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Postpartum Anxiety & Depression

I Thought I Was Dying, But I Had Postpartum Anxiety

by Jill
written by Jill

The Postpartum Support International help line phone number is 1-800-944-4733. Keep reading for more resources you can bookmark or share with friends and family.

If you’ve been reading this blog over the last 7 years, you’ve likely heard me at least mention my struggles with postpartum anxiety and OCD at some point. I’ve tried to be open about it for nearly as long as I’ve recognized it in myself.

I first wrote about it back in 2011.

I feel a sense of obligation to talk about this because I may have never sought treatment had it not been for the women who came before me and shared their own stories.

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I never realized postpartum ANXIETY or OCD were real diagnosis. I didn’t ever feel “depressed” so it never occurred to me the anger and the worry and the obsessive fear I felt had anything to do with my mental health. I assumed that I was just a BAD MOTHER. How awful, right?

So you can imagine my relief when I read this and recognized, finally, that what I was feeling was actually something that could be treated. I wasn’t a bad mom, I was sick. PLEASE BOOKMARK THIS and share it and refer back to it!

THE SYMPTOMS OF POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION & ANXIETY (IN PLAIN MAMA ENGLISH)

I white knuckled my way through it with my first baby, and I regret that, but I didn’t even know something was wrong with me then. I finally got help when my 2nd baby was 9 months old. I had plans in place after the birth of my 3rd and 4th baby- prescriptions on hand and ready to fill.

It never got easier to get through it, but it did get easier to fill those prescriptions.

If you recognize any of these symptoms in yourself or someone you care about, please reach out to a medical care provider- your family physician, your OB, or even ask your pediatrician for a recommendations if you need one.

PLEASE NOTE that PPD/PPA does not always hit those first few weeks. Mine never hit until my babies were between 4-6 months old, long after I “aced” that 6 week postpartum screening.

Postpartum Resources:

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I Can Still Do Hard Things- Wallace’s Birth Story Part 2
BabiesBirth StoriesPregnancy

I Can Still Do Hard Things- Wallace’s Birth Story Part 2

by Jill
written by Jill

Be sure to read Part 1 first!

Scott got to the hospital a little after I got checked into a labor room. I think sometime around 8:30. He was excited to discover a Blues hockey game on TV. We cut cable long ago, and he usually has to listen to the game via a radio app.

Like old birthing pros, we chilled in the room with no sense of urgency. Him watching the game, me giving the yoga ball a half effort. I thought I should at least attempt to move labor along, though I doubted it would do much.

Wallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.com

There was no rushing to set up battery operated candles or fill the room with calming music. We laughed at how mundane the routine had become.

Around 10 I decided to try to get some sleep. I requested extra blankets and reclined in the not super comfortable labor bed. I don’t know that I ever really managed to fall into a deep sleep, but I rested off and on for the next couple hours. By then, my contractions were coming every 5 ish minutes, but only 2 or 3 an hour were uncomfortable until about midnight.

I rejoiced when it was past midnight because I knew that bought us an extra night at the hospital. Kendall, my first, was born at 12:30 in the morning, so we technically got 3 nights at the hospital since the first night didn’t really count, and I was looking forward to the same scenario.

I LOVE our hospital (Baylor Scott White in McKinney, TX for those wondering). It’s like a hotel.  I also have 3 other kids at home, and 3 dogs, and was in no rush at all to get out of there. Call me crazy, but I’ll take a nurse checking on me every 3 hours over 3 kids “checking” on me every 30 minutes.

Scott remarked around this time that we’d “probably have a baby by 5 in the morning” and he wondered if he should drive home before or after the morning rush hour to shower and get the big kids. I laughed in his face. “A whole lot is going to have to happen really fast for us to have a baby by then. That’s not going to happen, so don’t worry about it.”

From about midnight to 1:30 my contractions became more consistent and uncomfortable. I was having to breathe through every one by the time I called the nurse in to come check me again a little before 2. I was hoping this was a sign of a little bit of progress- at least enough to ease my fears about having to start Pitocin when the sun came up.

When she told me I was still at a 4, I felt like all my worst fears were validated. I sat on the bed, crying, convinced that I really couldn’t handle the pain of contractions after my water broke.

