitter.

I discovered there was a Jenni Jekyll and a Jenni Hyde, but I’m not sure which one shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

I learned how to have non make up sex.

The New York Times forgot to ask me about the whole motherhood vs. feminism thing.

I briefly weighed in on the “mommy wars” and Time shmime.

I got to be on the review and scoring committee for the BlogHer’12 Voices Of The Year submissions.  It was an honor to read the kajillion posts, to be reminded of other parents in the trenches with me, and to have my eyes bleed from the goodness of  all the writing.

I was honored to participate in the Mother’s Day Rally over at Postpartum Progress.

I also finally realized I was the chosen one… at least when it comes to dirty vegetables

and I discovered one of my favorite things to do is write for the wayward googler.

I started Mommy Nani Booboo Tube.

However, 2012 was no different than any other year in my anxiety about things that may or may not exist.

I went to New York, attended a conference, met with old friends, broke my laptop, and had a cab driver try to kill me.

I finally became a cougar… for three seconds - big milestones this year…

and I’ve managed to keep my reckless baby alive.

My oldest finally felt the space left behind when grandparents live far away.

Someone asked me if I thought women could “have it all”.

 

 

The political climate of this past year eeked it’s way into this space, even though I first wanted to keep politics off this site.  It ended up being too important for me to remain silent about.

I flew a glider plane.
 

 

We decided to move… again… and downsize… and monkify.

The year decided not to go out like a lamb, and instead spun me and spit me out with Murphy’s Law in full effect, moving over the holidays, and a devastating tragedy for the nation that rattled every parent to the core.

My babies both got very sick with infections, the holidays were a blur, and I’m not sure my birthday happened… but I discovered that one can feel fantastic with absolutely no sleep.
 

 

So, 2012 – it’s been no bed of roses, but I’ve learned a lot from our relationship.

 

Let’s still be friends…

and 2013…

 

let’s be lovers.

 

JenniChiu

 

 

 

Postpartum Psychosis – Shedding light on the demon.

 

My eyes shot open.

There it was again… the rustling… the breathing… the scurrying.

I scanned what I could of the dark room, and glanced at my sleeping husband next to me.  Should I wake him?  He could not help.  He would not understand.  It was up to me.

I strained in the dark to see the little basinet that held our sleeping son – only eight weeks old.  I prayed that he wouldn’t wake up.  If he did, the crying would never stop.  I became more and more certain that it was not this mysterious “colic” that was bothering him.  I began to know that the crying, the agitation, the wailing for dear life, was because the baby knew… he could feel it.

The devil was after my child.

We didn’t baptize him.  Perhaps the devil already had a hold on him.  He wasn’t even like a baby – he was always screaming, always red faced, he looked odd and foreign to me.

I gripped the bedsheet tighter.

Something wasn’t right.  Was I losing my mind?  It’s sleep deprivation… if I just closed my eyes these thoughts would go away.  Perhaps I was dreaming that very second…

I closed my eyes and scooted closer to the warmth of my husbands’ body.

Then the baby stirred.

I sat up, ready to soothe, bounce, and sway before the crying got too out of hand.

Before my feet touched the floor, something made a scratching noise.

I glanced toward the dark doorway…

My eyes darted to and fro as I waited for the scratching again.

My breathing sounded heavy and annoying.

Then I jumped as something walked past the doorway.  It was a figure, a dwarfish figure – a dark, person-shaped creature that scurried toward the basinet, saw me, and darted away.

My limbs were frozen, my heart drummed in my ears, and I knew…

this wasn’t a dream…

 

*****

 

The above words partially describe an evening after the birth of my first child.  I did not tell my husband.  I did not get help.

There were more dark thoughts, there was crying, despair, and anxiety.

I remember my husband rushing home from work early one day, after I had sent him the following text:

We’ve made a huge mistake.  I can’t do this.  I’m sorry.  I want it to stop.  Goodbye.

He burst through the bedroom door to find me asleep on the bed with our son asleep in my arms.  I had not hurt the baby.  I had not hurt myself.  He was furious at me.  He did not know that something was so broken in my thinking, that I thought once I closed my eyes… I would just die…

I still did not get help.

I was ashamed.  I was anxious.  I was exhausted and wired at the same time… and the psychosis came in infrequent waves.  It felt real and crazy at the same time.  I didn’t want to admit that my world was shredding everywhere I turned.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized (or admitted) I was suffering from severe Postpartum Depression and Psychosis.  The psychosis part I only came clean about a few weeks ago, almost four years after our first sons’ birth.  My husband and my family never knew.  My doctor never asked any mental health questions.  I never hurt my child or myself, but I should have gotten help immediately.  I was very very lucky.

