by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Abuse, Anger, Child Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Guilt, Loneliness, Sadness |
I picked up the key – my key – to the apartment my son and I would soon call home.
I tried to figure out just what I could take. If I took too much – or the wrong things – I feared the price we’d pay.
I made the reservation for a U-Haul, knowing that I didn’t have the money to pay for it, but that it was the only option.
I learned that my son had been suspended from school, on moving day – inappropriate language. I was hoping to protect him from the process of moving but now he would have to help.
I had $74.87 in my checking account that had to cover the U-Haul, gas, food, laundry and basic needs for the two of us for six days.
I was terrified.
I grieved the life I thought we’d have. The family I so desperately wanted.
I was convinced that he would see his abuse was the problem. That he’d seek help. That he would change. That we would be the family I knew we could be.
364 days ago …
The emotional damage I allowed him to inflict on my son became vividly clear within days of the move.The realization of just how damaged I had become would materialize much later.
It hasn’t been easy. Not a single day. I’ve tried to make the impact on my son minimal, but he has often had to do without.
I’ve had to apply for financial assistance to help offset the cost for him to attend church camp and youth fall retreat, sharing very personal information with complete strangers so that they could judge if we were worthy of their money.
I’ve had to file for bankruptcy, facing the public embarrassment of admitting I could not meet my financial obligations.
I’ve had to get food from a food bank, more than once – waiting in line for hours with those people – hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, but never being quite that lucky. Feeling waves of humiliation and shame each time and never telling my son.
Many days I’ve felt like a charity case – a project for someone – not quite human.
Although we remain married, I suspect he will eventually find someone else who is prettier – smarter – more concerned with the image and the things so important to him. When that day comes, I’ll be faced with the reality I’ve been avoiding – even denying. The reality that confirms I wasn’t enough for him, and will never be enough for anyone – just like he told me years ago.
364 days ago …
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. But I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t do it for myself. If it weren’t for my son I’d have never left. I still believe that I don’t deserve any better. That settling is my only option to combat a life of loneliness. But my son? My son? He deserves better.
I wish I could have done it for me.
by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, HIV/AIDS, Loss, Parent Loss |
I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately. He was my hero.
My dad was the kind of guy who can get through Ivy League med school by drawing cartoons in the back of the class, and still somehow graduate in front. He wore a necklace that read, “War is not for children and other living things,” and took my family to Peter, Paul and Mary concerts.
Dad never read me bedtime stories. Instead, when I was four, he began explaining the theory of evolution in nightly increments. Tom Petty was often blasting in the car, and he used to do a weird hand-clapping maneuver that involved taking his hands on and off the steering wheel which I found exhilarating. He was lucky not to have been pulled over, but it made him the coolest person in the world.
Dad took me to Washington for our last trip. We sat in on an NPR recording and toured the White House. I didn’t understand why on Earth he would pack in THAT many museums visits into one trip. Turns out, he wanted to cram in a lifetime’s worth.
Dancing was the same thing. My father loved to dance with us whenever he could. One day, he had my sisters and I wear dresses, and gave us all a long, special dance to our favorite music (three-year old Carrie, and seven-year old me picked blended folk -too embarrassing to mention. Our favorite Hebrew album was included in line-up. Luckily, my youngest sister was still too little to talk.)
I never understood why he danced with us that day until years later, after he was gone, when I finally learned what a wedding was.
I could go on and on about my father, about what a wonderful guy he was, how he told us if he had to do it all over, he would have been an architect instead of a psychiatrist…
I can generally pull off humor in the most dire of situations, but when I write about my father, it’s hard. I’m still angry at the doctor’s mistake that caused him to hemorrhage and receive an HIV-infected blood transfusion two months before they started screening blood for HIV/AIDS. My dad was gentle, funny, and brilliant – a wonderful human being. I’m angry that my grandmother lost her only son, and I’m angry my mother was left alone with three kids. It’s a miracle my mother never contracted AIDS from my father, thus everyone else in my family is healthy. (We think my mother has Delta 32, making her resistant to AIDS.)
Still, this kind of thing is not supposed to happen.
On World AIDS Day, I want to look back, to smile and thank him for the presents he gave ME.
To the baby born on January 14th, 1952 at Beth Israel hospital in Newark, NJ, weighing 7lbs 11oz, and to the 42 year old man who stood at 6’4, thank you, Dad, for teaching me that no one is infallible. For teaching me that, regardless of race or socioeconomic status, we all are equal.
