Digging to the root of it all.

When it comes to fight or flight, I usually like flight.  Namely the kind of flight where I crawl under covers & eat cake & disappear from the world.

I don’t like to “deal.”  Or face uncomfortable truths.  I like to control & when I cannot hold power?  I crumble with the hope of being rescued.

“What’s wrong with me?” I cried in therapy. “Why do certain things paralyze me yet leave others unfazed?”

This is the very core of my mental health, my heart-gut, my battle with postpartum depression.  The overwhelming urge to control, coupled with immature coping skills.  “So basically,” I closed my eyes & laughed sarcastically.  “You’re telling me that I’m a control freak with a horrible personality.”

She laughed. Yes.  “But no, not really,” she explains.  “I think you just feel things strongly.  You react strongly.”

It’s an exhausting way to live.

“My husband calls me ‘tenacious’ when he is being kind,” I said with a wry twist to the corner of my mouth.

“Exactly,” she smiled.

HeirtoBlair500x150 v41 Digging to the root of it all.

Stigma. Supermom. Shame. Struggle. Shattered. (You are worth more.)

From the National Institute of Mental Health:

  • One in four women will experience severe depression at some point in life.
  • Depression affects twice as many women as men, regardless of racial and ethnic background or income.
  • Depression is the number one cause of disability in women.

Only one fifth of women who suffer from depression seek treatment.  One fifth of one in four, which means that in a room of sixty women, fifteen suffer depression but only three are getting help.

shatteredglass 300x199 Stigma.  Supermom.  Shame.  Struggle.  Shattered.  (You are worth more.)Translation?  Women are suffering, hurting, bruised to the core…& not seeking help.

What is it about us as women that makes us vulnerable to depression, & then paralyzed to receive help?

Through our determination to be seen as strong, rather than the weaker sex, do we not recognize the symptoms?  Do we push aside the exhaustion & irritability as “being a woman,” not understanding that they are signs of imbalance, just as much as tears?  Or maybe that guttural instinct to “buck up” as a mother & push through, despite the nagging anxieties & cloying despair.

In the era of the supermom, we feel pressure to be an odd mixture of a June Cleaver housewife & a Martha Stewart business mogul — are we afraid to verbalize that we cannot do it all?  Is there shame in that feeling that maybe, somehow, someway, we failed womanhood?

Or the shame that buries deep in our soul when the depression pulls us away from children & spouses & the focus of our life, but we fight a losing battle against it & we are too afraid to say, “I am sorry, but my heart is not here.”  We are told that women should not feel this way.

Or perhaps the shame of the neighbor’s wagging tongue that has already weighed the label on our sweater, the car in our driveway, the organic qualities of our dinner, & the manners of our children.  Dare we expose one more Achilles Heel to the harshest judges?

Is it the rising cost of healthcare in this downtrodden economy where some of us struggle to keep shoes on small feet & food in mouths?  Perhaps it is a failure of the medical field to screen properly & then offer options.  Or even the lack of options (did you know there is only ONE inpatient postpartum mood disorder clinic in the country?!).  Is it because it is one more task on our growing lists, where small children cannot tag along?

No matter the cause, I boldly say this —   Women, you are worth it.

If you are hurting & suffering & scared, please know that you deserve to feel better.  It is not weakness that asks for help – instead, there is courage in the acceptance.

photo credit

Where we ask for help, which is such an awkward thing to do.

Every mother shares a common wish.  It doesn’t matter what level of education she has, where she lives, her race or her religion: she wants desperately to be a good mom.  Imagine then, that most important dream being dashed at the start.  At a time when others celebrate new life, this mom is devastated, disconnected and afraid. ~Katherine Stone

Help.

30% of new mothers suffer from postpartum mood disorders, like postpartum depression.  Only 15% of those mommas seek treatment.  Translation?  Roughly 850,000 mothers & children will suffer from the effects of postpartum mood disorders.

Help.

Hormonal changes, social support, pregnancy or infant loss, previous mental illness, stress levels, isolation, sleep deprivation.  Biological & environmental, all feeding the disease.

