Just a pothole.

Yesterday I wrote a post based upon how I was feeling in one very specific moment in time.  I wrote it for a very important and specific reason.  I wanted to remind myself (and you) that in the midst of feeling that way, I knew I was fine.  (I am sorry if doing so concerned you.)

Mamas, I wrote that post with good intentions.  Mostly because I want you to know that it is okay, normal and common, to feel that way sometimes.  To let you know that I, in the midst of a very healthy postpartum experience with L2, feel that way on occasion.

About a year ago, Nana died.  Nana was my husband's grandmother.  I can't tell you how amazing and resilient she was.  Raised six children on her own, working three jobs to do it.  Amazing faith.  Incredible ability to offer unconditional love to some fairly unlovable people in others' eyes.  I wrote this post during that time.  In it, I shared my perspective on bad days vs. suffering from a mood disorder.

Let me take you there...
Imagine riding in a car as a blind person.  The car is being driven by someone else, but you can feel each and every turn, bump, stop and go.  After a particularly smooth patch of road, you feel a bump and then a falling sensation.  You can't see what's ahead of you.  You're unsure of how long you'll be falling or where you'll land when you stop.  You know that the possibility to fall a far distance, if you've made a wrong turn, is there.  That there might be a valley or cliff ahead.  You also know that potholes are common on this road and that while they might leave the car with a flat tire that you won't be injured by them and you'll be able to quickly move forward and still arrive at your destination.

So which is it?  When you feel that dip in your mood, that lack of motivation, that sadness or inability to enjoy things as you usually do, how can you tell?

From my perspective, there are two responses.  There's the fairly objective clinical answer:  A Major Depressive Episode, as defined by the DSM-IV lasts for two or more weeks.  It lasts most of the day, everyday, during that period.  There's also a subjective method.  Have you been able to trust your gut or the input of someone close to you in the past?  Are you self-aware or is there someone in your life that really knows you and can evaluate your mood?  If so, you may be able to easily discern whether what you are experiencing is a pothole or a cliff.  In fact, bad days are often potholes and not cliffs.

I am grateful that yesterday was a pothole.  It was a small one.  A tiny reminder, from my perspective, to be ever so grateful for my health.  For the beauty of this experience with my baby.  To treasure each and every moment with him, even at 3am.  To know that I can feel sad, and I will feel better soon.

Friends, I know that's not always the case.  I want to let you know that some bad days and weeks become cliffs.  That it's important to reach out for help and share how you're feeling with someone you trust.  It's also important, though, to remind yourself that even when you're well, there will be bad days.  That there is no need to panic.  That sadness or irritability can be a sign of something other than PPD.  That you will be sensitive and maybe even overly aware of your mood and behaviors after surviving a PMAD.

Being aware is the greatest response you can offer yourself as a Survivor Mama.  Be aware and be conscious.  Try to stay in the moment, and not to catastrophize.  To give yourself permission to experience life differently in various circumstances or on different days.  To know that your loved ones may jump to conclusions or pathologize a normal bad day.  That they are doing it because they care.  That you'll need to be honest with yourself and them once you know whether it's a pothole or a cliff or if you can't determine which it is.

Taking care of yourself means allowing your emotions, but also not letting them control your destiny.  It means loving yourself enough to be just aware enough to protect yourself or ask for help, if needed, but not so overly aware that you aren't able to live in the moment.

If there's anything I know for certain, whether pothole or cliff, you can and will find the road again.  And once you're back on it, your destination will eventually be in sight.

Write. Just write.

Recently, I've begun a lot of posts that were never finished or posted.  I've breathed deeply, watched movies, worked late into the night, cried, held my babies, laughed, drunk wine with friends.  Made lists.  Been mindful.  Repeated mantras.

But it's still there.

That familiar dull ache, that sharpens at times and wells the eyes.  The fatigue and invisible pull at the corners of the mouth that makes frowning much less effort than smiling.  The not returning calls.  The lack of motivation to get dressed in the morning.  Not taking my vitamins.  The questioning myself.  The guilt.

There are a couple of twinges.  Ones in my lower abdomen.  It's not pain, per se, but more of an ache.  It could be PMS, I tell myself.  But then there's the other ache.  The one in my gut.  In my heart.  No, not again.  I've been well.  It's been good.  I don't have PPD.  Not this time...

I am. Because they were.

