Mental Health is a serious issue affecting our society today.
In an effort to get rid of the negativity and the stigma against mental illness, these brave women have chosen to share their stories with you.
Be nice, read, reflect and respond reasonably.
This post is from Jenn who blogs over at Fox in the City.
Mental Health Mondays has NOT died, it is ongoing, but it needs you to be brave by sending in your stories, in order to continue.
If you would like to express yourself and share your story on Mental Health Mondays, please feel free to email me at bewilderedbug(at)gmail(dot)com or tweet me at @bewilderedbug
Let’s continue to spread mental health awareness together
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Howdy, my name is Jenn and I am a wife to one, a mom to two, an archivist at a small museum, an avid kickboxer and most recently, a postpartum depression survivor.
I began my blog at one of my darkest times of my depression. It began as a place to clear my head and get down some of the many thoughts that kept rattling around in my brain. I write about whatever is on my mind at that time . . . be it dealing with PPD, dealing with toddlers or just dealing with life.
I recently wrote a post that I wasn’t certain I was ever going to be able to write . . . that post was about how I can finally say that I Survived PPD. It was a long, hard battle but it was one that I won. That victory is one of my proudest accomplishments.
Jenn & Little Miss
It is hard to say when the PPD crept into my life. Looking back now, I know that is arrived some time after I had my first . . . my little girl. It had been a difficult pregnancy and I was relieved to finally have her in my arms. That relief soon turned into feelings of overwhelmed inability to actually get anything done. Breastfeeding battles and sleep struggles feed into that overwhelmed feeling and soon I struggled to even leave the house.
At the time I chalked it up to what all new moms experienced. There were, however, some nagging signs that is was more than just trying to learn how to cope . . . that perhaps this was not normal.
There was frustration. There was irritability. There was anger.
Once my year was up and I returned to work it seemed like whatever it was dragging me down had passed. I was excited to get back to work. I joined a new gym and began exercising again. The anger no longer seemed to boil just under the surface.
Then I got pregnant and things began to slip. I found that I could no longer focus or concentrate on any projects at work. I began to tell myself that my boss, someone whom I had considered to be a great friend, was angry with me for getting pregnant again so soon after returning back to work. I began to think that I was being punished. The anger was starting to resurface.
The birth of my second child, my little guy, was the final push into a very dark depression.
Jenn & Buddy
Although I did not know it at the time, the night that my son was born my husband pulled the midwives aside and asked them to pay very close attention to me. He told them how I struggled after the birth of our daughter and he didn’t want to see me struggle that way again. I will love him for that for the rest of my life.
The sleep deprivation was intense. The breastfeeding left me feeling like I no longer had any control of my body. I was struggling through 19 hour days caring for a new born and a toddler. I broke.
One very dark night my husband came into our bedroom to find me holding our newborn son tightly to my chest, rocking him back and forth with tears streaming down my face. I begged him to help me because I was terrified of the images running through my head that brought to life my almost overwhelming need to throw my son as hard as I could against the bedroom wall.
With the help of my midwives I became part of a study that allowed me to speak with an Interpersonal Therapy nurse once a week. These hour long phone calls helped me to talk about these feelings and develop coping strategies.
We talked about my “scary thoughts”. . . what a nice euphemism for what they were . . . thoughts of harming my son or screaming in the face of my daughter. We talked about the anger, the feelings of frustration and of being completely overwhelmed.
This time I found I could not stay at the house. I would pack up both kids and get out of the house as soon as possible. I could not stand the oppressive feeling of being stuck in the house at the beck and call of the kids.
The therapy worked for a time but soon the anger was back in full force. I snapped at my husband. I handled each of my children as roughly as I could. I hated my life. I hated being angry all of the time.
I returned to work overwhelmed and angry at the world. Soon a new sort of emptiness began to take over me. I felt like I no longer had a place in this world. It appeared to me that I was not welcomed back to work . . . my roles had to been given to others and I was now just an afterthought. Coming home brought no relief just more demands on me. Why did the kids always want me? Why must they be all over me all of the time? Why could they not leave me alone?
For the life of me I cannot recall what prompted me to once again turn to my doctor for help. We had tried a medication before but I found that it did nothing at all and stopped using it. This time we tried something different. The talk with my doctor happened shortly before my life at work hit rock bottom. My depression had turned me into an unmotivated, unfocused and incredibly angry employee . . . certainly not an Employee of the Year candidate.
So I began therapy and combined with the new medication I began to feel a bit better. The anger began to fade but it left behind a terrible sadness. As some of the fog began to clear I was devastated to look at what had become of my life. My career relationships were in shambles. Even worse, I had spent my son’s entire lifetime angry . . . the only mommy he knew was this terrible angry shrew who spoke to those she loved the most in the world with deadly venom in her voice. It was heartbreaking.
It was also a sign that I was starting to recover . . . things were changing. I continued with my therapy and together it was decided to up my dose to see if that might just push me up and over the edge.
I CAN NOW SAY THAT I AM A SURVIVOR.
If you are struggling please know that you are not alone.
There is nothing to be ashamed of.
PPD is not your fault.
It is a very real illness but it is something that can be beat . . . if you get help.
