booknboob.com Blog

So, maybe you’ve missed me. I’ve been gone awhile.

You might say I’ve had a breakdown of sorts.

But, I can tell I’m getting better. I can tell because I just used the age-old “sweep everything into the closet and tackle it in the morning” technique. Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have done that. Two weeks ago, I would have stood for countless moments staring at the pile of clean but unfolded laundry and reflected on how that pile represented the vile garbage dump of my personal failures. Then, I would have either maniacally begun sorting, hanging, and folding the laundry (despite the fact that it was near midnight and Silas would be up at 3am) while becoming increasingly irritable and frantic or I would have climbed into my bed and rolled up like a boxer’s fist and stared at the wall praying that my husband wouldn’t touch me and thinking about what an utter wreck of a person I was, what a poor, poor excuse of a woman and a mother.

That’s the truth. Just because of the laundry.

So, as I have said, since last we spoke, I have had a breakdown of sorts. I have been diagnosed with a postpartum condition. And, on top of that, the subject of my apparent bipolar disorder has resurfaced. Yippee. (That’s sarcasm.)

It’s funny how we Homosapiens are bestowed with the intellectual gifts of denial and justification.

You see, the incident described above, the one with the laundry, didn’t really seem all that bizarre to me. Or, maybe it did. But, it didn’t seem critical. Nor did the fact that I’ve been curling up like a slug that has been sprinkled with sea salt almost every time my husband tried to hug me. Or the fact that I’ve spent countless Saturdays sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands struggling– in sort-of a life or death way– to make a decision about whether or not I should go to the grocery store because going to the store might cut into all the fun things we could be doing that Saturday afternoon… until Saturday afternoon had passed. What’s so serious about locking myself in the bathroom and trying to talk myself out of cutting my thighs with a tomato knife just to make me feel present? Or leaving almost every group activity paranoid that everyone had been wishing that I hadn’t come, or worse, seeing right through to the ugly core of my true being? What about piling so many projects onto my plate that there was no earthly way to accomplish them all but still trying desperately not only to complete them with accuracy but with outrageous, perfectionist gusto? Or being so inspired and so creative that I literally felt like I was on speed? Or having so much anxiety I couldn’t feel my teeth? Or how about my rage? Or my lost-along-the-road- somewhere sex drive? Or how about holding myself in the fetal position and refusing to communicate except through gurgles and wails because I was certain, perfectly certain, that my son would be better off without me?

Or, and here was the clincher for me, how about seeing for a second, just a split second, a blond-haired toddler trapped behind the dryer and believing he was there just long enough to call out to my husband in fear and then sink to the kitchen floor in shame and despair?

Seem obvious that there was a problem, right? But, not to me. To be fair, these episodes seemed just that– episodes. I told myself that everyone has mood swings, especially when their postpartum hormones are raging. I told myself that I had closed the door on any previous problems I had had in the past. That I was in control. That I was, well, a little like Martha Stewart mixed with Anne Lamott, a little Sedaris, and a generous dash of Wonder Woman. I was, as you can see, in complete denial.

After the child-behind-the-dryer incident, I couldn’t really deny it any longer. Although, deny I did, as I became convinced that “others” (meaning my husband, my therapist, my doctor) were planting evil thoughts into my head. That they were the problemed ones and I was just, oh I don’t know, stressed out and creative.
It’s hard to believe, but I was experiencing bouts of psychosis.

It was hard to swallow. I was plodding about thinking I was SuperMom and friends kept asking me things like “how do you do it?” and “do you every sleep?” and telling me things like “I’m inspired by your energy” and “you look so happy and healthy and so together. I wish I were more like that!” And, just last week, I wrote a letter to Silas telling him that he makes me the happiest person on Earth. How goes this mad juxtaposition? You see, can’t you, how all the seeds of denial were being planted. I’m surprised, in fact, that I wasn’t also suffering from delusions of grandeur. (Or, was I?)

But here’s the truth:
I appeared at parties. Told funny jokes. Made people laugh. Mingled like a socialite. Then, I sobbed for hours afterward.

I patiently soothed my colicky son. Rocked and shooshed him. Practiced meditative breathing. Then, I threw insults and Nikes at my husband.

I got A’s in all my Master’s courses. Diligently turned in my work on time and with extra credit. Then, as the semester and my schedule soon let up, I collapsed into a heap of atrophied limbs.

Every positive thought was followed by one of paranoia. Every success was backed by self-loathing and self-doubt.

Am I starting to sound like Jack Nicholson in The Shining?

I hope not.

So, now we get to it. To the blue pills. Those pills I did not want to take. Those pills I did not even want to talk about. Those blue pills that I think MDs give out like jelly beans. Those pills that are for the truly deranged and afflicted. Those pills, those pills, those pills…

Those pills that let me shove my unfolded laundry into the closet without damning myself and allowed me to write this post instead.

Ah, those pills. Now, at least for now, I am free to write the three dozen other posts that have been rolling around in my head like so many happy acorns, bumping up against each other and laughing.

Those pills that may be beginning to set me free to start to love myself and my husband and to breathe.

As a side note: It has been estimated that up to 80% of women experience some sort of postpartum sadness or “the baby blues.” 10-20% experience a more severe form of the blues in the form of postpartum depression or anxiety. 1-2 women in every 1,000 may experience a form of postpartum psychosis. Women with a history of depression and/or bipolar disorder are more likely to experience these symptoms at some time during the 1st year after their child is born. Postpartum illnesses, while possibly related to already existing illnesses, are viewed as a separate condition and are often treated as such.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 16th, 2008 at 10:46 pm and is filed under Postpartum Bull Shit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.