Please know that as tempted as I have been, this post is not intended to be a way for me to use this blog as a platform to pontificate about the recent Penn State scandal or garner support for Joe Paterno.  In fact, ironically, just before the scandal, I had already posted a video and analogy comparing Survivor Mamas and their support for one another with Penn State football.

This post is however, a bit of a tribute, I'll admit.  Not only to Joe Paterno, but  more importantly to my grandfather.  He was my guardian, my ally, my number one teacher (in academics and life).  He inspired me and encouraged me to be the best I could be, in the midst of the hellish way his own daughter was raising me.  And, he was a Penn State Alum, and was a prouder Penn Stater than anyone I've ever known, and was Joe's biggest fan, as far as I can tell.

On July 4, 1904, Jesse James was born into this world in a farmhouse in western Pennsylvania.  A "firecracker"  upon arrival for obvious reasons, he became even more-so as his life played out.  At 16 or 17, after walking miles to school daily, dealing with cold Pennsylvania winters on the farm, and helping to raise his younger brothers and sisters in a family of 11, right after high school graduation, he headed to The Pennsylvania State Teachers' College.  Whatever or wherever that was, it later in the century became a part of Penn State, where my great-uncle Louis, Jesse's younger brother, was a prized boxer.  Jesse spent several years earning his Education degree and then in his early twenties returned to western Pennsylvania to teach 33 and a half years of English to High School students.  A beloved, but admittedly strict, teacher, he taught at the same school his entire career.

Things weren't easy for my grandfather.  His father was tough on him and physical punishments were a reality of their lifestyle.  Being the second oldest boy in the family meant the majority of farm-work rested on his shoulders.  Work didn't start in your teens like it does now.  He was put to work as soon as he could walk and talk.  One day, when he was five, he and his older brother were chopping wood for the stove.  His brother was using the ax and my grandfather was placing the logs, one after another, on the chopping block.  After several hours of this repetitive and exhausting work, his brother's aim was off.  Up and then down went the ax.  It hit the wood, albeit at an awkward angle.  But first, it's aim was instead directly at Jesse's hand.  His middle, ring, and pinky fingers were cleanly removed in one fell swoop.

Grandpa never complained about that.  Never mentioned the pain, except that of his brother and feeling sorry for the guilt that cutting off his own brother's fingers must have caused him.  I was mesmerized by that hand.  It was so strong and beautiful, though my friends wouldn't have described it that way.  They were scared of it.  I, was intrigued by it.

Grandpa and I used to take walks.  Everyday, we'd walk up his hilly street, across an empty lot to the street above ours, down the busy road, in front of the large Catholic church were my grandparents went only to vote, and then back down the small hill to their house.  I'd hold his hand, the "damaged" one for the whole walk, no matter whether I really needed to or not.  He needed his "good" hand for his cane.  Most days, that's the only time my grandpa spent outside the house, off of his favorite couch cushion.  Not that he was a couch potato, no, no one would ever have called Jesse James that.  Weighing 145 pounds at 6 feet & 2 inches, Jesse was far from lazy or gluttonous.

I guess I should pause to tell you two things about Grandpa that might explain a lot.  First, he was in the Army as a young man and while doing a training exercise during boot camp he hit his head.  He had a stroke during that episode and no one will ever know for sure whether the stroke caused him to make that mistake or the head injury caused the stroke.  Either way, the doctors assured his family that death was imminent and that even if by some miracle my grandfather would live, that he would most certainly never walk or talk again.  Secondly, Grandpa was 72 when I was born to my 22 year old mother.  Yep, he had had her at 50!  While my mother was probably not only too ill, but too young, to have a child, if she hadn't had me then, I might have never developed a relationship with the most important person of my lifetime.

So...back to those walks.  During walks Grandpa would often tell me stories.  Not just silly made up tales of princesses and fairies, but real, true stories.  Of his students, his siblings, his childhood.  On one afternoon I recall asking Grandpa about his hand.  Oh, I'd heard the story of how his fingers had been cut off so many times I could recite it verbatim.  I was five or so myself and was beginning to write letters and words.  I knew I was clearly right-handed, but I had a couple off classmates who had to ask for the special, "left-handed" scissors when we worked on cutting.  This day, I had realized that my grandfather, too, was a right-hander.  With my own awareness of how difficult it was to work on your penmanship, even with all five fingers, I was astounded that Grandpa's handwriting was legible with only two and a half!  "Grandpa, why do you write with your right hand?  Wouldn't it be so much easier to use the hand that has all five fingers?", I asked.  "No, honey, it wasn't for me", he said.  He went on to tell me that his Kindergarten teacher had insisted for nearly an entire school year that he use his left hand, despite his proclamation that he had been right handed before the accident and that just because he didn't have many fingers on that hand anymore didn't mean that this brain had changed.  She would taunt him and punish him each time she saw him with a pencil in his right hand, so he had had no choice but to learn to write with his left hand.  It was uncomfortable, unnatural and difficult, but he did it anyway.  At home, when alone, he continued practicing with his right hand, convinced that when he had a choice about things he would practice with his right hand.  Each letter, over and over, until his writing was legible.

