Tattered

 Tattered heart

Heavy and cold

There is never a question of my love for you

Or my need

For your love

Curled in a ball

Bound by guilt and shame

At who I am

And who I've been

Numb to the pain

But is it real? 

This question begs

Layers of distress

Burdens of fear

Unable to sort reality from guilt

Voices echo

Are they real? 

Or old guilt

Blinding me from the light

Finding footings to move forward

With strength and courage 

Feels too heavy

Too soon

Too much

Pain slipping through the cracks

Of the numbness that keeps me safe 

And yet the horizon

Cannot stay dark

Golden rays will reach me

Curled in torment

Bring embers of hope

Back to my soul

To fill the void

With life

Again 

The me I don't want to be

Where once I felt shattered, I don't anymore. Where once I felt broken, I'm not.
And yet, I don't feel whole either.

How is that possible? How does that even make sense?
How is it that I can feel so much healing has taken place, so much recovery, and still feel the way I do?

For a week or two I sailed on golden seas. Everything was possible, anything could be done. I felt great, and it felt so good to feel good.

And then, I stepped into a deep hole. I climbed out, and kept walking forward, but every few steps, I drop back down a deep, deep hole. And just by admitting it, I feel guilty and fall down again. Because I who have been given so much, so much love, so many friends, so much healing, I should not feel this way. I should not be as low as I have ever been.

But I do. And it hurts.

I know part of what I'm struggling with are the food allergies I have and the way that is affecting my life. Each time I eat, I get sick. Painfully sick. Or, I can't breathe, which as you can imagine, isn't any fun either.

That is only part of the picture though, and I know that I can't blame everything on that. Through a lot of work and effort on my part, and some kind and helpful friends, I have learned to dig deeper and find the root of my lows. There is always an emotion triggering a relapse, and usually if I can identify and name the emotion and the cause of it, I can work through it and pull myself back together.

That was so much easier to write than it is to actually do, especially when there is more than one emotion and more than one source involved.

Still, I have to boil it down. .I have to unravel it. If I don't, it chokes me. And I'm tired of choking.

The past week or so has been exceptionally difficult. Yes, dealing with the food allergies has definitely been part of it. After several severe reactions lately, and getting sick after every time I eat, Ryan made me an appointment to go in and see an allergist.  Turns out I am allergic to more than I thought I was and everything that didn't show up on the skin prick test is still making me painfully sick every time I eat.

I'm angry. I'm tired of being sick. I just want to feel good. What is so wrong with that?

I just want butter and sour cream on my potatoes. I want to eat a bite or two of sinfully delicious ice cream. I want to enjoy a mouthful of chewy sourdough bread. I want to take the buttermilk in the fridge and make some fluffy pancakes or tender, flaky biscuits shaped into hearts for my kids. I want to make some tangy Orange Chicken for Amanda and then sit and enjoy eating it with her. I want to dip strawberries in Val's homemade chocolate ganache and in every bite, find more love.

I want to make gingerbread cookies with my kids, and sour cream cookies for the neighbors. I want to make omelets and crepes and have friends over for breakfast. I want to help Mercy make Monkey Bread like we do every year for Thanksgiving, and sit and share the first loaf with her and Ryan when it comes out of the oven.  I want the Reeses Peanut Butter cookies Mom Mel made growing up. I want to be able to bake a birthday cake for my kids without dying.

I'm angry. And I'm grieving. And I'm empty and hollow.  And I feel like I've lost a part of me.

Food isn't just about eating. Not for me. It's the joy of making something good and sharing it with someone I love. It's the memories for my kids as I make a dinner they love and then draw pictures on their plate with sour cream. It's the time I spend in the kitchen unravelling my thoughts as I do something so comforting and assuring as melting butter, whipping cream, folding egg whites, or measuring flour.

Like it or not, my memories are often tied to food. The rye sandwich my brother and I shared in Disneyland, and the hamburger he bought me after they got back from the theatre. It was my first time on a plane, first trip to the ocean, times I'll always remember, food I'll never forget.  The french fries and frosty shakes I shared with Ryan after the dance. The barbecue sauce on the ribs - our first date. The spaghetti that was for dinner the night we first kissed. The steak at Carver's, the lobster dipped in butter while we were in Boston, trying to make things work in our failing marriage.  The loaded potato skins, baked potato soup, caramel apple crisp and heavenly cheesecake we'd share as we repaired our relationship.

