Time to Talk

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The thing I love about a daily blog is there are so many directions I could take this. I could speak one day about personality types and the next day about a global crisis. I could vent about dealing with the flu last week as a single co-parent or reminisce on my birth story 13 years ago. Above all, I hope that what I can bring to you, the reader, is something to think about that you might not have come across before.

Today, I think it is time to talk about perinatal mood and anxiety disorders (PMADs). Somehow through my recent activity and categorization of this blog, it was suggested for me to follow the Postpartum Support International group. I was blown away by the organization and everything it is here to do, and wondered why I hadn’t ever heard of this before especially during my experiences before and after the birth of my son.

I quickly jumped head-first into every opportunity I had to be a part of this group, which led me to applying to be a PSI Coordinator Volunteer. In a few terms, I would be someone who could refer those experiencing symptoms of perinatal mental disorders to local resources and help educate and advocate in the community regarding this prevalent experience.

Why does this all mean so much to me? Because I was one of those impacted in a significant way by the struggle of dealing with a severe illness following the birth of my first child. I am lucky to have had the guidance of my midwife, my family, doctors, and therapists to recover fully over the first year post-partum. Since that time, I have always wondered why we don’t talk about this more. The stigma and self-shame surrounding PMADs is overwhelming in America. So, it is time to talk.

So far from my training there are a few statistics that are helpful. From a large-scale (over 10,000 participants) study for the span of one year post-partum, the following was found:

  • 80% of women experience the “baby blues” as hormones regulate in the first few weeks following birth, which is not a mental disorder
  • 1 in 7 women have serious depression and/or anxiety within 3 months of birth
  • 1 in 5 women experience post-partum depression within one year of birth
  • 1 in 10 fathers experience post-partum depression, and
  • 1 in 500 women are diagnosed with post-partum psychosis

I am that 1 in 500. And I have had a hard time talking about this for a very long time. It is easy to say “I had severe post-partum after my son was born.” I always leave out the actual type of post-partum. I thought it meant because I was capable of losing reality in those circumstances, I must have a propensity for psychosis in any other circumstance. And this means I must be unfit for society in general. This is all a BIG FAT LIE. Post-partum psychosis (PPP) typically is onset within the first two weeks following childbirth and can often follow an extreme drop in hormones, particularly adrenaline. It is exacerbated by persistent sleep deprivation. And it really only occurs for birthing mothers, rather than any caregiver like any other PMAD can affect.

This is all because it is hormonally-driven, or biological in nature. In fact, the intrusive and damaging thoughts that occur during PPP also occur in other PMADs. The main difference is for other PMADs, these thoughts seem foreign and “wrong” to the affected individual, while PPP individuals in the moment of those thoughts believe them to be true and in line with their reality. Post-partum psychosis must be identified quickly and treated immediately usually with a combination of hospitalization and intensive medication treatment. One of the other unique characteristics of PPP is the psychotic thoughts/behaviors are generally waxing and waning, meaning the person could have normal thoughts and behaviors for a period of time and then have a break with reality the next moment, and back and forth.

My psychosis began the moment test results came back negative for a metabolic blood disorder for my son, after a week of intense genetic doctor visits and specialized formula and B12 shots and concern of possibly raising a very sick child. The adrenaline carrying me through that week vanished in an instant and the sleep deprivation (meaning zero sleep) of the five days before caused a major shift in my brain. I distinctly remember the second this occurred, because it felt like a rubber bouncing ball started bouncing back and forth inside my head as though my skull was vacant and filled with air. Weird, huh?

Within 24 hours, I found myself in a crisis center and then attempting to fill a prescription. Two days later, I was being evaluated and admitted into a psychiatric hospital. Over the next month, I would be discharged and readmitted to another hospital. Four months after my son was born, I was finally able to be employed in a very low-key data-entry position even though I had just graduated with my Bachelors in Accounting. Ten months after the start, I finally felt normal and began my career in Accounting with a bank audit team.