As it turns out, Grandpa got his favorite teacher the following year and she not only allowed him to use his right hand, but encouraged him and helped him to learn to do so more easily.  She embraced who he was and how he was.  She didn't try to change him; she just loved him and accepted him.  Another lesson learned.

Late in his life, Jesse's daily living was challenging and his world very small.  He was no longer allowed to drive a car.  His youngest daughter was mentally ill and all but expected him to raise her daughter and was stealing money from him.  His son's life was a mess.  His wife was was beginning to develop Alzheimer's symptoms at a rapid rate and his oldest and only stable daughter was living states away.  He rarely saw 7 of his 8 grandchildren, and he often didn't leave his tiny house for weeks.  Yet, my grandfather hadn't changed a bit.  He got dressed everyday (always in a Penn State sweatshirt, no matter the season, mind you).  He sat on his couch cushion and looked out the window, marveling at God's creation.  He watched "church" on Sunday morning TV.  Read the newspaper cover to cover.  Waited anxiously for the mailman to deliver his monthly Sports Illustrated.  Allowed me to do front handsprings over his love-seat.  Grinned like he'd won the lottery every single time I entered the room.

I am who I am thanks to my grandfather.  My story is what it is because Grandpa encouraged me to go to Penn State. By the time I got there in 1995, Joe Paterno had impacted the university so much that I was a direct recipient of the school spirit, quality education and strategy of focusing on the "we" in everything that was a part of his grand experiment, thereby making me a tiny piece of it.  When faced with adversity in the early days of motherhood, Grandpa had been long gone, having died in 1996.  I couldn't turn to him for support or help, the way my mom had when I, as a colicky infant, was held and rocked all day long by her father.  It did happen to be football season that fall of 2007 when L1 was born, though, and each time I watched a PSU game and saw Joe run onto the field I would see in him my grandfather.  Those rolled khakis would make me smile as much as I could while being wracked with PPD, and that pumping raised fist (even when playing the toughest opponents) would remind me that I was going to win my battle with PPD, no matter how hard it was.

I'll leave you with what I learned from these two amazing men in my life.

• Never give up.  Challenges are opportunities to persevere.
• You learn much more from losing than you do by winning.
• Stay positive and humble.
• There is no "I" in TEAM.
• Education is the most important thing in life.
• Be loyal to your family, friends, school, and self.
• Vote Republican. ~Okay that was a joke, but probably isn't too far off base. ;-)

Who are you?  Who helped you become this special, unique person that you ARE?

Case Western offers an opportunity for you to participate in their research

Nursing and Psychology researchers from Case Western Reserve University are conducting a study about postpartum depression and internet use in women who experienced a high risk pregnancy. If you are a mother who is at least 18 years old, was on bed rest during your most recent pregnancy and have a baby between 2 weeks and 6 months of age, we invite you to take part in this study. For more information and to participate, clink on this link.

Someday you'll be...

Dear new or suffering Mama,

I am so sorry that you are struggling right now.  I know almost exactly how you feel.  The overwhelming sense of loss and being lost.  The constant questioning and pleading with God or yourself to turn back time.  The exhaustion paired with insomnia.  The anxiety.  The deep, deep depression.  The self-hatred.  The discomfort in your own skin.  All of that and more.  It's awful and my heart bleeds for you.

I want to make you a promise, though.  One of these days you'll be "just" a regular mom.  It might not happen for a while.  (For me it didn't.)  But, it will happen.

The other day I was driving down the highway.  I had just participated in the Martin Luther King Day of Service at my church.  My husband had been there, too, for part of the day.  He left during lunch, to get some rest after spending a week out of town working and then hosting L2's Baptism the previous day.  L1 and I had enjoyed the concert at church that followed lunch and L2 was in and out of the church Nursery, dividing his time between dancing with me and playing with other wee ones.