Candy sticks from Harmon's with Dad, and sometimes ice cream cones while we shopped for Sunday morning cereal. The dinner he complained about after I made it especially for him. The chicken fried steak I refused to eat after he bought it for me (because I thought it looked like worms). The pineapple shake I hated that he bought in anger because he couldn't hear me as I requested another flavor.

Basil and swedish meatballs are joined at the hip with memories of Danielle. Without her, I wouldn't know what a tomato concasse is, or how to properly blanch broccoli. Paring knives, pomegranates, and orange rolls immediately make me think of Mom Mel, not to mention Pot Pie, warm white bread, and slumgolium. Brenda is tied to peaches, and Debbie - twice baked potatoes and cabbage salad. Jason is forever tied to Banana Bread, and yellow Zingers to Barb, Jared, and Hossie. I know in a pinch, Eliza will always love a well made Homemade Hostess Cupcake. And because I make them, Mercy is proud.

Cooking is love to me. If I bake, you know I love you. If I make something you like, It's almost a hug.

It's not just what I can give to others, or what I remember others for, it's for me too. It's something with constants in a constantly changing world. It's something I can count on when I can't even count on myself.  It's something I know I do well when I feel like I fail at most everything else.

Why can't I just keep this one good part of me?

But, that's not all. I know it's not. Food and all it represents both in eating and being taken away from me is not all I'm struggling with. It's not the real reason I'm falling into holes with each step I take. It's an extension of the root of what I feel.

It's rejection. Rejection by those I love most. Rejection of what I have to offer. Rejection because I'm not good enough. Rejection because I mess up.

Loss. Of friendship. Of trust. Of hope.

And fear. Fear that I won't be accepted. Fear that I'll be rejected again. Fear I can't even verbalize.

Somehow my heart or brain is saying that since I'm not shattered, I should be whole. Since I'm not drowning, I should be good. I should be able. I should be likeable, at least to myself. But what I see is someone who although not shattered still holds the same hurtful heart within her chest. The one that never sees her mistakes until it's too late because she's messed up again. Hurt someone again. Or ruined something again.

How can I fix it all? How can I get past the me I see? How can I believe that it will ever feel right? That I'll ever get it right? That I'll ever be good enough?

I guess you could say, I'm rejecting me. And everyone I see.
Because I see in them a reflection of myself.

The me I don't want to be.

Four Questions...

Ry with his Mom.  Love you Nan! Thank you for your love and prayers, and for raising such an amazing son!

Sometimes, especially when Ryan isn't home, I sit up for hours and since I cannot sleep, I edit pictures, or quite frequently, read snippets of blogs. Tonight, is one of those nights. It's 2 am, and I am tired beyond belief but wound up more than I should be... and sleep is far from coming. I know - it's my anxiety getting the best of me. A downward spiral at its beginning. And yet, here I sit.

I've been reading blogs about this, that, or the other, but quite a few about postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety, and other postpartum disorders.  Why??  Because when you've been thrown against a brick wall, had your entire life turned upside down, been shaken loose from all that's holding you together, and still are dealing with the effects of it, you tend to want to understand why. And what to do. And how to help someone else dealing with the same thing. And so even though I feel mostly healed from the whole experience... I still read about it. I still am working through it. I still am making sure that I am not just getting the point of feeling better... but that I am getting past it, through it, over it, and conquering it.

I've been asked a few times lately "do you think this is PPD?"  and "How can I tell if I have PPD?" Tonight, I came across a post that said to ask yourself these questions to help you determine if you have PPD...


Has it been longer than 2 weeks since I have given birth?
Am I feeling worse as days go on?
Am I eating much more or less than usual?
Am I sleeping much more or less than usual?

As I read it, I remembered reading this same thing as I started to do a little research on PPD before I finally accepted the fact I needed meds, and as I remembered reading it, I also remembered getting a bit angry.

No, getting VERY angry. As in, want to throw the computer across the room and yell obscenities and then break down into very large sobs kind of angry.

Here's why.


