Almost - Wordless Wednesday - Gym

Fighting depression requires a multi-angled approach. One thing that has always worked for me as a huge energy and spirit lifter is exercise. Not a casual walk.. I'm talking flat out, running, striding, cycling til the sweat drips from your chin to your elbows and to the floor. 
First I LOVE to RUN.
Love . It. 

3 km in 21 minutes. I'm okay with that - around 9 kms/hr .. 
Then onto the elliptical trainer .. I can't express to you how much I hate this machine but the endorphins are flying so what the heck.....

 Please forgive blurry photo, hard to take happy snaps when you are striding and cursing yourself for thinking this was a good idea.
After 15 mins of hate-filled elliptical-ness - a cruisy cycle.

I admit I don't think too hard on the bike, I cycle hard and read my Kindle. When I'm bored with the story I get off.
Then I stretch.
And I feel good.

8 kilos have waved goodbye, which tells you something of the crappy, not-moving, not-eating-right place I was in.
Onward and upward from here.
xxx
PS I still hate the elliptical trainer.

What do you do to get in the right head space?

Honestly

It's been a rough week. A rough few weeks actually, or months.

I have felt myself sinking lower and lower, my energy reserves and my ability to laugh just drifted away. The numbness invaded me and it lays like a heavy blanket holding me down.
I recognise this feeling and it leads to a very sad place.

So this week I went to the Doctor. A new doctor because in my little town you need to make an appointment three months in advance to see your own GP.
I think the fact that I started bawling before he closed the door gave away my fragile state of mind.

The short story is, I have got some help, and yes, some medication. I have made some plans and can see I need to be a little kinder to myself.

I've tried to be honest with you about my past struggles and see no reason to be less than open right now. Be patient with me.  The posts are not springing from my fingertips right now but I am here, and there is clear hope on the horizon.

                                                                         photo credit 

Lisa
xxx

Go Me

When depression has its nasty tentacles wrapped around me, one thing I find to be immensely helpful is running. It is mindless and purposeful. It can't be involved as part of a multi-tasking activity and no-one actually expects me to hold a conversation while I'm doing it.
I will happily admit it has been SEVERAL months since I hit the treadmill, but lately I have been craving some me time.
I went back to the gym yesterday. A really quick trip. I managed to run for 20 minutes before I felt like my lungs were going to make a break for daylight. My old running shoes have finally given up all pretense of shock absorption and the asthma puffer needed replacing.
I went to Sportspower for a new pair of runners.
The salesman (also store owner and fellow parent from our school) nodded dubiously as I explained I needed Runners for Running.
"Not just walking around the block."

"No really, I run." - well as I just started it would be more correct to say I ran, but you are splitting hairs now.

"I know this arse doesn't look streamlined.. thats why I'm starting" Is there a law against wanting nice running shoes before you are able to comfortably cover 10 miles uphill on a 40 degree day?
.
"20 mins is my max right now." It's also my minimum based on my one and only run.

"No I wouldn't rather grab some K-mart specials" because my feet cried today and I need to feel like I am doing something positive for myself, not like I am punishing myself with every step.
.

After 20 minutes of me explaining and him nodding (and probably thinking.. lady, you are off your trolley!) I came home with a new pair of very nice running shoes.

they have shock absorbers in the heel, are cutting edge Nike running shoe technology and are a very pretty purple.
Today I ran 25 minutes.
Tomorrow I plan to run 30.
I think we can all agree it was money well spent.
Go Me!

PND awareness week - beyond the first scene

It's like the first few minutes of the movie Twister, when the little girls Daddy is swept away in a tornado trying to protect his family.  I fast forward through this scene because I can't bear it. The screams, the grief on their faces, the silence that follows. I know what happens. I don't want to see it again. "Twister" is one of my all time favourite movies, but the first 7 minutes I NEVER want to watch ever again

This week is PND Awareness Week.

You know I am no stranger to this storyline. I have laid my heart bare here and here and here.
BUT...  I really have to be in the mood to write about my sad days. If I'm having a good day/week/month, I loathe taking my heart and mind back to those days. They feel like they belong to someone else, like a movie I once watched and can only remember sketchy details, but I know it all worked out okay in the end.

Mostly I choose to fast forward through the early scenes. I allow myself to not re-watch the unwatchable. I allow myself some grace.