After the concert, I packed up our stuff and my two kids and loaded us all into the mini-van.  Then, L1 realized he had left Buster in the church.  I certainly couldn't leave my kids in the car unattended, so we all piled out and walked back into the church to retrieve our "pet".  Once back in the van for the second time, we actually buckled in and took off.  L1 chattered in the backseat and L2 chilled out in his carseat, probably sucking his toes or something.  I was wearing a smile, feeling fulfilled as a servant of Christ and like we had honored MLK Jr. properly that day.  I was also so proud of my friends who had planned the event.

About halfway home, I looked into my rear-view mirror and saw my boys in a way I hadn't before.  I saw them as just my kids.  Not my PPD babies, not as little beings who had rocked my world, not as whiny creatures.  Just as children.  My loves.  And me?  Their mama.  Not their PPD Mama.  Just their mom.  Driving a minivan.  Getting her child baptized.  Going home to clean and cook and work.  And to love and raise my kids.

And that's when I realized...I'm just a regular mom.  And someday you'll be one, too.

500 and 8

The post is a sort of milestone.  It's my 500th at Beyond Postpartum.

This blog began as a tool aimed at healing.  I knew that writing about my experience would help me vent about, organize my thoughts around, and even mark my recovery progress through postpartum depression and anxiety.  I purposely named it "Atlanta PPD Mom" initially, hoping not only to describe myself, but to be easily found in a web search in case other women in the area needed what I had felt was lacking when I was struggling...a friendly face, open ear and shoulder to lean or cry on.

Early on in my posts, I advertised the things I was getting involved in.  These included new moms' small groups, an in-person support group that is still meeting, and the non-profit organizations related to mental health that I have volunteered with over the four years.

When people from areas other than Atlanta began to reach out to me and I began getting a good response to writing about my own experience and sharing links to good articles, I expanded the blog a bit.  I began my unintentional journey into being a "writer" something I certainly enjoy and that kind of defines me in a way now.

Over the years I've grown in so many ways.  I'm a more confident and content mother.  I'm more grounded by my faith and committed to sharing my experiences with it and being in fellowship with others who are open-minded (if not like-minded) about it.  I hope believe my writing has improved.  I pray God will continue to use me as a vehicle to reach others and offer hope or inspiration.

Most of all, I would like to thank you, the readers.  Each time I felt more overwhelmed by writing than encouraged by it you gave me permission to take a break or encouraged me to write it out.  You've been dedicated to walking my journey with me, whether we know one another in real-life or not.  You've supported one another through PPDChat, Facebook, comments and in other ways.  You've let me and others know we aren't alone by sharing your very personal and moving stories.  You are simply amazing.

Today is a special day for another reason.  L2 is 8 months old.  2/3 of a year.  That?  Is incredibly joyous and terrifying in the same moment.  I have so much to celebrate and also find myself grieving a bit.  This time I was present and well as he reached each developmental milestone and turned from a newborn to an infant to a baby and now practically a toddler.  He is a healthy baby and if you knew him you might even say one of the happiest babies ever.  What a wonderful "problem" to have to mourn my baby growing up instead of wishing he would grow up as fast as possible.  What a joy to find myself in constant awe of this experience of motherhood through a different lens.  What a blessing is the healing that has come to my relationship with my first boy from falling in love with my second boy.  God is good.

500 and 8.  Yep, they are perfect.  Just perfect.

Not perfect.

Yesterday I got a New Year's card and letter from some family friends.  In the beautiful photo, they are posed in front of their Christmas tree; their three children, two daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren (one of whom must have only been about 3 weeks old) with what appear to be genuine smiles filled with the joy of a special family holiday.  It was exciting to see how these little boys I had grown up with had become men and how their lives appear to be blossoming.  My heart was warmed for them.

Then, I opened the letter.  I read the standard updates on who was living where and working at what kind of jobs.  I took in that one of their children had had two babies in less than 16 months.  Then, I did the math.  Holy crow!  I looked at the beautiful newborn being held by the lovely woman married to the middle son and realized she must barely be healed, yet looked nicely made-up and fairly well-rested.

I read on about their youngest who is doing everything that makes a great resume.  Embarking on adventures and engaging in healthy hobbies.  Volunteering for incredible non-profit organizations.  Still working with the company he started with years ago.