Am I feeling worse as days go on?  I remember thinking.. my lower regions ache from giving birth. My head aches from feeling crazy. I have a piercing headache from not getting enough sleep. My arms ache from bouncing this baby and trying to hold it just the right way while I try to nurse and that isn't working either. My eyes ache from crying all the time. I haven't got enough cohesiveness of thought to figure out whether I'm feeling worse right now than I was 2 hours ago, let alone try to track how I felt a week ago. Am I progressively feeling worse? How could I possibly feel worse than I do right now?


Am I eating much more or less than usual?  I remember thinking... more or less than usual??? What is usual? Do I gauge that on how much I was eating before this kid popped out of me? It was Thanksgiving for crying out loud! I was eating for me, for the baby, and then some! Or do I look at afterward? I am crying so much, so exhausted, and not functioning well enough to get up and out of the room, let alone go make myself some food.  When someone brings me food and sticks it in front of me I eat. When they don't, I don't. And if there is a bag of chips or a box of cookies within reach, I will eat the entire thing without thinking about it. Is that more or less than usual?


Am I sleeping much more or less than usual?  I remember thinking... sleeping more than I was before I had the baby?  I got up every hour to pee and took another hour to go back to sleep because my hips hurt, and then dozed while reading books to my toddler.  Should I gauge it off that? Or am I supposed to remember back to after I had my last baby and gauge whether I'm sleeping much more or less than the average new mom not getting enough sleep because she has a newborn's poopy diaper to change or baby to feed every hour. I have small kids! I haven't had a full night's sleep in years!! Is that more or less than usual sleep for a mother?

What ridiculous questions, and yet, my very answers to the questions were telling enough in themselves.  I couldn't just answer "no"to any of them, so the answer was obviously "yes". Yes, it had been more than two weeks since the baby was born. Yes I am feeling worse than I want to be, need to be, and can handle feeling. Yes I am eating much more or less than usual, and Yes I am sleeping much more or less than usual. Yes, I had many, many things pointing to severe postpartum depression. Not being able to hold the baby without crying. Not enjoying when I had the baby near me. Not wanting to talk and play and laugh with the baby, kiss his tiny nose and marvel at his tiny fists.  Not being able to turn the thoughts in my head off, and yet not having rational thoughts - all at the same time.

Still, the questions - though they tried to be helpful, didn't feel helpful at all. And my poor husband had to bear the brunt of all of it until I got it figured out... and then, still took care of me for 2 more years as I began to heal.

One day, I'll write a real list of "how to tell" questions. Until then, I'll just say "Thanks Baby. I love you more than you can imagine."

 - Rachel

Bawling My Eyes Out

My sweet chili peppers.
7 times I have gone through PPD, with each baby it became progressively worse.
They're worth it. They're definitely worth it. I'm glad I'm their Mama!

I've been crying uncontrollably for the past 5 minutes and decided to write it down instead of keep on crying all night. Good idea right? Getting it out on paper always seems to help me.


So... the bawling. What is it from this time, you ask.

Tonight I happened to look on www.ksl.com and noticed a link to a story on postpartum depression. I clicked on it, watched it, and from there went to a good website on postpartum depression called pospartumprogress.com.  It is not a good website, it is an excellent website.  I've been there before, I vaguely remember, but tonight I clicked on this link talking about the 6 Stages of Postpartum Depression, and as I read it the tears started falling and I couldn't help but sit and bawl my eyes out.

The first five stages were fine. I completely related with each and every one. The sixth stage is where I lost it. I have for a very long time known that my postpartum depression had been tainted with an extra shot of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). I have come to a sane enough point to be able to identify that, and also identify most of the reasons behind it, but it has always baffled me why I still feel so traumatized when most of the things that traumatized me really have been dealt with by now. I had always attributed it to things that happened during the pregnancy and a short bit of extreme trauma in the weeks after the baby was born. Step number 6 really helped me understand why, and I can completely see now that a part of my PTSD has been caused by the trauma of dealing with the PPD and the changes it brought with it.

It just feels so good to know that I'm not the only freak in the world who has dealt with this to such an extreme level. It feels so relieving to know that there is an end, somewhere. There is healing. There has to be if others have healed.