My time with Post Natal Depression ( aka Post Partum Depression, PPD or PND ) started probably well before our first little blessing arrived. I was so young, inexperienced, overwhelmed and totally without the support systems that a young mother needed. My parents lived over 2 hours away at first, and then 13 hours away. My sister and brother were a full days drive away. We moved interstate when J-man was just 2 weeks old. Crazy.

Another 3 years and 2 more babies and there I was mothering 3 under 4, still with PND sitting on my shoulders like a dead weight. I was hyper-parenting. trying to anticipate and roadblock every for-seeable danger to my children. I was wrecked but could not rest. I had trouble allowing anyone else to take over my vigil and I was so, so, so tired.
And yet, no-one around me seemed to think it was depression.
I wasn't crying all the time.
I hadn't let the house or myself go.
On the contrary.. the house was scrubbed to with an inch of its life and I exercised with determination and purpose. The children were spotless  To others I was simply controlling, fussy, angry, a princess. I KNOW close family members rolled their eyes and were less than kind in their discussions of how controlling and anxious I was in my parenting.

If only I could have shown them the real me.

The 4 am me. The one who paced in the kitchen chanting the CPR drill for infants and toddlers so many times it is forever etched on my heart.
If only I could have let them see the 2am me who sat in a ball crying in the shower so that no-one could hear.
If only I could have told them that the 3 am me was so sure that something awful was going to happen to one of these babies, that she already knew the music that would play, the clothing they'd wear, the special toys that would be included in that childs' coffin.
The 5 am me was very good at telling Lisa what a completely crappy mother she was, that they would be so much better if she just walked away. Everybody, EVERYBODY seemed to be able to do this so much better than her.

The fact is, I was an expert in faking it during daylight hours. In acting like I had my crap together. In evading tricky questions and making excuses for crazy stuff.

It took 6 years for me to finally be myself in front of my new doctor. She was the mother of 5 kids and didn't try to tell me that I was just tired. She believed me. She listened.

And with her help, some medication and many sessions of tear-heavy therapy I finally saw a trickle of light. And that light has just kept getting brighter and stronger and warmer and more lovely.

I have rambled on here but I have two important points to share. 

The first point is that depression does not always look like the Hollywood stereotype. Just because I looked like I was okay on the surface didn't mean I was okay inside. Just because someone is cheerful and capable at mothers group, doesn't mean she isn't literally rocking in the corner behind her front door. Or intensely angry, or sad inside.

We need to step away from the stereotype of what Post Natal Depression looks like and start to open our eyes. We need to learn as a society to recognise and act on emotional crisis. We need to open our ears to subtle but very distinct requests for help. Not all depressed parents are suicidal, or are harming their babies. Not all depressed parents have unwashed hair, messy houses or dazed glazed-over eyes. In fact I believe that many of us, still got on with the business of parenting even while feeling like absolute crap. Many of us would have denied that anything was wrong because it was just another admission of failure. 

The second point - There really can be light at the end of the tunnel. We went on (under medical guidance) to have a fourth baby, depression free and spent her baby years gazing in wonder and saying "wow this is what other people had with their kids. This is how it was supposed to be". 
I am soooooooo lucky to have experienced a baby depression-free and the freedom and lifting of my heart is beyond words. I am blessed beyond measure and I can't really express the healing she has brought into my heart and home.

If you feel like you are not coping ( in whatever way that is... you know in your heart if you are really not coping) please seek help.

Post-natal depression takes many forms. This week is PND Awareness Week.
If you, or someone you know think they are suffering in silence, please be reassured that you are not alone and that help is available.

Guilt v's Regret

My last post was a tiny glimpse of life 12 yrs ago in our home. Many have read it and sent messages, comments and love. I have appreciated every person who took the time to give me a cyber hug.  Because you accept that this snapshot is not the total sum of me, I feel safe enough to keep sharing.

A recurring theme in those messages was Guilt.

I shouldn't feel guilty, please don't feel bad, don't have regrets....

So I thought I would give you my little take on this.. it's okay if you disagree, it's okay if you comment and share your opinion (kindly). This is something I have battled with for years, tried to wrestle into something I can sleep next to (metaphorically).

There is a difference between feeling guilty and feeling regret.

Guilty means "I did this on purpose" . Guilty means "I chose this".

I do not feel guilty. I wanted this family and these babies very much and so badly wanted them to have happy, healthy childhoods and beyond. I would never have chosen for them to see their mother like this, to break their tender hearts like that. I didn't choose the anxiety, the uncertainty, the crippling fear, the nightmares, the long tear drenched days, the senseless arguments with The Man I Married.  I didn't choose it and I don't feel guilty for it.

