the beginning beginning

Monday, 11/30/15, 9:58am

I didn't always have depression. I had a bout of it as a pre-teen, but I didn't share it with anyone for many years until after it came back.

I had a really happy high school and college experience. The couple years after college, I thrived. I was independent, working as an engineer in the field I wanted, and I met Nasser. We clicked from the start but were long distance so we became friends. We emailed so regularly though, we quickly became more than friends. I was in southern California at the time and we decided he would come out for a visit which then led to an official relationship. After all that, we only got to date 6 months, 3 months in the same city, before finding out we were pregnant.

Obviously, it was life-changing.

Fantastic really, but life-changing.

The depression probably started coming back during the pregnancy. Telling my parents was awful. And traumatic. Then we managed to experience almost every life event the books say to avoid in order to help prevent post-partum depression. We planned a rushed wedding, got married, I had pre-term labor and was put on bedrest, I quit my job, we moved 1000 miles to Colorado to be near my sisters.

Then RG came early.

I got sick, like puking my guts out sick, about half a week after getting taken off bedrest. I recovered, but the dehydration put me into labor. Labor, well, you know, sucked. But the worst moment was when they whisked my baby away to the neonatal intensive care unit, or NICU, as we were soon to become all too familiar with.

They wheeled a hospital grade pump into my room, not an hour after RG was brought to the NICU. They told me to pump every 3 hours for 20 minutes and taught me how to wash the pumping attachments.

He spent 2 weeks in the NICU, but I was discharged 2 days after delivering. We experienced so many ups and downs those 2 weeks. Nasser started working again part-time since there was no paternity leave policy in place at the time at his company (agh seriously??). His boss was "giving him a break" by letting him take vacation time that he hadn't accumulated yet, but he only had 1 week, which we tried to distribute over the first 2.5 weeks or so of RG's life. If Nasser was going in to work for awhile one day, he would drop me off, with several bottles of pumped breastmilk, at the hospital in time for the 6am feeding. I would try to nurse at almost every feed, every 3 hours, sometimes all the way until after the 9pm feed. We weighed RG before and after each nursing attempt so that we knew exactly how many ounces he had taken in. Then we would supplement the rest with previously pumped breastmilk.

I cried the day they ran a tube up his nostril and down into his stomach so that he could be tube-fed some of the milk. This was to allow him some catch up time since the effort to eat, even from a bottle, was too much work for him to get stronger.

I cried out of joy when we had a really successful nursing attempt. But then I left the NICU for awhile to get some snacks in me and call every close family member to share the wonderful news. I cried out of extreme sadness, and guilt, and remorse when I found out that RG had been put back on oxygen because the nursing session took too much out of him and his blood oxygen saturation level had dropped too much.

He came home once he could take in all his nourishment by himself and we didn't need to give him the rest by tube. But he was still on oxygen for another week after coming home.

I tried to nurse for about 2 1/2 months. I saw a few different lactation consultants, we tried to "re-create the birth" in a bath to try and get him to latch, we tried a nipple shield, every different hold position. Nasser would help me try at every feed when he was home. We bottle-fed at night and during the day when Nasser was at work. But I didn't feel confident to try by myself during the day. At the time, people told me "breastfeeding is hard but just takes hard work and determination". Those words haunted me with guilt because I felt like I should have been able to make it work with enough hard work and determination. And I didn't.

I got mastitis in both my breasts after a Friday of being out of the house and using the hand pump in the car caused clogged ducts. I had painful red patches on my chest that whole weekend and Sunday night I spiked a fever. I was too delirious and sleep-deprived to realize what was happening. I woke up every 3 hours to pump, bottle-feeding RG whenever he woke up. I heated up warm compresses to place on my clogged ducts, massaged them, meanwhile never realizing that the chills and aches I was feeling through all of it was the infection my body was fighting. In the morning I finally asked Nasser for help (why did it not occur to me during the night to wake him up and ask for help??), he got me some ibuprofen (why did it not occur to me during the night to take something for my fever??), he called in sick, and took me to the doctor.