One of the big things that brings me immediately back to the pain and trauma that I went through and opens the wounds up fresh and raw again is hearing that another woman is dealing with the same thing and going through postpartum depression.  I want to help, and hopefully I have been able to help a few. But I know I cannot erase the hurt and take away the pain for them. I know I cannot shield and protect them from everything they will go through. I cannot help and support them in all the ways I wish I could, and it breaks my heart. It is one of the reasons I am so open with this issue on my blog, because I don't ever want anyone else to feel as alone and isolated and hurt and hopeless as I did, without them knowing that someone else understands, someone else has been through this, and someone else cares.

So, for you fabulous mothers out there going through this little piece of hell... please know my heart is aching for you. Know that you are in my prayers, and know that I am only a phone call or email away.  Also, please take a moment to look over this website.  It really has an enormous amount of valuable help and information, both for you, and for your family.
 
One of the things that jumped out at me as I went through several of the pages of the website tonight was this sentence.

 ...the most common symptom of postpartum depression is not sadness at all- it is anxiety and agitation … and while many women who struggle might have periods of sadness, depression and tearfulness, the overwhelming symptoms that cause them great pain are difficulty concentrating, excessive worry, high level overwhelm, racing thoughts and difficulty sleeping. 

And I will expand on this... that the agitation mentioned frequently involves frustration, irritation, and lashing out at your children or husband. 

One of the difficult things is identifying that yes you HAVE postpartum depression, especially if you aren't feeling particularly sad or "depressed" in the way it is often depicted. You may not have an Eeyore face or a constant raincloud over your head... not everyone does. But if you are even wondering if you have PPD... there is a good chance you do. And a good chance you will NOT be able to just "get over it" on your own without a bit of understanding and support.

I'm here for you. Please call or email. It is the ONE thing that I can feel good about from the whole experience... helping someone else who may be dealing with it. 

May you find peace,
Rachel

Bricks

It's no secret, I get depressed. Have for years. Had a hell of a time over the past couple years fighting it and dealing with it. You probably get sick of reading about it on this blog. Guess what. I get sick of living it.

I was diagnosed as "clinically depressed" 9 years ago. And for 7 years, I fought that diagnosis and fought the reality of what I was facing. I fought and fought and worked and worked and took the herbal remedies and the natural solutions and the vitamins and the oils and the homeopathics and the advice and helpful suggestions wherever I could. I changed my diet, I ate this instead of that. I cut out sugar. I ate protein at every meal. I balanced my electrolytes, my iron, my vitamin C. I got vitamin b shots. I took vitamin b drops. I pounded omega 3's, 6's, and 9's. I had lavender baths. I worked on the contributing factors where I could recognize them. I read books and took walks and worked out. I exercised daily, and put more miles on my stroller walking around the small town I lived in one summer than I did on my van.  I took supplements of this and supplements of that, vitamins and minerals and calcium and got lots of sunshine and breaks from the kids and took time for me. I sought help and solutions in every way shape or form I could find them, except for the drugs that the doctors offered.  I did mental reconditioning and surrounded myself with positive reinforcing statements and affirmations posted all over my house and even inside my cupboard doors.  I prayed and I prayed and I prayed and I read and I did everything I knew how to do. For seven years.

And then, I snapped.

There were definitely a lot of contributing factors. As much as I did to try to reverse the situation and make sure that with each baby I wasn't going to have to deal with postpartum depression... in the end, real life kicks in. The icing on the cake, of course, was the new baby and all that came with him.  And while it helps to define the factors involved, the end result is what I have to deal with on a daily and consistent basis. This new me. This me post-baby-number-seven. This me post-mental breakdown.

I was forever changed.

I needed help. I knew it. I could feel myself at the edge of a cliff and knowing that if I didnt' get help soon there would be no more Rachel. There would be no more me. At the time, I was inexplicably terrified of driving, or I would have gotten in the van, drove off, and never come back. I don't kno were I would be. I have no idea. And I don't ever want to find out.

I couldn't handle the baby. I couldn't handle the kids. I couldn't deal with the stress. I was shutting down more and more and more. Like quicksand, it was surroundg me, pulling me farther in, and every effort to not surrender to it sunk me farther and farther.

My last ditch effort to have Ryan finally understand where I was at, was a miracle that at that point I could even express it to him adequately.  I knew that if I didn't get help, I would die. I knew I was cracking, splintering, and that if I didn't get help I would be in a million pieces on the floor and there would be no way to fix what was wrong. I had been bad off before, but this was nothing like I'd ever experienced.