I remember a previous midwife telling me that your bag of water cushions things, and makes contractions more manageable, and I’ve always believed in that fully because once my water does break (usually at 8 cm), all hell breaks loose and it really, really fucking hurts. (Though this is always the start of transition for me, too.)

I cried because these contractions didn’t feel like 4 cm contractions. I was doomed.

Meanwhile, Scott the badass dad pro asked the nurse to get the shower ready. If you read my last birth story, you may remember that I labored with Lowell in an AH-MAZING shower with a million lovely shower heads. It’s a heavenly set up. So I agreed to head that way, wiping my tears on my hospital gown as I took it off.

I remember the nurse saying something like, “I have a feeling you’re starting something, not stalling.” Of course, I assumed this was a lie to get me to calm down.

As soon as I sat down, my contractions started coming on super strong and super fast, with only about 30 seconds between them. And I began my first ever campaign for an epidural.

In my mind, I was in for this kind of pain for the next 6 hours, and then they’d inevitably start me on Pitocin, and hell if I was going to go through all that only to wind up with an epidural then. Fuck that. I wanted it it asap. I just wanted to sleep.

This visibly shocked Scott for a minute, and he tried to talk some sense into me. He knew I had to be progressing. And looking back, DUH, but in that moment I was just like, STFU, and tell the damn nurse to get the damn anesthesiologist.

The nurse, also clearly knowing what was actually happening with me, asked if she could check me again. Then I heard her ask the other nurse to call my midwife and tell her to head in. I thought that was dumb and mean because my poor midwife needed sleep and I wasn’t ever going to have my baby anyway.

It had only been 20 minutes since she last checked me, but I figured sure. They could check me, and I’d still be at a 4, and then they could all leave me alone and let me get the epidural.

Good plan! Except I was at an 8.

OH. Turns out it hurts REAL bad to go from a 4 to an 8 in 20 minutes.

My mood improved greatly for a little bit. I was no longer in uncharted waters. It’s like I finally had a map in a language I understood. 8 cm and my water’s broken? This I could do. This I knew. I wasn’t going to like it, but I’d been there.

I didn’t want an epidural anymore, which is good because there wouldn’t have been time anyway. I asked the nurse to fill the labor tub for me and she was like, “Girl, no. I’m sorry. We don’t have time for that.” 

So back into the shower I went, just in time for the holy-shit-why-did-you-do-this-AGAIN contractions. I have no idea what time this was… maybe I was in there from 3 to 3:30 ish? I don’t have a good grasp on time at this point.

My good mood faded, and this marked the beginning of the part of labor that feels like I’m being dragged against my will. Like, if you’re being dragged through a field of thorns, the worst thing you can do is flail and kick and fight (I’d imagine). You just have to relax into it, don’t fight it.

Dumb, lacking analogies aside, this is the part that really sucks. And I knew that. I knew that the only way out was through, and I did everything I could to let my body take over and do what it could. I didn’t like it. I cried. But I knew what I had to do.

After a few really hard contractions, I started to feel a little like pushing. I was suddenly real glad my nurse had the foresight to call my midwife in. They got me out of the shower and moved me to a birth stool. My midwife walked in after one or two contractions there, and after a couple more I knew I was going to need to push soon.

I had the option to stay on the birth stool, but I’ve only ever pushed my babies while sitting in the bed, and I needed that familiarity. I moved to the bed between contractions, and with the very next one the rest of my water broke (the first break was only a small tear), and gushed everywhere.

I dreaded what was coming next, but again, more dragging and giving up control, and just knowing I had to get through it for it to be over. Pushing, for me, is super awful. I can’t recall exactly how awful because that’s how nature tricks us into keeping our species going, but I do know that every time I’ve been there, I’ve made a mental note that it’s the absolute worst pain I’ve ever experienced in my life.

The positive to this is that I am a fucking boss at pushing by now. I do. not. fuck. around. I pushed for about 20 minutes with my first, 2 pushes with my 2nd, my 3rd was born with one push.

And just like the last time, I began to push and would not let up until he was out. This one was also born with only one push. I paused briefly after his head crowned and then again to slow down his shoulders – like a damn PRO, not needing anyone to remind me.

I still screamed like someone was ripping me in half from the inside, though.