You have heard me describe my life-long battle with major depressive disorder and might wonder if one caused the other. While having MDD can increase my risk of a post-partum disorder, I to this day hold my post-partum disorder completely separate from any ongoing mental illness. What medical professionals are certain of is that PMADs are 100% temporary illnesses, for the fact they are caused by sensitivity to hormonal/biological changes (along with psychosocial and concurrent stressors).

I will leave you with these three things, which is the motto of PSI:

  • You are not alone – the statistics above show how common this occurs for any person during or after pregnancy, loss, adoption, or fertility treatments (including non-birthing individuals)
  • You are not to blame – having a PMAD does not in any way relate to your ability as a parent or caregiver to your child, post partum is the cause for difficulty in connecting with a child rather than the other way around
  • With help, you will be well – the more we talk about this, destroy the stigma and shame surrounding it, and provide resources for help, the faster people will recover from this; this is temporary

Thank you for taking time to read about something you might not have expected to read about, and please talk more if you or someone you know has experienced post-partum mental illness.

Time to Talk

Keep Going

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A friend of mine said to me yesterday, “I may have misunderstood your blog post but does this mean you are not writing your book anymore? Please don’t stop! You have to keep going.” I thought now that I have established a few things like a separate blog Facebook page and structure of the blog, it is about time to clarify a little of what I am doing.

I definitely have not given up on the dream of becoming a published author of a memoir and possibly more books in my lifetime. I have learned an important thing about myself, that sometimes I just have to take one step back to see where my journey is actually taking me instead of pushing through what seems to be the impossible.

This blog is here to help me do that. To help me keep my writing alive and fresh and always in the forefront of my mind. There are times in life where we don’t know what to do and we choose to just do nothing and times when we face this situation by just doing something. I choose something this time!

This medium affords me the chance to speak on the things I am most passionate about, hone my writing skills, and build that audience of readers who care and are impacted by my words.

Once the words “keep going” sparked this post, I was quickly reminded of a dear friend of mine from long ago, who shared a t-shirt I could buy in memory of her father whom my family was close to for decades and died from suicide. The shirt simply said those two words, “keep going,” across the front with the ‘i’ being replaced by a semicolon or the symbol for suicide prevention. I still wear this shirt often and hold it dear.

This is the theme of my life I sincerely believe. It is marked permanently on my wrist to “Give it time,” so I never forget how temporary each emotion or thought or season of my life can be. It is what my blog name stands for (you can click on the ‘About Me’ section from the menu to see more of that). My life is a testament that as long as I don’t rob time from my life, my purpose will be realized.

So, yes friends my book will still happen in time. I don’t know what it will be exactly but it will be a piece of me. It will serve to inform, entertain, and influence change in the world. For now, I hope this blog holds the same weight and mission.

Keep Going

20 and 7 Years Later

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“This day carries a huge significance to me. I, like so many other Oklahomans, remember exactly where I was at the moment of the Murrah building bombing. For me, I was walking back from the cafeteria at the middle school to the junior high in Chandler by myself. I remember feeling the ground shudder ever so slightly but not realizing at the time what had occurred. But, most of all, I remember that five days later, in the middle of the night, my brother Josh had his first grand mal seizure and was diagnosed with brain cancer. We lost him four months later. It is so hard to believe it has been this many years since all of this happened, and at times, it doesn’t feel any easier than the day it happened. But God of the entire universe desires to engage in the minute details of our lives. He sees ME and knows my struggles. He has us go through the trial to show Himself strong, to sustain us, shield us, and surprise us! Thinking of all those today that have lost a loved one, whether 20 years ago today or any time before or since. May God show Himself strong in your future!”