I remember just bawling and bawling and saying over and over "I need help." It was three in the morning, I think, before he realized the extent of what I was saying. And to his credit, he got me help. He drove me to the doctor's office the next day. He filled my prescription, and held me as I went through the rollercoaster from hell that comes with getting on, and off, those drugs.

He has been amazing, and I rely on his strength and fortitude. It is no wonder I miss him so much when he is gone working.

Now, it's two years later, and I still hate the drugs.  I worked hard, and with the help of my husband, my family, and my friends, and especially with the help of beautiful priesthood blessings, I was able to get off the drugs and stay off of them. It has been 11 months since I last took my prescriptions, and I'm proud of it. But I still can't throw the rest of them out. They are expired, and I don't ever want to take them again, and yet I can't throw them away. I panic.

Partly why I panic is because of days like today. Days when I should be fine, when there is nothing "wrong", and definitely nothing to be crying about. And yet I do. Even more than crying, I sit, with a weight upon my back, like forty tons of brick pressing down on me. I curl up and tears stream down my face and my head swirls round and round.  I can't move. I can't vocalize. I don't function.

What I've found I have to do is label the bricks. Try to identify them. And visually, forcibly, remove them from my back, off my shoulders, out of my lap, and set them down. Sometimes I can set them aside. Sometimes I don't know where to put them, and I have to give them to Father in Heaven and ask Him to take care of them for me. I have to recognize if I'm carrying the bricks that belong to someone else, taking on their stress or responsibility.

Sometimes the bricks are fragile and whe I go to pick them up, the bricks in that particular pile will break apart and fall back down on me, and I have to pick each piece up carefully and set it aside gently, because those feelings are so real and so raw.

And if someone comes along and asks "how are you?" I smile cheerfully. I answer the phone as though nothing is wrong. Even if they could see the bricks, they would not recognize what I was doing. I just try to shrug and make it look like there is nothing wrong.  I'm quite good at it actually. There probably isn't anyone I came in contact with today that realized just how much I was struggling. 

At least, until Joe called. Somehow he could tell, even before he called.  Maybe he read my last post, maybe he was just prompted.  I don't know. But I hope he also knows how much it means that he did call. That he does care. That he listens to me and doesn't make me feel bad for being weighed down by my load of bricks today. That he doesn't remind me it's all just in my head. That he doesn't make me feel like I'm just wrong for how I feel.

Thank you Joe. And thank you Father, for a brother who loves me so much. And for helping me to know...

I will be okay. One brick, one day, at a time.

11:00 and All's Well!

Do you remember watching Disney's Robin Hood as a kid?  Ry's sister Barb bought it for our family when we were little and it never ceases to entertain me.  I don't know how many hundreds of times I have watched that and still love every bit of it.  Okay, so that has nothing to do with my post except for the part where the Nutsy is on guard duty and yells out "All's Well!"

Everything IS much better today.  I only got woken up three times last night by the kiddos, took another nap this morning, and another this afternoon. Sleep always helps.  And a nice conversation with my man helped too.

And I realized that it might be helpful for y'all to know really where I'm at. On a scale of 0-100, with 0 being no depression whatsoever and 100 being properly diagnosed as clinically depressed and in need of intervention.... I was at about 1,000 for 18 months after Jonnie was born and my anxiety levels were at 10,000.  Yesterday -- I was about 20. Today, I'm at a 1.  No big deal.

Today I laughed, I joked, I sang. Three songs in fact -  all with my kids. We played Boggle and listened to Carolina give her oral report on the Statue of Liberty for Family Night, after reading the prophet Joseph Smith's teachings on prayer. I played hide and seek with Jonnie and his blanket before bedtime, went shopping with Tali and Ty, and bought posterboard to make Daisy's student of the week poster with.

And,  I got a call back on an application and set up a job interview for tomorrow. Wish me luck, I might just get it.

Life is good. 

Seizures

Taliesin had another seizure yesterday morning. Many of you might remember that he had some about a year ago, and after mega testing, nothing could be found wrong.  The doctors decided that it was his response to injury or perceived trauma.  Gratefully, that's all it is.  No major medical issues, he just goes into a seizure when another person might get a bit dizzy or possibly faint.