Help.

We can do so much more.  I have been so lucky to be close to UNC, have survivor mommas to encourage me, to have an outlet to the public where we form camaraderie.  Others are not as lucky, & I grieve for them.

Help.

Postpartum Progress, the website that helped me survive & give me a voice, is desperate to do more in 2012.

  • developing a compelling national awareness campaign for postpartum depression
  • creating & distributing new and improved patient education materials for distribution by hospitals (the kind new moms won’t throw away!!)
  • translating our “plain mama English” information and support into Spanish and other languages

On October 5, the day more babies are born than any other day in the year, Postpartum Progress is launching a “Start Strong” fundraising campaign to help reach more mothers, gather more support, & make a difference.

Can you help?


NetworkForGood Where we ask for help, which is such an awkward thing to do.

StrollerThon 2.0

Today was the Postpartum Education & Support, Inc. StrollerThon, raising money for awareness & celebrating victories.  Last year, my doctor wrapped her arms around me & I choked with love for my little boy & my life.

DSC 0420 1024x685 StrollerThon 2.0

This year, I met my friends in the brisk fall air with excitement & happiness.  We laughed & sipped coffee while we waited for the walk to begin, while very sweet husbands pumped stroller tires for those of us that oops! had flats.  (okay, I was the only one)

Amy & I set out with our matching Bumbleride strollers, chatting about selling homes & the exhaustion of motherhood.   I’ve known Amy for almost ten years now, back when boys & booze were our topics.  Funny how things change.

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Harry & Charlotte were antsy after the walk, so we unleashed them on the playground.

(side note:  a girl looked over & said, “Are you Beth Anne?” & then she said my maiden name & I almost fell over, but she was a girl I knew in middle school.  That’s over 15 years ago & there we were, standing on a playground with our kids.  It’s nuts living in your hometown, even if your hometown is one of the biggest cities in the state.)

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& then…Harrison was done.

When the kid is done, he is done.

So I took him home, tucked him in bed for a nap & began editing pictures.  It had been a fantastic morning of friendship & motherhood & happiness.  I looked to my right at the bottom desk drawer & the notebooks it held.  Notebooks from last year, journals from the beginnings & the lows & the hospital.  Without a hesitation of doubt, I gathered them up & walked them to the trash cans outside.  I do not want those words anymore, or those feelings.  Those notebooks, full of angry words & sketches made when I was hurting — I feel no urge to keep them.

I want to be like Harrison & be done.

& simply be thankful for the journey they gave me.

Broken mess.

The water falls warm & I wonder if I am broken.

I sit down on the tiles, leaning back against the cold sides, but I’m staring at the belly, so stretched & soft from child-bearing.  The child-bearing that led me to this place so many times, both physcially & emotionally, for the past three years.  I close my eyes against it’s constant reminder of miracles & pain & the sacrificial love of motherhood.  I sit up cross-legged & spread my hands through the running water, tracing the rivers they make with my palms & I wonder if I will ever leave the floor.

The floor where I cried over my lost baby.  Where I ripped out my heart over the baby I birthed.  Blood & tears, both escaping me.  Where I escape & pray to find answers to the part of my brain that does not seem to click the way it should, the part that wraps silently around my entire life until I back into a corner & let the water fall, warm & steady.  I am a constant mess; ripped & broken & pieced back together so many times that I wonder if my flaws show to the outside world.

I wonder how I feel both renewed & trapped behind the white curtain, relaxing to the rhythmic fall of the water while I place my head in my hands, raggedly running fingers through my hair as I fight for hope, for relief, for feeling that it will all be okay.

A soft knock on the door, a patter of small feet wrapped in cotton as the boy flings back the curtain with a joy & exuberance I wish for in myself.  Relief floods my heart, hope reaches up to my eyes.  His impish smile stretches past his cheeks into my heart & I nod over his blonde head to my husband that yes,  I am okay.

____________________

p.s. i wrote this two weeks ago. i’m doing better now.

Stealing is for losers. Copyright 2008-2012 Beth Anne Ballance