And then, I broke my own rule.  I made up all sorts of unfair comparisons in my head.  I ruminated about how the trajectory of my own life and those around me could have been different if only we'd had those genes or that environment in which to grow up.  I even apologized to my own son, who has begun to show evidence of a bit of his own anxiety for passing on the genetic predisposition to mental health issues.  It's not his fault that his grandmother, mother and others in his family have issues and I felt overwhelmed with sadness and guilt about it.

After the kids were in bed, M and I got into a terrible argument.  I was infuriated and frustrated and overwhelmed with my own stuff and was taking it out on him.  He was pissed (rightfully so) that I had "apologized" to a four year old who couldn't have possibly gotten any good out of my confession.  No amount of small talk that followed could undo the damage of what could have been a night of cuddling and watching movies on the couch.  We went to bed without saying goodnight.

This morning, the tension was less, but still palpable.  The clarity that morning and a good cup of coffee bring allowed me to be more positive and less apprehensive about the future.

Just a few days ago I was marveling in conversation with a friend about how even the most put-together and strong, sensible people seem to have a lot of baggage once I actually get to know them.  Women I have become close to recently have so much more life experience and "stuff" than I ever would have dreamed.  Why hadn't I applied this insight to my own life???  The lesson learned is not that everyone is messed up, but rather that I'm not the only one who has overcome trauma and grief in order to become an upstanding citizen.

The bigger lesson is that God gives us exactly the right gifts and strength to deal with the life that we create and that circumstance shapes.  My faith is bigger and greater than comparing my family to others' or catastrophizing the challenges my son may face.

This is the photo and quote that sit in front of me as I type.  Speaks volumes, no?

Life isn't perfect, 

but love doesn't care.

~author unknown

Without looking behind.

Too many people enter the new year by listing the things that they've done in the past and putting a big red slash through them.  Resolute to "stop the madness" and lose weight, exercise more, read the Bible in a year, stop swearing, etc.  While resolving to make positive changes seems like a great thing, I contend that resolutions are a bit of an irony because of the negativity involved in the reflection that is necessary to think about what you want to do differently.

Instead, this year I am going to resolve to (or rather, ahem, attempt to) focus my eyes ahead.  Instead of mourning the infant that is behind me, to embrace the toddler that is just ahead of me, with the joys and challenges that accompany a mobile second child.  Instead of considering how often I might have been tired and irritable in 2011, to strive to be calm and positive when I speak to my husband and sons in 2012.  To nourish and strengthen my relationships and embrace those that are just sprouting in 2012, rather than ruminate over those that were not what I expected them to be.

Sure, a new year is just a formality in most ways.  It's only turning the page of a calendar, but yet it does give us the opportunity to intentionally begin again.

Cheers to looking ahead,

~ For those of you who enjoy the Bible, here's the inspirational verse for this post:

But Jesus said to him, "No one, after putting his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God." Luke 9:62

What would you tell yourself?

I saw this video on Facebook this afternoon and I just couldn't resist.  The video is touching, but more than the video, I love the question. And I really love thinking about the answers...

So, if you could go back and hug yourself in the days or weeks before you had your first baby and whisper just one thing into your own ear, what would it be?

p.s. Ironically (or maybe not) the video screenshot is of the message that I would tell my very own self, "Forgive yourself."

The Emory Women's Mental Health Program rings in the New Year with a new website

The Emory Women's Mental Health Clinic is a gem for Atlanta and a benefit for those in the Southeast United States and well beyond.  For years the program and its doctors and researchers have provided exceptional care to women in the metro area.  Recently, Dr. Zachary Stowe, who had begun the program in 1991 and led it for twenty years, accepted a position at the University of Arkansas.  Now led by its new Director, Dr. D. Jeffrey Newport, the program is rapidly changing and expanding.

The Clinic is a wonderful center of care for all women with mood issues, but particularly for women in the period of pregnancy and postpartum.  The Emory WMHP is an incredible resource where treatment specific to the needs of women at this stage and based upon decades of research and experience can be guaranteed.  If you or a family member or friend live in the Atlanta area and are pregnant, postpartum or considering becoming pregnant and are aware of risk factors you may have that could contribute to or exacerbate a perinatal mood or anxiety disorder, please visit the new website.

Here are some quick links for you:
Contact information 
Their blog- a new feature!
For new patients

I personally am so grateful for this resource, as I recommend nearly all the Atlanta women who contact me for referrals, to them.  I am also incredibly thankful to know Dr. Newport, Bettina and Jill personally, as they are the lifeblood (with the research assistants) of the program and are not only incredibly gifted, but truly wonderful people all around.

Happy New Year!