HIV/AIDS was still relatively new back when my father was first diagnosed. There was still enough stigma that, even in his obituary, my mother wrote he died of cancer because she was afraid of what the people in our small town would think if she told the truth.
Thank you, Dad, for teaching me the importance of being real and speaking the truth. Thank you for showing me firsthand that we all deserve a voice, especially those sick or marginalized.
I always told people the truth about my father, regardless of what people might think of me or my family. I lost friends, as did my mother, but I always wanted people to know that AIDS can happen to anyone.
I stopped believe in miracles that February. But I started believing in the ability of words to transform people’s lives.
Thank you, Dad, for having a bigger impact on my life than anything else in my twenty-five years. If I could give you all the presents your heart desires, I would.
That you lived gave me enough to last a lifetime.
by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Anger, Anniversary Reactions, Breakups, Coping With Losing A Child, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Livng Through A Miscarriage, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sadness, Spotlight On Baby Loss |
Today is when our baby was due.
Today is when we would’ve met our child and become parents.
It’s hard writing those words, but even harder thinking about what they actually mean. We never knew if our baby was a boy or a girl, though we’re convinced our little one was a tiny princess. We named her, though only we know her name. I try to look at our faces all the time and imagine what she would’ve looked like. There is an emptiness in my heart knowing our family isn’t complete, that there’s someone missing.
I posed a question to people a while ago. I asked if they would consider someone a mother if their child never made it into their arms, and as would you expect, the answers were divided. I’m half in the park that “I am a mother,” and half in the “I’m not” as well. Without having her here in my arms, I feel like I don’t deserve the title of ‘mother,’ but I can’t deny she was here, even if only for a short time.
Her initials are CG, and I wish I could tell you her name, but somehow it doesn’t feel right. I’m tired of her being our secret though, and I want the world to know I should have a daughter here. I’m angry, frustrated, and hurt. I want people to know about her, I want others to miss her, I want others to care.
Today, I should be a mother, holding our little angel, breathing her in and going over all of her little features with the awe only a new mother can have.
Today is a lot harder than I thought it would be.
by Band Back Together | Dec 2, 2010 | Happiness, Love |
Well, Band, I felt the need to cheer myself on. And I realized, who better to celebrate with than The Band? The Band totally rallied for me before… they deserve good news.
So here I am. And here is a list of recent successes:
- I haven’t had a cigarette since Oct. 20th! That’s almost 5 weeks!
- I have a new friend. In real life! Finally!
- I’m starting to become the kind of mom I want to be.
- I’m branching out into the world again!
I crawled out of my hidey-hole. I’ve reached out at church – and people are responding! I am not alone! And I’m ENJOYING the time I spend with my daughter! I’m laughing again! And having fun!
I still have rough bits sometimes, but I’m learning how to manage them better and not slide into the darkness every time.
I feel hopeful. It pretty much rules.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started or what started it. But I’m grateful and I want to celebrate. Even if this isn’t forever…it’s been a month or so of feeling good so far but I don’t expect permanence in my life. It’s good today.
Thank you, Band. Thanks for celebrating with me, and for cheering me on when I needed it.
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Bipolar Disorder, Coping With Depression, Major Depressive Disorder, Postpartum Depression |
I had tried to deny it throughout the months of November and December but it is now clear that I am once again going through another one of my depressive episodes. Honestly, I kind of expected it. These episodes have been happening since I was 15-years-old and even though some people in my life don’t fully understand why, they will continue to creep up and knock me (and any confidence I have) on my ass.
That’s just how it goes when you’re dealing with bipolar II disorder. It can be controlled but there is no cure. This is something I will have to manage for the rest of my life, like millions of others in this world. That thought both frustrates and saddens me. Frustrates me because oftentimes, especially during these episodes, I feel like a victim. Why did God choose this path for me? Saddens me because I just want to be a happy positive person but my brain chemicals won’t let me be who I want to be!
Since I can’t take medication right now I was holding out hope that my pregnancy hormones would ward off depression just as they did when I was pregnant with Landon. No such luck. But I am thankful that I have been through enough of these episodes to know the difference between a bad day and full-on depression. I am thankful that I have done enough therapy and research to recognize when getting better is beyond my reach.
I have all the classic symptoms, i.e. random spurts of crying, sudden internalized anger, unable to muster up enough energy to perform basic life skills (taking a shower, doing the laundry or dishes), loss of concentration, no desire to talk to or be around family members or friends. Basically feeling so overwhelmed with the thought of doing anything that I just plain can’t pull myself out of bed. Is that what you would consider a bad day? What if you felt like this for a week or an entire month?