I remember the nurses kept telling me to look down and meet my baby, but I am the least sentimental person when I’m trying to get a human out of me. I would meet him soon enough. I needed to focus. I needed to close my eyes and get the job done.

And then, there he was, and it was immediate relief. I cried.

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Not just because labor was over, but because the whole dang thing was- the pregnancy, the anxiety about labor. It was all finally behind me. “You did it!” everyone kept cheering. They had no idea how much I doubted that I could.

“I can do hard things,” I thought to myself as I looked down to finally meet my baby.

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2016 tried to dismantle me, and I’m not talking about all the celebrity deaths. It pushed me and picked at me in a lot of ways I won’t get into here. But with 10 days left, at 4:59 am, 2016 gave me Wallace Austin Krause- 9 lbs 1 oz, 21.5 inches long- and reminded me I can still do hard things. 

Wallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.comWallace's Birth Story | BabyRabies.com

Want to read my other birth stories?

Kendall’s birth story
Leyna’s birth story
Lowell’s birth story

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The Labor Before The Labor Story – Wallace’s Birth Story Part 1
Pregnancy

The Labor Before The Labor Story – Wallace’s Birth Story Part 1

by Jill
written by Jill

So there I was, 4 days overdue. I had an NST at my midwife’s office, and after trying to get him to stay still long enough for a good enough reading (the nurse noted that he was the most active post-dates baby she’d ever tried to monitor), they noticed one heart decel that made my midwife go “Hmmmmm….” The verdict was they were going to send me to the hospital for a 2-hour monitoring sesh. If all looked okay, like she assumed it would, I would just go home until my body decided to kick him out.

A photo posted by Jill Krause (@babyrabies) on

I had all 3 other babies at 4 or 5 days past my due date, and earlier that morning I really thought it was go time for this one. I’d had some real, painful contractions for a few hours, but they went away after I took a nap. So I asked her to check me. Ever since learning I was at a 7 without even knowing it with Leyna, my 2nd, I’ve always had high hopes/some real fear that would be the case with each one after. We don’t live close to the hospital I deliver at, and I’d really like to not ever have a baby on the side of the road. Knowledge is power!

I was sitting solidly at a 3, which was no 7, but it was progress, and that was welcome news. She asked if I’d like her to strip my membranes while her gloved hand was already in the vicinity, and I excitedly agreed. I felt like labor was imminent, and I was happy to get a little push down the hill if that would help.

As I sat up, I felt a gush of fluid, but assumed it was the gel from the exam.

The plan was to head over to the hospital, but to first stop and eat something because I hadn’t had a real meal all day. As I left the office and got in my car there was another gush, then another as I was driving, and another. By the time I was in line to order my food, I looked like I’d peed my pants. I was 99.9% sure my water broke by that point, which made my meal EVEN MORE IMPORTANT, so there I stood with my pee pee pants, avoiding eye contact with people, hoping I could get my food without anyone pointing out the obvious.

I took the food to my car and scarfed it down while I called Scott. “Hey! I’m headed to the hospital to get monitored, but they’re going to admit me, I’m sure. My water broke.”

Okay, now what you need to know is that my water has NEVER broken before I’m at a solid 8, on the cusp of transition, and about to meet my baby. And then it’s always with the help of a midwife and what looks like a crochet hook.

“WHAT?! OK. LEAVING NOW. OMG,” Scott panicked. Naturally, he felt like I was about to have a baby in a parking lot without him.

I assured him that he had plenty of time. Then I begged him to please calm down and not forget all my bags, and my camera, and my charger, and my nursing pillow. And snacks!

When I got to L&D for monitoring, I mentioned that I thought my water broke. I got the “well, we’ll test it to be sure” talk, but once the nurse saw how much I was leaking, there was no need. It was pretty obvious, and they got moving on admitting me. She checked me, and I was at a 3-4. No real change from the hour before at my appointment. I wasn’t having strong contractions at that point, nor did they seem regular, and I was thinking I was about to have a really long night. There was some talk that they would want to start Pitocin if I didn’t show any progress by the next morning.

That screwed with me more than I was expecting. Pitocin? I couldn’t do Pitocin with no epidural. What if I stalled? What if my water breaking meant nothing? What if contractions with a broken bag of water were more painful? What if I couldn’t handle it this time?