I wrote this seven years ago and wow how my life has changed since then. I was definitely a broken person in the midst of these words. It is strange how even as I look back into easily the darkest moments of my life of 2015 (darker even than 1995), I brought up words of hope. I wish people in the world could have the footnotes of our words in order to see where we truly are. The words above are the words of a severely depressed and suicidal person. Within four months, I would be driven to sitting at my brother’s grave for hours past the sunset with a bottle of Tylenol and a pair of scissors not sure what the outcome of the night would become. Ten days after that, I would have 17 letters written and placed in a manila folder waiting to be mailed to my best friend, my chosen executor of my last words. And the next day, I would be sitting in a cold ER psychiatric wing, angry about the process, believing nothing would sway my resolve to end my life.

All of this turmoil and devastated identity happened while I offered words of hope. It really goes to the saying, “Check on your strong friends. They may be the ones in the most pain.” I will forever by grateful for my best friend at the time, Carrie, checking on me that day after work and not glossing over the subtle words that could easily be taken as venting after a hard day at work. She took my phone in the parking lot, looked up my therapist in the contacts list (she only knew his first name) and called him right then despite me begging her to let me call him later. She saved my life. She sat with me for 9 hours that evening in the ER waiting for a bed on the psych floor to open up, and visited me when I was too ashamed to even let my family know what was going on. We parted ways since that time, I am sure because going through that experience changed a lot for her and for me. I am blessed beyond measure to have a friend that risked everything to see my pain for what it was.

So ironically, these words today don’t sound of resounding hope in recalling the truth behind a social media post. In fact, I have gone through several more trials since that time. A failed marriage, lost jobs, a clinical trial for unconventional treatment of treatment-resistant depression, major back surgery, and another psychiatric hospitalization to name a few. Seven years later, I can say God has shown Himself strong. This time, I will assure the ones reading these words, there is not grief or depression lingering below. Just a reminder that His promises are the only words that remain consistent despite where we are when we write them.

If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or plans, please reach out to your friends, family, therapist, or another professional. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. Even if it makes you angry, go through the process, and find help.

20 and 7 Years Later

Easter Traditions

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Today I reflect on Easter. Growing up, Easter was definitely a holiday but I was reminded by so many yesterday that it wasn’t filled with traditions like most everyone has around me. My Easter holiday was disrupted this year by a rather sick 8-year old girl. It has been a good while since we have had need for wet washcloths, thermometers at the ready, and carefully tucked in blankets. I wasn’t expecting it at all, and it changed a few plans, but in all reality, it only changed what would be a typical Sunday.

When I was a girl, I didn’t really notice that much. I knew a lot of families purchased new outfits for Easter and the attendance at church was a a little more crowded. But, for my family, it meant the same church clothes and pot roast waiting at home and Sunday evening services following an afternoon filled with naps and weekend cleaning. As I got older, I think I held our traditions of having no big celebration in higher esteem. I felt it set us apart that we could treat the most significant religious day as any other Sunday. That we had our heads on straight. And although I face the holiday with more humility than I used to, I still to this day see it as a normal Sunday along with the rest. It was afterall the very thing as a Christian we should be celebrating every day of the week, for it was our ultimate salvation and purpose for living.

This year, I have had a few realizations though. I realized Easter Sunday is a time to recalibrate, to assess whether we are changing and growing or if we are still treating every single day as the next. Both sermons I listened to had one common theme, “Change.” What happened on Resurrection Sunday changed absolutely everything from that moment forward. It changed the life we have before death and it changed the life we have after death and into eternity. It means new life in both spectrums, but it also means adjusting to a new way of communicating to God.

Mary Magdalene wept when she saw Jesus’ body absent from the tomb and she recognized by the calling of her name by Jesus that her “Teacher” had risen. The excitement was quickly quelled, though, as Jesus urged her “Do not cling to me, for I have yet to ascend to my Father in Heaven.” Basically, Jesus was saying “I know I am back, but that doesn’t mean we can go back to the way things were. Don’t cling to the past ways of being close to me. Look for the new way.”