I just want to note for any worry warts out there that I DO get out of bed. I DO take care of my son. I feed him, play with him, change his 12 diapers a day and hug and kiss him all day long. I’ll admit that sometimes I have to force myself to do it. But he is my greatest motivator. Sometimes I will roll out of bed at 5:30 a.m. even though I don’t want to because he is up and jibber-jabbering. I will walk into his room and see that huge grin on his face and suddenly I realize I’m actually smiling! Oops, wait, stop smiling Molly because you’re supposed to be depressed! I will sing our usual morning songs while changing him and getting him his milk. It’s nice to know that even though I am having a really rough time right now there is still sunlight in the shadows of this disorder.
One positive about having had this disorder for all of my adult-life is that I am armed with the perspective that I CAN and WILL get better. That’s why they are called “episodes.” I’m convinced that much of why I feel the way I do is circumstantial. Unexpectedly leaving my job (and my nice salary), rarely seeing Naaman because he has to work so much, trying to sell our house in a down market, and how about we throw an unexpected pregnancy in there? I am happy to have this surprise blessing in our lives and I feel certain this baby is here for a reason. But I am still pretty upset about the timing of it all. All of these circumstances at once could drive anyone to their breaking point. But someone like me who doesn’t come wired with the usual coping skills? It’s a recipe for disaster.
Blogging about my struggles and strengths with this disorder is something I think I need to do more of this year. Maybe it will help someone else out there to know that they are not alone. That you can manage motherhood AND mental illness successfully. I do realize that writing about this on my blog subjects me to the awful and unfair judgment of strangers. There are still so many in this world who don’t understand mental illness. They never will. They see it as a weakness or a fault. They see me as someone who doesn’t deserve a loving husband or a beautiful family. They assume that if I can’t be happy then I don’t deserve what I have. But they’re wrong. Just because I suffer from depressive episodes through no fault of my own does not mean that I don’t have the same right to happiness that everyone else does.
I desperately wanted to reach the same milestones as most everyone else. High school and college graduation, successful career, engagement, marriage, babies. I am still a human being with feelings and a heart and I am convinced that I deserve the same happiness as everyone else.
One misconception is that I can turn the depression switch on and off. That I can “snap out of it” or “get over it.” Oh, if it were only that easy. I do not choose to feel this way. I was born this way and had some horrible things happen to me when I was a teenager that exacerbated my symptoms. Do you think I don’t try to wish these feelings away every day? I would give anything if I could just snap my fingers and feel happy. I know what it is to be and feel truly happy. And I want those feelings back as soon as possible. But I’m smart enough to know that this won’t just disappear into the background. Not without regular therapy and medication. I suffered through many years of agony and the darkest pain before I was able to come to this realization. But now I can get help before I reach my lowest of lows.
It’s a New Year. 2010. There is so much to look forward to this year. A new little miracle will enter my life and I want so much to be ready to welcome him into the arms of a happy, more centered mama. I want to feel the unspeakable joy that I felt the day we brought Landon home. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled a bigger smile in my life than on the day when we came home and put him in his crib for the first time. I want that with B and I’m trying to remain hopeful that I’ll get that chance.
But right now it’s oh so tough. I am once again feeling resentful of tragic things that have transpired in my life. So much so, that I start to forget that my entire life sets within an hourglass. I have no way of knowing how much sand is left. All I want is to be grateful for every particle that falls to the other end because that means that God has given me another day. Not the ones that are still waiting to go through. Not the ones that have already fallen. I want to be grateful for the sands that are falling through the hourglass right now.
My next OB appointment is Tuesday. She knows all about my history with this disorder and is ready and willing to talk about treatment while I’m still pregnant. I will let you all know how it goes. I am hopeful that there is a solution for me so that I can get better. I am smart enough to know that I have to act now. I cannot wait until after B arrives. Thoughts and prayers are always welcome. Every good vibe sent my way helps a bit.
At the recommendation of my OB who was extremely supportive of antenatal depression I took a small dose of antidepressants and received weekly talk therapy. Brigham (Baby B) was born on May 2, 2010 to a happy, stable mama. Please talk to your OB. At the time of my pregnancy I thought there was no way I would ever be happy.
Antenatal depression exists.
Just know, you’re not alone in this struggle.