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This is a good time to talk a little about my mental state heading into labor this round. I fought the entire pregnancy to feel empowered and confident, but something in me just couldn’t embrace that I could do this one more time. I was dreading labor from the minute I found out I was pregnant, and it never got better. My anxiety began to escalate in October, and to be completely honest election season wrecked me and sent me into a tailspin.

The separated ribs that made it hard to breathe certainly didn’t help things, nor did the 3 trips to L&D/the ER prior to figuring out that my ribs were separated, and that was the source of my pain and inability to breathe. I was physically done. I was mentally done. I felt defeated before labor even started.

For the first time in 4 pregnancies, I seriously doubted myself.

Read Part 2 here.

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How I Became A More Adult-y Adult in 2015
LifestyleParenthoodPostpartum Anxiety & Depression

How I Became A More Adult-y Adult in 2015

by Jill
written by Jill

I can’t do the thing where you pick a word for the new year. It feels too resolution-y to me. BUT, I realized I CAN pick a word to describe the year behind me.

And the word for my 2015 would have to be “Adult-ish” because in 2015 I successfully became a more adult-y adult.

Not a full-grown adult. No, I still have terrible habits like waking up at the last possible minute, not paying close attention to my budget, and leaving dirty dishes on the counter, but I totally learned to function at a more adult level last year. At the age of 34, with 3 kids.

HowIbecamemoreadulty

I cut back on sugar. I know, what does being an adult have to do with diet? Not much UNLESS your diet makes you crash so hard you must nap EVERY DAY. Adults don’t take naps every day, unfortunately (though I am ALL for changing that). You may remember that I did a Whole 30 this time last year. I didn’t lose weight, but it broke my sugar addiction, and that turned out to be huge.

Sure, I’ll still eat sugar, but now I know how it effects me. The less sugar I have before dinner time, the more productive I am, and the less I feel the need to crawl under the covers at 2 pm. I never drink coffee with sugar in it anymore, and I haven’t had a soda (only a few sips here and there) since Jan 1 of 2015. Frankly, they are gross to me now. Candy bars, too.

I said “No” alllll the time. No, I can’t do that project, it takes time away from projects that I love. No, I can’t make your school Valentines party, I have stuff I need to do at home, but I’ll have a special dinner with you tonight. No, I will not feel guilty for not volunteering for x, y, and z.

I really prioritized what MATTERED in 2015. My family, of course, my marriage, and my own projects. From a professional standpoint, I probably missed out on some extra money last year, but I spent time investing in my own brand and platform, not getting paid to write for or promote other brands and platforms. It was far more fulfilling, and way better for my sanity.

I learned to take small steps. I didn’t morph into a more adult-y adult by tackling huge goals. I just made more small grown up choices, day by day. Whereas I use to feel paralyzed by huge tasks, this time I freed myself of those expectations.

No, I didn’t have to organize the WHOLE house, but hey, what about that one closet? I could get that done. I didn’t have clean the whole house, but let’s start with the dishes.

BTW, I’ve learned that if I just at least get the dishes done, everything seems to fall in place from there. I start picking up, wiping off, and the house at least appears clean (even if that other closet is hiding a clutter monster). It all starts with the dishes.

I did the stuff I didn’t want to do as soon as I could do them.  Make the call. Answer the email. Do what you most don’t want to do. Just get it done. I felt so much better once that one thing that I really didn’t want to face was off my radar for good.

I took risks, I made mistakes, I failed, I apologized. Whew, this was a toughie. I let myself be vulnerable. I started projects that didn’t go how I planned. I gave myself permission to try new things. I bombed at some things I did, and let others down. I took responsibility and apologized sincerely. I listened and learned and tried harder.

This is basic stuff, but I much prefer to just not letting myself make mistakes in the first place.

I went to bed earlier. Not to say I fell asleep earlier, but I was at least in bed before midnight most nights. If you don’t want to take a nap every day, it’s kinda important you get more than 4 hours of sleep at night.

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I stopped working at night. I just can’t anymore, you guys. I used to get all my writing and emails done after 10 pm, but then I never got to spend time with my husband before going to bed, and I’d find myself coming to bed at insane hours, like 2 or 3 in the morning. Then I was horribly unproductive until 10 pm the next day. It was an awful cycle to break, but I’m so glad I did.