It stresses me out. Big time.

I remain calm, take care of him while he is convulsing, and reassure him when he comes to again.  This time he went into shock afterward, and I even dealt with that calmly too.  After he was stable, I smiled, told him everything would be fine, reminded him that he is okay, and babied him for a bit until he felt better and was back up playing with the kids and reading books.

I'm grateful I know how to help him when this happens.  I'm grateful we still had insurance to do the testing the first time this happened. I'm grateful that the burns on his fingers yesterday were minor and easily treatable. I'm grateful it's such a minor thing to deal with.

But while it might be minor physiologically, it is major stress on me emotionally, and I wish someone were here to reassure me.

You see it's not the only seizure I'm dealing with. Depression is seizing my heart again today. I can't let it. I can't give in.  I'm fighting it. I'm not going to cave. I won't let my life go back to that sinkhole. I refuse to let the stress and discouragement take over. I will claw my way out of its grips fighting tooth and nail. I won't go back there.

I'm filling my life with service and gratitude and hope. I'm insisting on being better. But I'm also angry. I'm angry that I'm fighting this right now after I've made so much progress.  I'm angry that I can't curl up in a ball on Ryan's lap and have him tell me everything will be okay, and that I'll get through this.  I'm angry that I can't change the fact that he can't be here right now.

I know this is temporary. I know that it is just a new twist in the road and that I'll straighten myself out.  It's just the stress of the last couple days getting to me. It's just for today. Tomorrow I'll be find. I know that I'm being a wimp. I know there are millions of people dealing with something so much harder and bigger than my temporary grief. I know that I will get through this.  I'll be okay.  I just miss having someone here to help me through my seizures, today.  I miss him so much.

Typing and writing it down helps though.  I don't need anyone to listen, just expressing it helps.  I have God's grace and love and reassurance that I will be okay, and that with His help I am stronger than this. And I'm grateful.  Ever so grateful.

I'll sleep. I'll eat better. I'll drink more water. I'll take my vitamins. I'll serve others more thoughtfully. I'll pray for my children. I'll pray for my man. I'll be okay. I'll throw myself into my projects and find more trust. More patience. More love. More empathy. More kindness. More temperance. I'll push the emptiness out of my heart and fill it with gratitude and joy.  It's Thanksgiving. I am thankful. I won't let today become me. I am better than this.

Tomorrow is a new day.

in my own little hole

Sometimes I just want to curl up in my own little hole, and stay there.  I know I should write it out instead, but I don't want to, so I'm not going to. Too much, too hard to articulate, so much to process. Maybe another day, but today, if you need me, I'll be in my hole.

Friends

Originally posted February 4, 2009

Christmas morning, best friends.

Have you ever imagined life without friends?  I told you this blog was partly to answer the question “how do I do it?”  I can tell you - the only way my family has made it through the past two months is because of help and love and support from friends.  So this post is a tribute to them.  Thought it seems woefully inadequate for what we feel in our hearts -- Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I am humbled by the love and friendship you have all given me in so many ways, and by the grace of God that I have so many friends when I feel so undeserving.

To Alina and Ellen, for rescuing my house, taking such a tremendous load off of Ryan, and helping me laugh. 

To Rich, for giving Ryan a much needed break.

To Nan, for loving me and caring. 

To Joe, for being the best big brother anyone could ever ask for. 

To Vicki, for taking me to the sunshine, and reaching out to me with so much understanding.  

To her kids and family, for letting her and Alina leave for so long!

To Becky, for letting me get some much needed naps!

To Cicile, for the VERY well timed treat of pizza for dinner!

To Valena, for caring and understanding. 

To Sil, for giving me a hug and reminding me sometimes a mother’s love doesn’t always have to come from my mom.

To Vana, for sending hope along with the sweet letter.

To Carmen, for stopping by and asking questions, and for your sweet concern. Thanks.

To Danielle, for calling to see if I was okay, and calling again when I didn’t answer the phone. 

To Val, for not freaking out when I was freaking out.

To Natalie, for being a friend without needing to understand.

To Laura, for babysitting and being so willing to. 

To Mercy, for smiling and being my right hand.

To Taliesin, for rocking Jonnie and taking care of Brae.