The depression began to creep in again a couple months ago, now that our second son has been born.  I wrote about it not too long ago here.

At this moment I am doing well, and so are both my children.  Each day gets better and better, and I’m familiar with the sound of my own laughter.

I think back on those first several months after my first baby and it feels like a strange, half watched movie.

It was a smothering, dark time, that I couldn’t see through to ask for help.

I write about it now because I was too ashamed to then.

 

 

PS- If you feel you may be suffering from Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety, or Postpartum Psychosis, DON’T REMAIN SILENT LIKE I DID.  For a list of support organizations you can go here – Postpartum Progress.  If you are seeing/hearing things that no one else is, thinking of harming yourself, your baby, or suspect you may have Postpartum Psychosis, call your doctor right away, or walk yourself into the emergency room.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel – you just may not be able to get there alone.

You shouldn’t have to.

 

Hello Depression. 1, 2, 3, down they go.

The clock struck midnight and we didn’t even know it.

A new year was starting as we stood, teary-eyed and paralyzed.

He said he would leave me if I didn’t get help.

For a moment, I didn’t care either way.

***

The darkness had become too much.

The anxiety…

The rage…

I blamed him.

I blamed my family.

The family that needed more than I had.

I blamed a traumatic birth.

I blamed being split in two.

I blamed circumstance.

I blamed my baby…

The baby that needed to be held 20 hours a day.

The baby that screamed endlessly.

The baby that made me cry…

made me scream…

made me smile…

made me ill with life.

I blamed myself.

***

The word “depression” was hard to find…

clouded by actual, real life hardships.

“It’s not me.  Anyone would think this all sucked.”

Was it my outlook or was it all the crap life was throwing at me?

Did it matter?

***

It all felt wrong.

I didn’t belong here.

I took a wrong turn.

These thoughts were unwanted.

This life was not mine.

***

I felt myself failing.

Failing at the public “happy face”.

Failing as a wife.

Failing as a mother.

Failing to live.

I was too exhausted to tread water.

***

And now…

1, 2, 3, down they go…

Every day they travel to my brain.

The black and grey are slowly lifting…

I breathe…

and I fight.

I fight.

I fight every day…

the feeling of not having been good enough on my own.

 

 

 

I cut the crust off.

He doesn’t know what Star Wars is, but he’s over the moon for his lunch box.

It was his first day at a new school – a montessori pre-school. We’ve made sacrifices so he could go to this school.  He deserves this school.

It was my first time making a lunch for him to bring. I sleepily made an organic peanut butter and raspberry preserve sandwich.  He’s never been a sandwich eater, but I cut the crust off.  I cut the crust off because that’s what good moms do.  Kids don’t like crust, right?

But what if he wants the crust?  What if he doesn’t eat the sandwich at all?  What if he goes hungry?  What if the crust is the most nutritious part of the bread, and I’m cheating my son out of essential nutrients?

And suddenly everything felt foreign.

I paused.

I wondered how I got to this particular place?

I wondered how I lost myself in the crust…

And I felt resentful.

I missed my career.

I missed having a moment of peace now and then.

I missed taking a daily shower.

I missed being witty, and vivacious.

I missed my body.

I missed doing things for myself.

Then I packed his lunch and took him to the school that I wish I could go back in time for and attend myself.

He did wonderfully.

The teacher said he took to the montessori structure immediately.

He said it was a “most wonderful sandwich”.

I squeezed him, and wiped a tear away with my thumb.

**

At this moment, I sit here writing this in the late hours of the evening.  The house is asleep, and as exhausted as I am, I’ve chosen to stay up after a 3 am breast feeding session and stroke the keys…

Because I miss you.

Because I miss me.

My dinner is still sitting in my belly, as it was eaten after everyone had gone to bed.  It was cold and made hours before, but a fussy baby demanded my attention for hours on end.

Today was my son’s second day at school.  He asked if he was going to have a sandwich again, and jumped up and down when I aid yes.

I had a day of attempting to “work from home”, and have a meeting while my second born pooped out the side of his diaper and on to my shirt .  I had a day of mostly nursing, bouncing, and swaying.  I had a day that passed in a daze.

I look back on it now, and wonder again how I got here.

I wonder if I will always be here.

But mostly, I wonder why during my brief moment of nourishment today…

Why I made myself a sandwich…

and why I cut the crust off.

I love the crust.