Now, I check out by dinner time every night (since I still get a lot done between the time my husband gets off work and when we sit down to eat). By the time we’ve tucked all the kids in, I can’t even imagine turning on my computer. I like it this way, leaves more time for The Walking Dead marathons. 

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I took care of myself. Obviously, I made sleep a priority this year. Not naps, but solid hours of sleep at night, knowing that it’s SO tied to how well I function the next day.

Also, I stayed on Lexapro. I’ve been on it for 2 years now, and I am madly in love with it. Treating my anxiety has been THE BIGGEST step in unlocking the adult-y achievement badge. I kicked anxiety in the ass so hard that I managed to get on a plane and fly across an ocean to visit Israel. Hashtag: huge.

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I look back at how hard it was to function at any level just a year and a half ago, and I am PROUD of things like getting dressed (mostly) every day, and making it a whole week without needing a nap. I’m proud of how much my business grew, and what our family schedule looks like now- that my kids can always count on family dinner around the table and me tucking them in when it’s bedtime.

Maybe my word of 2016 will be “Adult” without the “ish.”

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The Only Thing Preventing You From Being The Parent You Want To Be
BabiesParenthoodPopular PostsSchool Age DaysToddlers

The Only Thing Preventing You From Being The Parent You Want To Be

by Jill
written by Jill

“Are you the parent you want to be? If not, what’s stopping you?”

I asked that on my Facebook page yesterday, and the majority of people responded that they aren’t. The reasons ranged from money and patience, to support and anxiety.

It was all something I could relate to. I didn’t have time to respond back to anyone and tell them so because I was working hard yesterday to be the mom I want to be, and clean the house, play with the kids, make healthy snacks, blah blah blah.

But I thought about it a lot yesterday, and about how sad it is that so many of us feel like we’re not the parent we want to be and the things that are preventing us from being that person are largely out of our control. It’s like we’ll never be good at this job no matter how hard we try. How depressing is that?

We have got to reframe this and set ourselves up for success, friends. Nobody deserves to go through life feeling like they are failing at something every day, especially not raising their kids.

So lately I’ve been trying this thing where I picture the mom I want to be, and then I recognize that that is a FANTASY based on images that are not true to MY real life.

And then I reframe it based on reality.

“I want to be the mother who enjoys playing with her kids all the time.” Is now:  “I want to be the mother who enjoys playing with her kids for maybe a few minutes a day.”

“I want to be the mother who has homemade snacks and cooks healthy dinners every night.” Is now: “I want to be the mother who doesn’t feed her kids from a drive through most nights.”

“I want to be the mother who does crafts with her kids.” Is now: “I want to be the mother who doesn’t have to drink the whole bottle of wine after doing crafts with her kids.”

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Losing. My. Mind right here.

Okay,  but humor aside, there really is some truth here.

It’s called lowering expectations, and it’s helped me a lot in the past.

The only thing really stopping you from being the parent you want to be is the parent you want to be. There is nothing wrong with recognizing that that parent is a mythological creature, based on your current circumstances.

Remember, that parent may very well be a real, tangible thing for other people. Hell, maybe other people are actually wizards, too. We will never know.

But you? You are not a wizard. And you have limitations that keep you from becoming that mythical being. So, like, stop wanting to be that impossible, made-up person.

The Only Thing Keeping You From Being The Parent You Want To Be | BabyRabies.comThis was for a project I just did for MyHabit. They wanted gorgeous, styled photos of me and the kids.
All those smiles are fake. Candy was promised. I think Lowell is probably in a state of paralyzed fear.  

In my experience, my patience thins and my temper shortens the more I think about my failures and all that will not live up to the impossible expectations I set for myself. When you stop holding yourself to such high standards, your humanity has room to breathe.

The Only Thing Keeping You From Being The Parent You Want To Be | BabyRabies.com

Right after I told Scott, “Whatever. I give up. Are you done? Just shoot. This is us. I can’t with the styling and posing.”
Okay, it’s possible I also yelled, “Can you please just TRY to shoot it level?”

I would also encourage you to give the “parent you want to be” all the traits of a normal human, including making mistakes, and being able to start fresh the next day without the help of a wand, but definitely with the help of wine, or therapy, or medications or any/none of those combinations. Also, for sure with the help of sleep.