But I have regrets. I wish it were different. I wish I had found help earlier. I wish I had insisted that all wasn't okay the first time I saw the Doctor who sent me away with a condescending smirk. I wish I was older and more aware of myself when I had my children. I wish I could once and for all settle the heart of my beautiful girl. I regret those things.

And that is okay.

The first glimmer of regret was the first glimmer of strength to make tomorrow different.

The first time I realised that doctor was a complete tool who didn't listen to me was the first time I realised that the Doctor isn't all-knowing God.

Those fights with The Man I Married will be forever why I love him. He stood by me through all my 'crazy'. He held on when I wanted to let go. He stepped up as Daddy and Mummy when I was too lost to be either.

I'm stronger than I've ever been, more balanced than I could have dreamt of. I have thought long and hard about what is important and what gets to stay in our world. 

Guilt does not get to stay.

Regrets.. well, to me, they are the seashells on the shoreline.. empty and no longer used, but a reminder of what came before.

                                         

                                 Photographer Roim | Agency: Dreamstime.com 

If you are struggling, if you feel the same way as I did. If you know something isn't right and need a starting place , contact Beyond Blue , speak to your doctor or Child Clinic Nurse. Speak to your best friend, your Mother In Law, speak to me at lybliss@gmail.com -

Please speak to someone. I promise you that this can be different, better, easier. I will hold your hand xxx

  

PPD and Depression - Glimpses of that place

A bit of a dark post .. if you are looking for a laugh this is not the post to read... xxx

Depression in general and Post Natal Depression in particular is a truly personal and individual condition. I have been asked what PND feels like and I can only give you a glimpse of my own experience. This is by no means a blanket description for all PND

 -------------------------------------------------- 

Even now she asks for a hug. Even now I can see it on her face. She is still prepared for a knock back. Prepared for me to run, to hide, to be busy, to be distant.

All the hugs in the past 14 years have not healed that deeply ingrained uncertainty. She is not sure of me.

I cannot change the way it was. I will wish forever that it had been different.

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Glimpses of that place:

I'm sitting on the kitchen bench cross legged so you can't touch me.

Little chubby fingers reaching up, huge eyes and an uncertain smile. You know I don't want you near me but you don't know why. You do a little dance and I watch. Inner thoughts urge me to smile. To encourage. To give you a glimmer of softness. But I can't. I cannot make my mouth curve. I can't look you in the eyes.

Your big brother is watching Play School and your baby sister is sleeping. You have me all to yourself and yet...

I'm hiding, head in my hands, whispering "Please go away. Please go away."

It's not your fault little girl.

None of this is your fault.

My heart is rock heavy and I am so deeply numb that I cannot feel anything for you. Nothing. A blank wall.

I know you deserve better.

You are such a good little girl. You try so hard to please me, to reach me. So perfect.

I am a terrible, shitty mother!  How can I be this way.

Looking at you reminds me of how crappy a job I am doing. Reminds me that I don't deserve you. That you don't deserve this. That you would be better off with another Mummy who doesn't feel this way.

And yet you still stand there, little arms raised up.

" I hug Mummy?" you ask.

 --------------------------------------------------

She says she cannot remember how it was. But her heart remembers. I know it does.

Week 3 challenge - 2 weeks late

The 52 weeks Simplify Your Life Challenge for week 3 was to create our family's mission statement.
It has taken me two weeks to sit down and type out how this works out for us.

Our household is complicated. Probably no more than most of the rest of the world. but there are unique challenges and issues and stumbling blocks. The idea of creating a mission statement which accurately reflects the values and beliefs for each member of this household is like asking me to shoot the moon with a nerf gun!

I am a recovering post natal/post teen depression person who has worked really really REALLY hard to let go of many control issues in my world. I used to clean my house like a crazy person. Up at 4am to domestos the bathroom each morning, the floor (and children) were vacuumed at least daily, if I sat down I felt sick because there was so much else I should be doing. I was an extremely uptight, over protective, over disciplining angry mother. I was a nasty screaming banshee of a wife. I didn't have many friends ( who'd want to go there??). I found it almost impossible to make the most basic of decisions, and so I would go along with things I didn't want because I didn't have the energy to stand up.

Then I got help.
I got medication.
I got counselling.
I got a back bone.  