I didn't get diagnosed with depression until RG was about 10 months old. This was after I quit trying to nurse, decided to exclusively pump, and got diagnosed with postpartum thyroiditis (when the thyroid goes crazy postpartum and releases all stored hormone pushing you into hyperthyroidism. But then after the hormone has been depleted, it doesn't produce enough additional hormone and you dip into hypothyroidism). The thyroid thing was like the topping on the cake. Really it wasn't so bad and we realized when my body was in the hyper phase, but dipping into the hypo phase made me realize what depression was. The loss of thyroid hormone was, for me, dramatic but luckily I knew what was happening because we expected it. Depression was probably the most notable symptom which made me realize that I had had it when we were going through the NICU and trying to nurse phase. I went onto the synthetic thyroid hormone supplement to even out my levels (which had its own side effects of increasing my metabolism and upping my milk supply which then led to another bout of mastitis), but even then, the depression didn't fully go away. I'm sure it was there the entire postpartum period up until then, but I didn't understand what it was. I just knew I was "stressed".

When I decided I needed help, I couldn't seek it myself. My own personal stigma made me feel that I should be able to handle this myself; I was a strong person and I just needed to be stronger than the depression. I finally begged Nasser to call the OB-GYN for me to get help.

They first put me on Zoloft, which is great for a lot of people out there, but I had the totally useless and upsetting side effect of suicidal thoughts. Perhaps I was already slightly suicidal beforehand, but the medication made it worse. Finally, at about a year postpartum, I found myself a psychiatrist to manage my medication (of course he switched me quickly to a different anti-depressant) and my first therapist.

2 antidepressants later, along with an anti-anxiety medication for when necessary, as well as an anti-psychotic, and several therapists later, I am doing "well". I tried to wean from the medication before getting pregnant with my second, but we realized I needed to stay on it. During my pregnancy with TK, I wanted desperately to wean or to at least lower the dosage because of the potential risks, but we ended up needing to up it. My pre-term labor with RG made me automatically "high risk" for my 2nd pregnancy and they gave me progesterone shots every week between 16 and 36 weeks in order to help prevent pre-term labor. The shot was quite literally a pain in the butt, but after a couple weeks I realized I was getting some side effects. Every week about a day or 2 after my shot, I'd be incredibly lethargic and depressed for about 2-3 days. It was a cycle that lasted for half the pregnancy.

When TK was almost a year old, I spent 72 hours in a mental hospital. Technically I brought myself in for an "evaluation" and to ask questions about their outpatient program, but they ended up keeping me. It was a terrifying and humbling experience.

I have a therapist now, my medication seems good, and I'm doing a lot of the "right" things to prevent bouts of depression. But they still happen, plenty often. And yet, this is me doing "well".

A therapist once wondered if I actually have post-traumatic stress disorder based on all my experiences while pregnant with RG and then postpartum. I think it may be part of it, but it's not the whole story. I used to think it was postpartum depression, but then it never went away and here we are 7 years out with RG. I've accepted my disease though and have hope for a more stable life with fewer bouts of depression, but I no longer have any expectations that I'll ever live depression-free. There's plenty to work towards still, but my depression is worse when I expect that things should go back to the way they were before it. They can't. My life has significantly changed, obviously with the addition of a marriage and 2 children, so of course it can't go back to the way it was before. And I've changed.

I have, in my depressive moments, wondered how things would have been different had I not gotten pregnant. I've wondered if we still would have gotten married, but these wonderings have made me realize that I don't like to think of "what ifs" with regards to my marriage. I love Nasser and I wouldn't trade our marriage for anything. Our relationship has changed and grown through all the stuff we've gone through. It's so different from what it was when we got married. But it's also my rock. Sometimes I hate being so dependent on another person, and maybe it's not healthy, but Nasser helps me remember my independent side. He helps me breathe through the bad moments and appreciate the good moments. We've rode this roller-coaster together and thankfully, we've gotten closer through it all.

Battle of Clothes, Thanksgiving, and The Nutcracker

Friday, 11/27/15, 10:06pm and Saturday, 11/28/15, 2:04pm

RG is obsessed with shorts. He insists on wearing shorts in 30 degree weather even though he knows it's too freezing. He warms up by "becoming mini" when he crouches down and puts his t-shirt over his legs. He knows this drives me crazy. I tell him every time I catch him doing it. And I berate him for choosing to wear shorts. The one rule I really stand by is he has to wear long pants if it's snowing. I'll also enforce that rule if it's literally 0 degrees outside. It's a semi compromise if I can get him to wear tall socks, and it's a major win if he wears running tights under his shorts.