To Tyler, for missing me.

To Valena, for letting your girls come help clean the house.

To Grandma Nancy, for the blanket of love and sweet note.

To Jill for taking over the regional presentation - and for helping me talk through my fears. 

To Shauna, for picking up what I had to drop, and not making me feel bad for it.   

To Laura and Heather for picking up the pieces of my team.

To Rebecca, AnnMaree, Tina, Susan, Heather, Laura, Shauna, Bobbi, Valena, and everyone else, who have emailed your love and support.

And to all of your families too!

And last but not least, to Ryan.  Thank you for not leaving me alone, for holding me when I cried, and for helping me take it one day at a time.  You’ve been amazing.

Tripping...

This was originally posted January 12, 2009. Anyone who knew me knew I sold Usborne Books, and loved doing so. The trips were amazing, the people are amazing, and I am incredibly grateful for the experience and the ways it has enriched my life, and my family's life.

January 12, 2009

If I were the Usborne Wonder Woman, I would have my January calendar all booked. I would have my book club orders in. I would even know where to find my new title flyers.  I definitely would have all the inventory that someone borrowed in December put back in the closet where it goes.  Ha Ha Ha. 

Here is what I have done for Usborne in January. 

1. Spa Day retreat with my team -- but that was prepared for before the baby came. 

2.  Talked on the phone with Jill Cox planning our class for regionals... but really she’s an awesome friend and helped me talk through the PPD more than anything and is finishing everything needed for the class.  So I can barely count this.

 And written a newsletter article at HO’s request.

The Home Office must have caught me on a good day because I haven’t been working Usborne at all.  Not a single outgoing phone call.  Crazily, I said yes, I’d write the article. Now, Ry and I have talked about earning this trip before, and we decided that yes, I could work toward it but not focus on it.  Instead, I would focus on the input like I always tell my team to do and if the trip works out - great! 

So, I wrote the article.  It was before I realized and way before Ryan realized how full blown the PPD had become. 

When you read it -- you’ll really think I’m crazy. (And you’d be right!!) 

Normally, February is a great month to schedule a lot in because I don’t have kids sports games going on, no gymnastics competitions, no voice recitals, and everyone has their tax returns so sales are great! It’s a month I can put a lot of Usborne time in without it really killing my family. 

Not this year.  It has become apparent that I will not be doing that.  I won’t be doing anything until I can spend a whole day out with my kids without getting completely wound up. 

So for now -- the trip is on indefinite hold.  The only miracle way that trip will happen is if my school/library orders that I worked on last September come through. Then maybe, just maybe... I might still see you on the beach.

Bottomline -- don’t think I’m “tripping” when you read the article... there is no way I’ll put the trip before my health or family. 

(As always, I love to hear your comments.  Drop me an email at bookwishlist@myubah.com)

A Good Day With PPD

Originally Posted January 10, 2009

If you've ever had a kid then you know people always ask about the baby.  "How is the new baby?"  they'll say.  "How are you liking that new baby?"  and "Aren't you just loving that new baby?" 

My response "Oh, he's so cute!"  And he is. The truth is, the baby is fine.  I like the baby. I love the baby. 

Some very thoughtful people who know I've struggled with postpartum depression in the past even ask about me.  "How are you doing?"  they'll say.  "How are you holding up?"  And I say "I'm doing okay!  Ryan's been awesome and we're lucky he's been able to be home with the kids to help so much."

And, that's the truth.  Ryan is awesome, he has been SO very extremely helpful. And I am okay.  After all, I'm not drowning the kids like you sadly hear about sometimes in the news.  I'm not even stabbing myself like 'this woman' did.  And, the very fact that I am talking to them in person or on the phone means that I really am doing okay - that day.  There are, after all, times when I can psyche myself up to function and talk myself into doing something fairly normal like having a conversation with someone.  But for those who really dig deeper, and I mean dig because I'm not the one to usually spill my guts unless you do dig... here is the bigger truth.

The bigger truth is that indeed, I have PPD again.  I thought I was doing pretty well.  I think I was really.  And then I had trouble nursing the baby because I got some flesh eating bacteria and nursing was out of the question, so I started pumping when absolutely necessary and bottle feeding formula the rest of the time.  The result?  My hormones shifted WAY to fast and furious I guess... because I got slammed and knocked on my rear and PPD this time took on a whole new form of torture. 

