Keeping it Real

This is a hard post for me. I’m just gonna be honest. 

I’m usually pretty much an open book. I don’t really have boundaries and if you ask me a question I’m most likely going to be pretty honest (maybe even a little too honest). But one thing that’s really hard to talk about is when I’m struggling with something. I’ve always been that way. But I don't want my social media accounts to just be a highlight reel. I want them to be real, raw, and honest.

I lost my mom to breast cancer when I was 14 and I was always told how strong I was. People would say things like “I don’t know how you got through that.” Or “if you need anything, I’m here.” And while I know people truly meant that, I am not one to reach out when I am struggling. My husband will be the first to tell you that I am really good at holding things in and then basically exploding. He’ll sit wide eyed, trying to process all the things he’s done over the last 6 months that have upset me that I never mentioned to him. And of course, I’ve thought about them daily for the last 6 months exaggerating them a million times in my own brain. 

I don’t understand it either, but it’s just the way my brain works.  

I don’t like to admit I’m struggling. Plain and simple.

If you’ve read my birth blog post or the one from Nehem’s first month-ish of life, you know it was pretty hectic. We were in and out of the hospital, 3 major surgeries, a lot of decisions had to be made, a lot of conversations about treatment plans, pain medicine and everything was focused around him. We were running from appointments with this specialist, follow up with this doctor, SB Clinic, MRI’s, and ultrasounds--all while running back and forth to Nashville . When we finally were getting settled at home, we were given the opportunity to move into our church's parsonage, so we ended up moving. This resulted in late nights, paint colors, U-haul trucks, packing and unpacking...you know, normal moving stuff. After we moved, I had 1 week left of maternity leave. 

When I went back to work, it was October and the school year was already rolling. I was jumping in head first. I was trying to find out a secret that everyone else was already in on. I was meeting my new students, catching up with old students, getting acquainted to a new school, holding meetings, and calling parents. Downtime wasn’t something that was just overflowing at this point.

Before I knew it, it was January and I was 6 months postpartum. Things had slowed down. I had gotten into a routine of being a working mom. Shane was assuming his responsibilities of being a work-from-home Dad. And kicking butt at it, if I may say so myself. 

But I wasn’t happy. I went to school. I went through the motions. I came home, put my butt in the recliner and told Shane everything he was doing wrong. I didn’t understand why he didn’t load the dishwasher the way I did or dress Nehem the way I thought he should. Why didn’t he wash and fold all the laundry and make the bed with every throw pillow in it’s spot every single day? If you’re wondering, it’s because he was taking care of an infant while working a full time ministry job and keep his head above water. I’m sure you figured that out already, but my brain didn’t process it at the time.

I would have done anything to get to just be at home every day, so why did I have to be punished by still having to do “housework” when I got home? Why couldn’t I just sit and hold the baby while the world went on around me?

I remember sitting in the recliner one evening. Bawling my eyes out because I had just put Shane through the ringer. I had bashed him as a husband, a father, a pastor, and a man. And he, being the loving man and husband that he is, just walked away. He went into his office and shut the door. He didn’t walk away from me because he didn’t love me, but because, even though I had said so many hurtful, ugly things that I regret, he didn’t want to say something he would regret in defending himself. (Even though, if I'm being honest, it would have been completely justified)

He finally came out of his office, looked me dead in my teary eyes, and said something to the effect of “I think you need to talk to your doctor.” 

It took me some time to process what he was saying, but after more discussion (I’m sure I cried and said more hurtful words), we realized that it was very possible that I was experiencing postpartum depression symptoms. I read up a lot on symptoms, but this pretty much hit the nail on the head for me:

source: webmd

I never felt suicidal, or wanted to harm Nehem (or anyone else for that matter...I simply didn’t have the energy) I was just completely withdrawn. I didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere, unless I had to (work). I told Shane that I was terrible at everything-I wasn’t a good teacher, I wasn’t a good wife, I wasn’t a good mother. The smallest thing could set me off, I couldn’t sleep at night, but wanted to nap my weekends away. 

Shane made me promise I’d call my doctor the next day.

But the next day, I “forgot”

You see, calling my doctor and telling her that I was experiencing PPD symptoms was admitting failure in my brain. I was admitting that I wasn’t strong enough to handle having a baby and then taking care of myself afterwards. I didn’t want to admit that I was struggling.

Shane continued to remind me, and I continued to “forget”

Besides, I was SIX months postpartum. 

Postpartum depression happens right after the baby is born, right?!

Wrong.

Finally, I reached out to a nurse friend who had worked in an OB office in her career. She gave me the validation and confirmation that I needed, but didn’t want. That afternoon, sitting in the school parking lot on my lunch break, I called my doctor. They asked me a few questions, told me this was completely normal, and called me in a prescription for an anti-depressant and scheduled a one month follow up appointment.

I couldn’t believe I had done it. I had called and I had admitted that I was struggling. This was huge for me.

You see, after all we went through with Nehem, I was running off of adrenaline. and caffeine, but mostly adrenaline I was making decisions and using all of my brain power and energy to ensure NEHEM was taking care of. And that was ok. I don’t regret that at all. Shane and I have to advocate for Nehem because he can’t advocate for himself.

But things settled down, and I got into a routine again. And that’s when it went down hill.

It took about 3 weeks, but all of a sudden, I started to feel like “me” again. I looked at my husband like he hung the moon again, I loved my students and my job again. I wanted to go out and walk around Target or go out to dinner. I wanted to go on dates again. Don’t get me wrong, my recliner is still my happy place. I love to sit and unwind there, but I could do other activities and then come curl up in the recliner.

I didn’t overcome this alone. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that when my husband walked away from me, it wasn’t just so he would keep his mouth closed. Shane was consistently praying for me during this entire process. Shane loves me, but above that, He loves Jesus (that’s something I really like about him, in fact). I clung to lyrics of worship songs I heard on the radio driving to work. I had friends who, though they had no idea that I was suffering in silence, would send me a text saying “hey, you’re on my mind. I’m praying for you today.” And I knew that they were. Sure, the medicine helps balance the chemicals in my brain, but I serve a God who loves me and fiercely pursues me, even when I’m not running directly into his arms.

These words ran through my mind a lot on rough days:

Before I call

Before I ever cry

You answer me

From where the thunder hides

I can't outrun

This heart I'm tethered to

When every step

I collide with You

Like a tidal wave

Crashing over me

Rushing in to meet me here

Your love is fierce

Like a hurricane

That I can't escape

Tearing through the atmosphere

Your love is fierce

-Jesus Culture, “Fierce”

I didn't write all of this out for anyone to tell me that I'm strong, or to bring attention to myself for admitting that I was struggling. I wrote this blog for two reasons:

1. Writing is a great release for me. It helps me get my thoughts out and is so therapeutic. So just getting my story out is helpful for ME (even if no one else reads it).

2. I want to help other women, especially Moms,  know that it’s ok to be not ok. You’ve heard it a million times that “you can’t pour from an empty cup.” And let me tell you, my cup was empty. My job suffered, my marriage suffered, my body suffered, my house suffered, my relationships suffered. It was a hard season. I didn't realize how bad I felt until I started feeling better.

You are considered postpartum and can experience PPD for up to one year (and some say even longer than that) after having a baby. (I had no idea!) If you’re not feeling “yourself” reach out to someone. Reach out to me. Talk to your doctor. 

Take care of you, Mama. Because taking care of you and your mental health is an important part of caring for a baby, too.