So I let him wear shorts when it's 30 degrees and windy and every other kid at the bus stop has a winter coat and hat. And I feel like I have to explain myself to the other moms. "You pick your battles, right?" I say. Or "I figured one of these days he would learn that he gets cold! Hasn't learned yet!" Because there is judgement when you see a child under 10 17 wearing shorts when it's 30 degrees and windy. You automatically look at the parent and think "Really, you let him out of the house like that?". And I know plenty of moms sympathize and that helps so much, but then you get the parent who just has to give some helpful advice. I know, it's meant to be nice, and it can be done tactfully, but it usually just turns into criticism in my head.

RG also doesn't like wearing "nice clothes". He prefers mesh gym shorts and a dry-wick type shirt. So here's the thing, it's already next to impossible to get him to wear long pants, but even then, they have to be the athletic or sweatpant variety. He hasn't worn jeans or khakis or the like in several years. We've talked about how some schools have dress codes and the poor kid can't imagine going to a school where he had to wear khakis and a collared shirt everyday. But again, the fight just isn't worth it anymore. He wears what he wants to wear and is happy. Do I really care about something so trivial?

Today he wore jeans and a long-sleeved graphic tee to go to the Nutcracker with the family. I brought it up about a week ago that I wanted him to wear what I asked him to wear for pictures at Thanksgiving and the Nutcracker the next day. And he totally agreed. Maybe he's realized that mom has become cool with his clothing choices most of the time.

To hell with any judgement. Why do people care so much about clothing anyway??

Like I said, we saw the Nutcracker today. It was a little stressful keeping the kids happy and answering their whisperings, "who is that guy?" "when's the sugar plum fairy?" "I'm bored." I want my kids to be a little more cultured; I want them to have an appreciation for arts and music. And we really try. And I wouldn't say we're failing. RG definitely has some favorite parts to the Nutcracker: the Russian dance, the Sugar Plum Fairy, and the mice (he says he wants to be one). And that's really special to see.

Oh, and yesterday, Thanksgiving, was my birthday. Made for an on edge day. I don't like sharing my birthday with a holiday. It was fine, it was nice, it just wasn't MY day. We're making up for that by having lots of extras for me this weekend. :) Things like baths, workouts, phone calls with friends. They also happen to be good for my depression too.

I've started the process of sharing this blog with a few people, and I'm just going to be honest about it; it's hard. It's hard letting people see yourself in this honest, bare way. One of the ways I break down my internal stigma about my depression is I share my depression with others. Every additional friend or acquaintance or co-worker I've told has been a breath of fresh air. And it's gotten easier as I go. I'm at a point where I want to share this part of my life with those who don't know yet but I haven't quite figured out how to do it. I suspect this blog may be part of that or maybe I won't share this beyond my inner supportive circles. I know that my personal stigma is breaking down, little by little.

shine on you crazy diamond and potty training

Sunday, 11/22/15, 12:33pm

It's not the best day. There's a few obligations and errands and plans today, one of which I didn't bring up to Nasser until last night. Now we're just failing on today because talking about what we need to do today and both of us feeling overwhelmed by it made me depressed.

I hate being depressed. I know it's a disease, of an organ, just like any other disease, and I don't have a stigma about mental illnesses when it comes to other people (at least I try not to), but I definitely have a stigma about it towards myself. I know that I do, but I don't know how to overcome it. I'm not even sure if stigma is the right word. I expect myself to be stronger than my depression. I expect myself to be doing all the right things to keep myself from getting depressed. Like exercising. Like eating right. Like taking time for myself to de-stress. I do often try to do these right things. But inevitably it's not good enough and I get depressed. I react badly to a comment my husband makes, or I see judgement about my parenting in something my mother-in-law (or my own mother) says about my children, or I see judgement in a look someone gives me in the grocery store when my kids are behaving badly, or I get too angry with my kids when they're fighting with eachother. I know that depression can happen with the slightest trigger even if I've been doing (or trying to do) all the right things for myself. And yet. Everytime, my depression spirals further downward because of the guilt. The guilt that I wasn't doing all the right things. I watched an episode of Gilmore Girls when I should have been getting a workout in. I snacked after dinner when I should have stuck with tea. I spent enjoyable non-productive evening time with my husband when I should have been sharing the awesome tips I learned in therapy this morning. I took on another responsibility when I should have pushed back. Hmmmm, but wait. I also chose to take TK out on his bike while I ran alongside. Awesome parenting plus a workout. I chose to blog this afternoon instead of fulfilling an obligation. Good for my soul had to take priority today.