So be kinder to yourselves, okay? Of course, always strive to be the best you, but also accept the current best you. Put that person up on a pedestal, even if that person doesn’t get to spend as much time with their kids as they’d like, or feels touched out and done at the end of the day.

Lower your expectations. You are enough.

Now enjoy this gorgeous, styled photo of my toddler who desperately needed a snack so much that he nearly ripped my dress off. Please know this woman is mythical. She does not exist in the real world. The only time I ever look like this, I’m nowhere near my children. The only time I breastfeed is when I’m with my children. So this is like an oxymoron. 

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Also, you can’t really see this, but he’s driving Thomas the Train down my cleavage. 

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Am I Psychic? On Wanting To Predict The New Year (And Anxiety, Of Course)
BabiesParenthood

Am I Psychic? On Wanting To Predict The New Year (And Anxiety, Of Course)

by Jill
written by Jill

In the fall of 2013, when Lowell was 8 weeks old, I had a moment that made me wonder if I’m actually some kind of psychic.

I’m only half joking. Actually, I’m mostly serious.

We were driving home from his 8 week appointment, just the two of us, on a two lane road that I liked to take to avoid the busy highways between our home and the pediatrician’s office. Over the years, this road has become increasingly busy as construction booms around it.

As I approached a curve in the road to the left and a pile of large debris on the shoulder to my right, I had a very clear thought- It would be so easy for someone to hit me head-on on this road.

And then, literally seconds later, the car approaching me veered into my lane. And because I had just had this thought, and I was focusing so intently on the cars ahead of me, I had just enough time to veer to the right barely enough without swerving into the pile of construction debris while laying on my horn.

The driver of the car looked up from their phone in time to veer back into their lane before hitting me.

I haven’t taken that road since.

On New Years Eve last year, Leyna broke her arm, and I spent most of New Years Day trying to figure out if I could blame that bad luck on 2013, or if it was a sign that 2014 was going to be a year that broke me.

I let my maybe-psychic mind convince me that, like the car approaching me, 2014 was going to be something I had to keep intently focused on. A year I would probably have to honk my horn at, and maybe flip the bird, and hope it doesn’t hit me head-on.

Not surprisingly, 2014 was a year that I struggled with postpartum anxiety again. I was back on my meds by March after a few months white-knuckling and trying to soothe my racing, maybe-psychic mind on my own.

Truthfully, I spent all of 2014 trying not to listen to a small voice saying, “This year is going to break you. It’s going to be awful.” So much so that I didn’t even want to publish this post that’s been brewing in my head until 2014 was gone.

God forbid I published it on the 31st, and then our house burned down that night or something.

Seriously, this is how my brain works.

But now, safely in the arms of 2015, I can say that while 2014 did threaten to flatten me at times, I managed to navigate it like a pro, narrowly squeezing between anxiety on my left, and overwhelming pressure of motherhood and work and buying a new home on  my right, while I cruised through some pretty great moments.

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I still wonder, though, how much I can trust my own instincts. It’s clear that they are very on-point sometimes. And at others, it’s clear that they like to make me crazy for no good reason. Anxiety is a bitch like that. It makes my intuition drunk… or maybe high? I’ve never been high, but I hear that you become paranoid. So perhaps that’s a better analogy.

I hate looking at the whole of things ahead of me. I hate trying to predict what an entire year will bring. I will just stay intently focused on what’s immediately here. Living in the now, day to day, is one of the best ways I know to sober my instincts.

I’m glad I was very wrong to believe 2014 was going to be awful. It was the opposite.

(And you should know that my brain is telling me to delete that last sentence because now I have certainly set myself up for a horrific 2015. This is when I truly hope I’m not psychic and just have issues.)

 

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I Want To Be Strong- On Body Image After Anxiety
BabiesParenthoodPopular Posts

I Want To Be Strong- On Body Image After Anxiety

by Jill
written by Jill

I remember the day I stepped on the doctor’s scale and weighed in at 139 nearly 3 years ago. I was there for a follow-up appointment, to get a renewed prescription for meds to treat my postpartum anxiety.