So that is my hope, on a personal level, that I would not hear new lessons and face new trials and quickly revert back to the place that was comfortable. As I completed my local church home membership survey (I consider myself a member to two churches now, local and beachfront), I shared one deep and earnest prayer for my life. I plan to live my life in full expectation of this prayer being answered to the fullest this year. I won’t share what my prayer was, but I will say that it very much embodies the lessons about change this Easter Sunday has brought me.

Disclaimer: My Christian faith is very personal to me, and will from time to time surface in my blog posts like this one. It is not the primary subject of my blog, but definitely a part of me. If you believe differently than I do, that is perfect fine and you can take what parts of these posts you need. If you have questions about my faith or what is written here, please feel free to comment!

Easter Traditions

Type B

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I am starting to think that I was born to write short stories, but not like real short stories that have a beginning , middle, and end.  I was born to write first chapters to novels.  I know this sound ludicrous, but I have done it twice before on paper and millions of times in my head.  I come up with an idea for an excellent novel and it is all written in the recesses of my brain in an instant.  I know the arc of the story, the climax, the plot twists.  I know the mission and the audience.  I pound out the first chapter in minutes on my keyboard, sit back and admire how easily it came to me, and then that’s it. 

The story dies before it even takes one breath.  I feel drawn to be a writer, to be a real author with a weighty book in my hands that I labored over for a year.  There was a time when I was part of a writer’s group and the leader hit me with a truth bomb I never expected.  She was commenting on her methods of writing and how “Type A” she was.  I nodded in agreement, in solidarity of all of us Type A people.  She stepped back with almost a surprised look and said “You aren’t Type A though, right?”  I feebly attempted to say that I was.  She went on to say “No, you are definitely Type B!”

Type B?  What even was Type B?  I looked it up just now, years later.  The characteristics of Type B are as follows: Flexibility, Low stress levels, Relaxed attitude, Adaptability to change, Even-tempered, Laid-back, Tendency to procrastinate, Patience, and Creativity.  I had never in my life been described in this way.  I after all was the right-brained, highly analytical, mathematician who only played sheet music on piano and never by ear because I didn’t have a creative bone in my body.  I was not an artist.  I was not lazy.  And low-stress wasn’t a term I would use to explain how I handled my environment.

But when I take a step back, I can see it.  I have always taken the path of “Everything will be okay and work out” in life.  Whether I truly believe it to be the case often wars within.  But I suppose that is how it is with any personality assessment.  Nothing can truly assess the honest position within ourselves versus what we put out into the world.  I could answer every question on a personality quiz with my true and honest inner feelings, but that isn’t my personality.  My personality is what I construct and what I show the world I am.

At that moment, I felt her comment as an insult, a jab at how long it had taken me to actually write something and submit it for group critique or how I was always talking of my dream of a memoir but never actually producing more than a page or two of content during our writing exercises.  I believed in her eyes I wasn’t a true writer.  And she could have had some sense in all that.  Am I really a writer?  Can a Type B person be a great author?

I was always convinced the thing that held me back from writing was my perfectionism.  Perfectionism aka Type A person.  And there is a sliver of truth there, I believe.  But what is perfectionism, other than fear of failure?  I was never afraid to fail.  It really didn’t cross my mind when it came to writing.  I was only writing for myself after all.  And that is 100% ingrained honesty.  Of course I wanted the world to hear and be changed by my words, but really more than anything I wanted to tell the story for myself.  I wanted to be able to pick up what I had written and see the journey my life had brought me on, the lessons I had learned, and the impact it had made.  So the perfection I sought was only in relaying the honest truth to myself and I hesitate to trust myself in that.

I think one day I will come to accept my Type B personality. Patience, after all, is a characteristic of the personality type I can’t quickly accept. For now, I think I will stick to writing the first chapter of every book I ever dreamed of writing. Maybe one day it will stick.

Type B