And just like that I feel better. Thank you, blog.

TK, my four year old is a little "on the later side" with the potty training. We're doing really awesomely now after a rather long, drawn out, and rather painful process that each family member is still getting over in our own way (RG when he was 6.5 and TK was 3.5: Mommy, when I was his age, I wasn't wearing diapers at night anymore but he still wears pull-ups during the day. Why?). Without getting into too many gruesome details, we still get accidents. Sigh. We've come such a long way and I see how close we are to being "there", and yet it hurts to have so many friends whose younger kids are there and have been for awhile. Most social occasions we're able to fake being "there". But if an accident hits, all hell breaks loose. There's no guarantee I won't sit down in the middle of the party and start bawling in front of everyone, right then and there. Not doing exactly that, but holding it together so that only a voice crack or a couple tears slip out with one of my closest friends, takes all the strength that I have. And then you know what my punishment is later that evening for not holding it together perfectly? My guilt over not getting TK to the potty on time, not paying more attention to him when he's playing with his friends and cousins, gets the better of me. The assumption my brain makes that my friends are judging my parenting skills because potty training has been such a struggle for us hurts me too much. I get depressed. Only my dear dear husband, Nasser, has to see the depressed part, because that comes out in the dark hours of the night when we're safe at home away from our friends. He puts up with a lot when I'm depressed. And angry. (I love him so so much).

Today's particular accident followed with a success in the potty. Partial success. C'est la vie, right?

My depression today shouldn't be happening. I got a nice run in yesterday morning with the snow and ice starting to melt, and I got a great barre workout in today. Those workouts meant Nasser was solo parenting both weekend mornings. Starting my day off with a workout is one of the best things I can do for myself. But then I start to think that I should have done MORE workout. My original plan this morning was to bike to barre, do the barre workout, Nasser and the kids were going to pick me up afterward and then we were going to continue on with some errands. Instead I chose to get a little extra sleep this morning and skip the bike ride part. Maybe I can pinpoint that as "what I could have done differently". But then what if I had tried to bike? Maybe I wouldn't have timed it right and I would have arrived late to the class. That would have triggered the depression too. Or maybe all that would have gone well but Nasser and the kids would have been late to pick me up afterward. I would have freaked out that we weren't going to be able to get our errands done and it would have triggered the depression again. I'm sure others looking in would say, "you can't think about what could have/would have/should have happened. Instead you have to think about what to do in the future." Sure, sure, easier for you to say. My brain goes to the "what ifs" automatically. I don't say that to defend myself in my thought process, but it really and truly is my automatic thought process. And I say this to remind myself. Because otherwise I would start feeling guilty about the fact that I have trouble controlling my thought process. And that would trigger my depression.

My depression. It really and truly is mine. As much as Nasser and my family and friends, and even my children now, support me, it is my load to carry and always will be. And then I come back to that same thought, do I just need to be strong enough to bear it?

It is still a disease. And that it always will be. 

I have depression. It is not mine, nor do I belong to it. It does not own me. It can help to be strong, and to do the right things, but sometimes it just hits and you do whatever you can to keep your head above the water. Today you survive and float. Maybe later this evening, or maybe not, maybe tomorrow, you will take a stab at a stroke or a kick. Then maybe your muscle memory will take over, as it usually does, and you'll get a rhythm again.

Mood tracking and weight loss

Sunday, 11/08/15, 1:24pm

I started a mood tracker the other day. My first entry is the lowest of the low, "depressed", "why does life have to be so hard?". Entry right now is "content". How can 2 days change my mood so much? I know how. I've been exercising every day-that helps avoid the lows for sure. Actually I started a weight loss challenge this week which has definitely contributed some to my highs and lows. I was at my heaviest non-pregnant weight of my life, and although I don't buy into society's expectation of needing to look perfect, I wanted to lose some weight. I do think that my extra weight contributes to my depression. I also think it has something to do with my prone-ness to knee and foot injuries. (Is prone-ness a word and if it is or just wanted to be, would it be spelled " prone-ness or proneness? But yes, I'm sure there's a better word to use but it's just not coming to mind). Back to the point of my digression here, I'm doing this weight loss challenge. Each person puts in $50, we started Nov 1 and we end Jan 1. The person who loses the most percentage of their body weight wins the pot, etc. It's fun. I'm glad I'm doing it and it's working, and the group is being a great support group, but it's hard. I was basically eating whatever the hell I wanted before this and not giving a damn, but I really enjoyed it. Definitely outta control, but still enjoyable. Sigh. Now it's entering my food into the MyFitnessPal app, being more strict about getting my exercise in every day, and some days I don't count everything. And some days I snack too much and freak out because I suddenly feel like I don't have enough calories for dinner. And some days I weigh more than I did yesterday, "seriously what the hell?". And some days I'm 3 pounds less than I was before, again, "seriously what the hell?" But it's good. I know it will be good to lose weight. I think that being healthier and more in shape will help my depression. I know that exercising every day is one of the best preventative strategies I can use for my depression.