I have morphed into a messy, crafty, creative mum. I would rather play Nintendo challenge with my daughter than clean the house. I have been known to serve Apple Pie and icecream for dinner  (Fruit, carbs, milk... what's wrong with that?) I have discovered that not only am I capable of making a decision, I am also pretty stubborn once I have chosen. I'm a hippie on the inside and think that there is more to life than just drifting through.
Sounds good doesn't it?

Except that my husband originally married a neat freak. A tightly controlled house proud compliant little wifey. He got his way in almost every instance because I didn't have the brain space to put together a legible argument ( imagine a screaming two year old having a tantrum.. that was me). Dinner was on the table at 6.15pm, children in bed at 7.30pm sharp.

So now, with the *new and improved* Lisa there are new things to negotiate. He is a neat freak, so he is NOT happy that I longer clean 12 hours a day. He is used to getting his way so he is NOT happy when I calmly say "I disagree". No longer can he argue that I'm not making any sense. This is not the wife he married, but this is now the wife he has... tricky. To his credit he stuck by me at my most outrageous, low points, and he stands by me now even when I make him crazy, even when the house is chaos and there is no dinner planned for the next fortnight. He doesn't like it. but he stands by me.

Add to this a child who has Aspergers, who has s-t-r-u-g-g-l-e-d through 13 years of school. And a daughter who is so dreamy and lost in art-world that she is hard to communicate with at times. And another daughter who is 13 and gorgeous but so so so "teenager" that she should be on Hannah Montana. And another littler daughter, an IVF blessing who is like a whole separate family really as she doesn't really fit with the teenagers at all.

So how do we all, such different creatures, find a single mission statement that we can live by? I have thought about this alot. I could create a mission board - husband would not be impressed - he doesn't do 'touchy-feely crap'. I could create one by myself, but then it's just my mission statement, not a family one.Can I write one and demand they accept it? Do they even need to know that in my heart one exists?

And each day for the past fortnight, simple words come to me, until they are screaming so loud I have to write them down for you. It's corny, and overly simple. But our mission statement, the simple mantra we live by in this house, daily, hourly, every nano-second is just -

Four words, but they sum up every step of our married life and parenting. From teaching the 2 year old to not belt his newborn sister, to choosing words carefully so they are not hurtful. From considering our actions and ensuring they will not be hurtful or harmful to the family, to teaching a 17 yr old to drive.
It is not flowery or oozing with gooey words of devotion. It's honest and it is the starting point of decision making in our home.. Our mission statement is that in all things we will do no harm.

Post Natal Depression -

Today I wrote this about my first days with my first baby. It's no secret that I suffered from Post Natal Depression, and have managed to walk back out into the sunshine. Depression in general and Post Natal Depression in particular is a truly personal and individual condition. I have been asked what PND feels like and I can only give you a glimpse of my own experience. This is by no means a blanket description for all PND.

Blogging is scary, hilarious and sometimes confronting. Anyone looking for a pretty, fuzzy story needs to stop reading here. I'll be funny tomorrow.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

17 yrs ago

This tiny baby. In a blue wondersuit, just like in the books in the “New Mummy” bag at the hospital, freshly washed, diapered and powdered.

Except this baby is screaming. S C R E A M I N G  Red faced. Angry. Rage filled and desperate for someone, anyone , to stop the pain that digs like a blade into his belly. He is only new here, and already he knows that no-one has any clue. He knows these people have never done this before and they are clearly out of their depth.

 He cries when he’s held. He cries when he’s laid down. He cries in the rocker. He cries in the car. He cries whether he is clean or dirty, hungry or just fed.

He cries

She sits in her dressing gown, .Mismatched shirt and pants and milk stains on both breast pockets. Her unwashed hair is caught in a clip, her face void of makeup, the only nod to vanity being a quick scrub of teeth. 

She rocks the cradle. Rhythmically, calmly, humming a simple, wordless tune.

And she prays.

“Lord. I Know He will not be safe. I know that somehow I will do wrong and he will die. I will drop him in the bath accidentally. Or not hold him right. I will not recognise signs of respiratory distress, or I will choose the wrong first food. There are spiders and snakes hiding in the garden, waiting for their chance. I don’t dare take my eyes away from him. How do I decide the safest transport in a car – windows up means if we crash into a river the car will fill slowly, but it will be harder to get to my baby. Windows down mean he will be without air quicker but I can get him out through the window.”

