The day I found out I was pregnant, I stopped my meds cold turkey. It's not advised {and I definitely don't advise it} but I tend to be a worrier in those first {very important to the little one's development} weeks, and I've been lucky enough to not have any withdrawal symptoms other than a wicked headache that lasts a few days. I'm up-front and honest with my doctor from the get-go and, while they don't necessarily condone it, they monitor me very carefully to make sure that both myself and the baby are doing okay.
See, the thing about meds (in my case) is that they do a very good job of keeping me calm and even without making it obvious to me or to the people around me that I am, in face, medicated. There's no big "ah ha!" moment, no fanfare in terms of how I'm feeling. Just, one day I wake up and it dawns on me that I haven't felt that crazy, anxious, "off" feeling that is usually present throughout the day. It's awesome, it really is. I'm a better mom, better wife, happier person when I'm medicated. I just am. But the downside to the medication taking effect gradually and almost un-noticeably is that when I'm not taking it, that effect is also minimal...gradual...not noticeable.
Until one day it really, really is.
I've been taking Fluoxetine since just a few months after Bailey was born. I stopped when I was pregnant with Gerry and started right back after he was born. When I'm taking my medication, I'm calmer. Things don't "get to me" as much. I'm not rage-y. Messes, attitudes, the kids and my husband being crazy don't bother me. Other people's opinions roll off my back. I don't worry as much and I tend to not want to hole up at home all the time. Physically, I've got the same back pain I've always had. But mentally? I'm good. I'm happy. Not in an in-your-face, over the top way, but in a normal, this-is-me way, if that makes any sense. It's great. But the flip side is that I don't notice those other feelings creeping up when I'm off my meds until they're right there slapping me in the face.
I'm an anxious person by nature, and it's only gotten worse since having kids. Since they were born, I've had crazy nightmares where they're both in serious danger, Scott is not around, and it's up to me to save both of them. Bailey started school in August and not a day goes by where I don't think about what, god forbid, I would do if there were ever a serious situation like a gunman or something at her school. I tell her I love her and to have a great day every single morning before I send her off to school in her friend's mom's car, not only because I mean it, but because I live in a constant state of fear that something is going to happen to her at school and I want the memory of her mother telling her that she loves her {a happy and pleasant memory} to be one of her last. It's gruesome and it's crazy to have these thoughts, but I do. And I can't help it.
I've been feeling a lot of guilt, lately, that I don't spend enough quality time with my kids. Yes, I'm home all day long with them...but there are also at least 4 other kids here with us. It's fun, but it doesn't make for quality time with my kids. By the time Bailey gets home from school in the afternoon, I'm waking the kids up from their naps, giving them a snack, changing diapers and putting on jackets and tying shoelaces, and running around to make sure that each kid is going home with the same stuff they brought with them in the morning. After the last daycare kid leaves, it's time to cook dinner...then clean it up...and by the time all that is finished, I'm worn out and exhausted and it's about time for the kids to go to bed for the night. I tell them I love them before they fall asleep each night, but I can't help the worry. Those intrusive thoughts that remind me that I didn't have enough special moments with them throughout the day, that make me wonder and worry that they don't know just how much I love them because I'm too busy running from task to task and stressing myself out over other people's kids. It's terrible, it really is. But I can't help it.
Bailey has been testing out quite the attitude these last few weeks. Talking back, bossing the other kids around, and yelling {mostly at me} when things don't go her way. Generally, we deal with that behavior by sending her to her room until we've all calmed down and we can talk to her about her behavior without anyone wringing anyone else's neck. For the most part, it works. But the last few weeks have been tough for both of us in this department, and I definitely haven't handled myself in the right way. I'm quick to anger and even quicker to yell. Instead of reasoning with her and letting her have a say, I find myself interrupting her tirade with a curt "No. Not another word! I'm the mom! I'm the boss!" And it just goes downhill from there. Afterwards, I feel so guilty; and I always, always apologize. I'm terrified that I'm somehow damaging our mother-daughter relationship. But in the moment? I can't help myself. I honestly can't. I don't realize how it's escalating, and the rational part of me that sends a constant reminder that she's just a 5 year old little girl trying to work through an issue just completely shuts down. I hate myself this way. But I can't help it.
Yesterday morning was an epic one here. Bailey had a meltdown before school, which ultimately resulted in my yelling at her to go to her room and her screaming that I was the worst mom ever and was making her life miserable. There was door slamming {her} and shoe throwing {me}, and I'm not proud of any of it. By the time I'd sent her off to school, I was a wreck. I had apologized and told her I loved her and to have a good day, same as I always do. But I couldn't help wondering if she knew how genuine my apology was. If, God forbid, something were to happen to her or to me that day, would her last and most recent memories of her mother be those of us arguing, of me yelling and sending her to her room, of anger?
I got through the morning, fed the kids lunch, and put them down for naps. And it was then, sitting alone on the couch, reflecting once again on the shitty morning we'd had and how much I regretted it, that I got my slap in the face. I was crying without realizing it, having these awful thoughts that I should be a better mom, that I'm not trying hard enough. Then came the guilt-- I don't spend enough time with them, I don't show them enough how much I love them. And then the stupidest thought of all--I don't know what they want for Christmas.
My mind never works in straight lines. My thinking is sometimes all over the damn place. So that one stupid thought about what to get them for Christmas led me down this crazy path of thinking that ended with me feeling guilty for not being able to provide for them as well as my sister and brother-in-law and other parents I know can provide for their kids. And that thought right there was my slap in the face. It is literally the very same thought I had way back when Bailey was 4 months old, and it was the catalyst for my seeing my doctor and being diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety. It took me weeks, but I recognize it. My guilt, my anger, my less-than-stellar tolerance for my kids' behavior...all the typical feelings when I'm not taking my medicine. It was all right there.
But recognizing it doesn't make it easier to deal with or to forget about.
And there's the problem. I see it now, and I know that this isn't normal for me. But in the moment it's harder to notice it. I need to go back on my meds. I think, like most people who are medicated for "mental issues", I don't realize how different I am when I'm not taking them and I think that everything is fine and normal. Until it's not. After Bailey was born, it took me 4 months to bring up the subject with my doctor simply because I thought I was "fine" and that this was just my normal. It's not, and it took me awhile to realize it. Same thing with Gerry. I didn't ask for a prescription refill until he was well into his second month simply because I felt okay and didn't think I needed them. I chalked things up to hormones, to being the parent of two small children, to life.
I know that this rage-y, short-tempered, guilt-ridden woman will disappear in a few months when this baby is born and I'm back to being medicated. I know that I love the hell out of my kids and that I always do what I think is best for them, and pretty soon I'll be back to the mother and wife they've always known and {I hope} loved. But my fear is that they won't remember or trust it. I'm so afraid that these last few weeks are going to be seared in Bailey's memory and that, no matter what I do, she'll remember me this way. And that's a really humbling thing, being worried about what your child is going to think of you.
So, that's my Dear Diary moment. I love my husband and I love my kids and I love being pregnant...all of it and all of them. And I can't wait to be "myself" again and start showing them.
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