But I've seriously digressed.

My depression can be quite the rollercoaster. I do know that. It's fabulous one minute, hell the next. At least I'm at a point where I can sometimes recover to being halfway to fabulous pretty quick. I've come a long way in the last year or so, but I've still got plenty to go.

The beginning

Saturday, 11/07/15, 12:34am

Today (well technically yesterday) has been a lot of ups and downs. I woke up this morning a little less angry and anxious than I was feeling last night. Nasser left this evening on a 7 day, 8 night work trip. And whew, today I got hit by this massive brick wall of anxiety and depression. It was ok, then it got worse, then it got awful, then it was better, then it was much better when I managed to fit in a barre workout with my sister, Audra. Our younger kiddos went into the childcare, and TK has greatly improved the whole dropoff experience in the last week. Before it was a clingy, tear-filled mess that never felt right (oh and it sometimes still is; I know those days are not completely gone. We've still got kindergarten to get through next year. Ummm, crap?). Today (I'm calling it today because here I am in the wee hours of the night and I haven't gone to bed yet so it is still today for me) drop off went great, barre went great, it was better, it was better, then boom. Brick wall. TK had a meltdown after class, something about he wanted to make the train go down the ramp first but D did so you know, he's 4 and its the end of the world as we know it and i don't feel fine. Got some good support from Aud in the car, so it was better. Then it was a little rough, it was better, it was better, it was horrible. Then it was mostly better. TK got some puzzles in this afternoon, RG got a playdate, but then they watched a lot for our family movie night. Ahem. Like 2 short movies and 1 long show. Yeah well it was that kinda day. They also got pizza delivery. And hot chocolate. And nerds. And pumpkin shaped gummies. And… You know what? Giving my kids some special things on a Friday night made me a better mom. A calmer, less stressed, happier mom.

And yeah, I started a puzzle while they were watching their shows. Because, damnit, that's the mom I am.



I've never done a blog before. I like the idea. I can talk to this void, for now you only exist in my Google Drive, bwa ha ha ha. I can delete you at any time. Or create a blog out of you and publish you.

I don't often wonder what it's like to not live with major depression disorder. I've only been diagnosed with it for about 6 and half years, but I think it's been there at a few points in my life long before that. I struggled with some of the normal pre-teen girl stuff, but between acne, and being the newer girl at a different school, and I dunno what else, I was most certainly NOT a popular kid. I don't think that necessarily caused or even greatly contributed to the depression. I mean we could start a massive debate here over nature vs nurture, but I feel strongly that there's at least some biological element to depression, and I think there's enough evidence to show that. Although there's still a lot we need to know about mental illness and causations and treatment, and I could go on and on. One of the reasons I'm starting to blog, is I want to get my experiences as a person who struggles with a mental illness out there. Mental illness is hard, can be life-threatening, and in too many cases, is basically fatal, perhaps in the same way a cancer kills. Our brain is an organ. I wonder can we look at suicide in that way? This person suffered from mental illness and very sadly, they lost their battle with the disease. But then there's a fine line. If you accept that one can die of a mental illness, does that only accept the suicide? Sometimes, in my deepest, darkest moments, I get, well I may as well call them what they are, suicidal thoughts. Oh man, is it not easy to admit that. Right society? I'm a failure as an individual because I get those thoughts. But no. That's not the safe thinking. I think “this depression is a disease of my organ, the brain. (Hello brain!) It is not a reflection on my character or my strength as an individual. It does not define me.”

Wow. What a blog start. Now that I've word and emotion vomited, it's time for bed.