She knows with absolute certainty, that somehow, despite her very best efforts, something awful will happen. Despite all her planning, reading, checking and second guessing, somehow this little precious life will be taken from her. 

And so all day, she prays. " Please protect him from me. Please let him die in his sleep. Let it be painless,  peaceful, and not my fault".

Yes. As horrible, unbelievable and cruel as it seems. Yes she did.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

All night she sits beside his cot. Holding his hand. Watching his little chest go in… and out.

Breathe in and out.

Breathe in and out.

Watching watching watching.

Now praying that her prayers of daylight will go unanswered.

Checking and re-checking that this little person makes it to daylight, to a new day.

Exhausted, so exhausted.

watching 

Sure she’s the worst mother on earth.

watching 

Sure no-one will understand how she feels.

watching

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

He cries.

The first few weeks...

My good friend ( and chief bridesmaid.... many moons ago) had her first baby last week. His name is Mark and he arrived healthy and happy, via C-section in Perth, Australia.
Today, she and her hubby have taken their precious little man home.
I can't help but think back to the day the Man I Married and I took our first little blessing, Jack,  home, seventeen years ago.

He was so tiny, under 6 lb, sunshine yellow from the usual post-birth jaundice, and deliciously unaware of how inept his new custodians were.
I remember how impossibly small he looked, like a soft puddle in the bottom of the baby capsule. We drove home slower than a 90 yr old Nanna out for a Sunday Drive. We diverted around pot holes and fussed over whether the indicator was too loud.

Jack slept.

We carried him inside. (after I nearly whacked his little head off on the top of the car door jam). We placed him in the cradle. We stood back and sighed. Nine months of waiting, planning, preparing and reading. The baby cupboard was stocked with minute singlets and Babygros, nappies (diapers in the US), mittens and socks. The bookshelves were stocked with What to Expect In your Baby's First Year, Babyhood, The Johnson and Johnson Baby manual, How to Daddy, Babyfoods for Beginners, Parenting for Dummies and Positive Parenting. We had it covered.

The silence stretched for eternity. Now what? After all this time of waiting, he was finally here.

I think that moment in time... was when it all went arse-up, downhill, belly-up, face-planting, hooley-dooley, what were we thinking and what kind of irresponsible hospital lets two totally inadequate, barely out of their teens bring home a baby without even a home inspection!!!!!???

Jack cried.
And cried
And cried

My Mum had come to stay with us the night before the birth and for 2 weeks after. She was wonderful. She was kind. She was experienced.
She rocked, cuddled, swaddled and burped. I worried I'd drop him accidently in the baby bath
She held that angry little boy while he told her his worries, I fussed over how wet a nappy has to be for me to accurately measure his urine output and assess the efficiency of my breastmilk.
She held him on her shoulder as he sobbed in her ear. I sobbed in her other ear.

And then, after two weeks she had to go.

I can remember like it was yesterday, sitting on the couch with her. Mum with Jack in her arms trying to convince me to take him, so she could get in her car and drive away. To this day I can not imagine how her heart must have ached, how badly she wanted to make it okay for me
.
I wailed "You'll have to take him with you. He doesn't like me". She so gently replied " Oh sweetheart, he does like you, he just has to get used to everything".

She walked to her car, started it and with a wave and a smile she drove away. I have never felt so alone in my whole life. She drove to just around the bend and pulled over to bawl her eyes out.

Of course Jack and I became friends,  he has managed to survive to 17.
I discovered that you can allow a baby to cry for the two minutes it takes to get a block of firewood. Contrary to all my expectations, there were no anaphylactic reactions to apples, rice or chicken. He never did get bitten by a snake or stung by an angry swarm of wasps and thus far his little neck is intact in spite of schoolboy rough play.

I walked, waded and doggy paddled through depression. I learned I am not and don't have to be perfect. I learned that kids can eat weetbix for dinner, and a baby does not have to have a bath before 11am each day. I learned to be kind to myself. I learned that my little boy and the three precious girls really do love me, no matter what I do. And once they get used to their crazy, neurotic Mum, it's all okay.

I am grateful we have survived this far. I do not want to go back to the first baby, the uncertainty, the questioning again. I would, frankly, rather staple my head to the carpet.

Yes we survived the first baby. We as parents have raised him.  But somewhere deep down there is a little pocket in him, kept especially for his Nanna.

I know it, he knows it and she knows it.

To my Mum, who I know will read this. I love you, thankyou!