It had been a month since I begged them to work me in as quick as possible because I thought I was surely dying… of cancer, of a heart attack, of something. A month since I admitted to myself and a medical professional that I was dealing with some serious intrusive and obsessive thoughts nearly  9 months after having my 2nd baby.

One. Thirty. Nine. I hadn’t seen that number on a scale since high school. My first thought, which I said out loud, was, “do you think something is wrong with my thyroid? I mean. Wow. That’s… I haven’t even been working out.”

So, and I am sure this was mainly to appease me and ease my overactive concern, they ran some tests. Nope. Nothing wrong with my thyroid.

I was just, well, I was the thinnest I’d been in a long time, size 6 skinny jeans sagging off my non-existent butt, because I wasn’t taking care of myself. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. Not enough, I guess. I was living off of coffee. I wasn’t purposefully starving myself. I wasn’t aiming to lose weight that way. I had NO appetite.

It was all a part of the illness I was clawing my way away from. I was the thinnest I’d been in my adult life at a time when my life was the most scary it’s ever been.

I know this.

So it really makes me pissed at myself when I step on a scale these days, weighing a good 10-15 lbs more than that, and hear my inner dialogue tell me, “Remember when you were 139? Why can’t you be that skinny again?”

Hey, me? Shut the fuck up.

Because I knew the signs of postpartum anxiety this time, I caught on much earlier that I was back in that place again after having my 3rd baby a year ago. I started meds for it when he was 6 months old. I didn’t let myself get to that place where I’m living on the edge of a cliff. THANK GOD.

So the meds are working, and I am hungry, and I am enjoying life, and I’m sleeping.

The weight isn’t just falling off of me this time. Rationally, I know this is a GREAT thing. I’m not standing in front of a mirror, looking at my hollowed out cheeks, not able to recognize myself.

There is a pudgy tummy, and my butt is much bigger. My arms are  thicker, and my chicken legs are less chicken-y.

It’s not a bad body. It’s a great body. I look good in most clothes. I’m mostly happy with it.

It’s not a skinny 139 body, though, and for some reason there is still that voice that pushes me to achieve that again. And I keep trying to tell that voice that that wasn’t achieved by going to the gym 3x a week, like I’ve been doing. That wasn’t achieved by running the fastest 5k I’ve ever run, which I did last week. That wasn’t achieved by decreasing the amount of crap I’m eating AND increasing the good stuff I NEED to eat.

I’ve been working out more in the last couple months than I have in a long time. It’s been hard to put in so much effort and feel like I’m seeing so few results. I would love to tone up, to slim down just a little more in a HEALTHY way, nothing too extreme. I’d love to have some real muscles. I’m working on it.

I am fighting that voice in my head that holds that 139 body up as what I should be striving for. That 139 body was sick. It was weak.

IWantToBeStrong I want to be strong.

 

 

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I Regret Not Sleep Training My Baby
BabiesParenthoodPopular PostsPostpartum Anxiety & Depression

I Regret Not Sleep Training My Baby

by Jill
written by Jill

Last night was the 7th.. 8th?? night in a row that Lowell has slept at least a solid 8 hour stretch. He’s a year old.

I am a new person. I am more sane. That’s not an exaggeration. The difference in the way I feel and my ability to function this week versus 2 weeks ago is like the difference between a drunk and sober person.

My anxiety is at nearly nonexistent levels, with the help of the sleep and my continued meds. I made the mistake of thinking I could stop the anxiety meds when I started sleeping and feeling so much better last week, but no. I soon learned that was a bad idea when by Saturday I wanted to rip my own skin off at the sound of my kids screaming.

So, back to the meds, which is FINE. Because, truly, the meds and the sleep have put me in a happy place that I haven’t been in in a lonnnnnnng time.

And because I can so clearly attribute this level of clarity and calm to my sudden ability to sleep for 8 hours without waking to a baby’s cries, I am feeling a deep regret for not working to attain this sooner.

Oh yes, I am talking about sleep training. Yes, I’m talking about the kind that would have my not-newborn baby crying in his room for controlled segments of time. I’m talking about the kind of sleep training I did with my other two babies.

I think it’s worth noting that at ages 6 and 3 they both seem to have a sincere love and attachment to me still. You know, for what it’s worth.

I contemplated working on sleep training with Lowell, our 1 year old, since he was about 7 months old. But honestly, in that moment, getting up and putting a boob in a baby’s mouth is easier than listening to cries, which I can never sleep through.