I have good days.  These are the days where I spend most of my time in my bedroom but I'm not crying the whole day, just part of it.  The children will run in and out of my room and talk to me and I can handle it for the most part or at least for short periods of time before I redirect them to "go get a drink" or "go check on your brother" or "go... whatever."  I do enjoy them around me, just for very short periods of time and not all at once and not if they are talking much above a loud whisper.  

I know that it is crazy to have this many children and yet not be able to tolerate them around me and I have to remind myself that again it is the rollercoaster of hormonal and chemical imbalance raging within me that causes me to be so sensitive to overstimulation because that's not how I feel.  I feel completely wound up and like a horrible mother because I am and because it takes so much work for me to have them around me for more than 30 seconds before I want to freak out on them.  Everything is magnified. Smells, feelings, and sounds especially.  But I am grateful too.  Grateful that I have learned methods of coping with this from past experiences so that even though I am feeling like a crazed psychotic woman -- at least I am not acting like a scary mother from hell. Odd yes, and they do notice that I'm different... but still I'm grateful that I have learned that I can close my eyes and breathe instead of scream and yell.  I can ask them to leave when I first feel the keyed up feelings instead of waiting til I'm past my blowing point. I'm grateful that I have children who still run back in a few minutes later because they love me. 

Today is a good day, and I'm glad for it.  Now if I could only get my good days to be my bad days I'd feel much better.  

(As always, I love to hear your comments.  Drop me an email at bookwishlist@myubah.com)

A Single Rose...

Originally posted January 10, 2009

Bouncing a screaming baby as you walk up and down the hall isn’t anything new.  Anyone who has ever had kids knows what I’m talking about.  Well, that’s what I did tonight. At 8:30 I said prayers with the children and put them to bed. At 8:31 Jonnie started screaming because ... a bubble?  I’m not sure but I think that’s why. (If you are one of those really great moms who has it figured out why the baby is screaming this time... feel free to leave me your great wisdom.)

Walk down the hall bouncing my screaming baby.

Walk back down the hall and put Braelin back in bed.

Walk down the hall bouncing.

Walk back and put Braelin in bed again.

Bounce the baby.

Put Braelin in bed.

Bounce the baby.

Put Braelin in bed.

You get the picture.  This continued from 8:30 til 10:00 when the baby finally fell asleep.  Then I picked Braelin up and started walking him up and down the hall.  I know, I should be firm and make him stay in bed, but what can I say?  He just had his world rocked with a new baby too, so I’m a pushover. 

Well, that worked great til 10:10 when the baby woke back up screaming. Braelin went back to bed, I bounced Jonnie again and we started the process all over.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed.

Bounce, put Braelin in bed. 

At 10:30 I finally gave up on keeping Braelin in bed. Jonnie went back to sleep at 11:05.  At 11:10 I could hear Ryan walk in the door from a late night at work. And, at 11:11, the baby woke back up. I put my head in my hands and let him cry for a minute before I picked him back up and started bouncing again... but as I reached the end of the hallway, Ryan was there holding a single red rose.   

And that’s how I’m able to still keep doing what I do...   Thanks Ryan.

(To my readers: As always, I love to hear your comments!  Drop me an email at bookwishlist@myubah.com)

Why The Blog?

Originally posted in January, 2009
This was the original description of my blog... way back when.  

I’ve been thinking about blogging for a while now because if I had a quarter for every time I’ve been asked the question “How do you do it?”  I would have enough saved up to buy my own private jet. Apparently it is a major feat to raise seven children, run my business, and still make it out the door with matching shoes on. People either think I’m superwoman (I’m not) or they think I must be a neglectful mother whose life is eaten up by her business (it’s not, at least not most days).  So, I decided to blog a little about my life and let people really see me.  And that’s the other reason for the blog... because when I was little, If I was having a hard time something, my mom would tell me “Write it down!” Ever since, writing has been a good release.  Sometimes writing it down helps me to see things what they are, so if I really AM being neglectful that day, I’ll recognize it.  So to all of you reading this -- thanks!  And I hope it is helpful in some way, because more than anything that’s what I want it to be.  -- Rachel