I was so desperate for sleep in that moment, that I couldn’t commit to more sacrifice for the long-term.

Lowell stopped sleeping in our room around 6 months old. I simply could not sleep in the same room with him very well. My anxiety leads to me waking often at the smallest baby noises, and consistently checking on him if he’s in the same room. In the same bed? Forget it. I’m wrecked with nerves. So nursing him while co-sleeping at night beyond 6 months old just was not an option.

exhaustion copy

I needed to sleep-train my baby because of my anxiety. And yet, in large part, it was my anxiety that kept me from doing so. For me, anxiety makes me overanalyze everything and hyper-critical of my own actions.

The voice of my anxiety was telling me that I would hurt my baby. That I’d make him hate me. That I was a bad mom for valuing my sleep over his needs.

My anxiety voice was not making that stuff up on it’s own. It read it in comments all over the internet, on a blog post I wrote about sleep training my daughter after my anxiety peaked with her, and even well-researched blog posts from medical professionals that make some valid points.

This summer, a study was released that summarized that “interrupted sleep can be as physically detrimental as no sleep at all.” I was living that reality. It didn’t matter if I went to bed at 9 and didn’t crawl out for the day until 9 the next morning. I was waking 3-4 times in that 12 hour stretch, and felt like I didn’t get more than a small nap.

Hands down, THE biggest trigger of my anxiety is exhaustion, and so the cycle just kept perpetuating itself. Anxious because I was exhausted. Exhausted because I was anxious.

From where I am now, I look back and really regret not sleep training Lowell, for not at least trying. I regret letting my anxiety amplify those voices and fears, for letting them be louder than my need for self-care.

I regret not recognizing that while, yes, his cortisol levels may shoot up, causing distress for a few nights, he’d have wound up with a more present, less anxious, and much happier mom much sooner.

This isn’t me trying to convince anyone to sleep train their baby. The deeper message here is that I regret letting voices and the judgements of people I don’t even know or care about mean more to me than my own instincts.

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ParenthoodPostpartum Anxiety & DepressionThe Story

Flying Is Like Giving Birth

by Jill
written by Jill

I’ve been flying a lot lately – some pretty turbulent flights. It’s been swell for my anxiety. Really.

On a flight out to San Francisco last weekend, there was a particularly rough 15 minutes at the beginning of the flight that I thought the plane might start rolling.

I was quite positive I was going to die, actually.

I didn’t have much to base this assumption on other than, well, the way the lady next to me was behaving (burying her head into the arm rest, breathing into her knees, muttering prayers), and the feeling of my stomach coming out of my nose. I was convinced nonetheless.

Yet, the whole time I was bracing myself for the plummet back to earth, the flight crew kept carrying on with their announcements. NOT the ones that detailed anything at all that was going on. None that were reassuring like,

“We’re sorry for this horrific roller coaster at 15,000 feet that you’re trapped on. This is all VERY normal, and you aren’t actually going to die. This is just (insert the reason the plane is having a seizure).”

It’s one thing to feel crazy over freaking out about something that may or may not kill you. It’s quite another when the people who are in charge of your safety aren’t telling you what the holy fuck is going on, and behaving as if this is all normal.

It occurred to me in that moment…

Because I relate all life experiences to birth since becoming a mother.

And then I wondered if I could take a Bradley class to for flying… or just get some really good drugs.

Kidding. Sorta.

But seriously, so much of what scares me in life is the unknown. Birth, for me, was actually not that bad because I DID take a 12 week Bradley birth class before having Kendall, so I at least knew that what was happening to me was totally normal, even if it felt like I was going to die from my spine being ripped out of my back during a contraction. Had I not been armed with all that education?

Uh, yeah. Total freakout mode would have commenced.

And the worst would have been NOT knowing all that was normal and having nobody take the time to tell me, to really explain to me exactly why my body was doing what it was doing. If my husband were freaking out alongside me, well, I’d probably start puking and praying for my life.

So, the point… of this… there is one,  is scary things can be a lot less scary if you know what’s going on, if people communicate with you and if the person next to you can hold their shit together.

I think there’s a life lesson somewhere in there. Or just a reason for me to stop flying so much.

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