the committed part of commitment, part 2

The first night in the hospital I was comforted by a foul-mouthed 18 year old and told it gets easier. It wasn't especially comforting since I was more scared and freaked out than I'd ever been in my life. Sleep didn't come easily with an unknown snoring roommate and roadside motel quality sheets. I prayed for what seemed like hours, more fervently than I ever had before. Eventually the sleep medication kicked in and the blackness came. I'd like to say I slept like the dead but that's only if it were a zombie movie. The nurses would open our door, shine a flashlight on our faces and check us out every 15 minutes. Every. Fifteen. Minutes. That night was worse than any of the nights I have spent in the hospital and that includes after giving birth. 


The next morning was way too bright for the way I was feeling. The sunshine through my window was not enough for me to forget where I had spent the night. I knew I had signed up for this but that didn't erase the fear and anxiety warring in my stomach. It didn't help that everyone seemed to know where to go and what to do except me. I followed blindly along as we went to breakfast and to the group classes we had afterwards. 


In a strange way it kind of reminded me of summer camp. If summer camp was like jail. 


We were escorted everywhere when we weren't in the women's unit. No one was allowed off by themselves. Classes for group therapy were scheduled all day long and you were expected to be present at all of them unless you had an individual session with your doctor. Besides classes, sleeping seemed to be the most popular way to pass the time. Aside from coloring. 


Yep, coloring. I have never seen so many grown women enjoy coloring like I did at the hospital. After half a day it occurred to me that it really was a great way to pass the time. It kept your hands busy allowing your mind to float on the surface. Very soothing and relaxing. That's my excuse for coloring as many pictures as I did. 


So aside from the coloring and the group classes, I was finally able to see a psychiatrist. The whole reason for my in-patient status. The doctor and I went over my current medications and I had to give a detailed history of my mental health and the mental state of all close relatives. I was asked to dig deep into my memory for instances where my mental health wasn't on such an even keel. I didn't have to dig too hard. It turns out I had lots of reference points from growing up that pointed to a less stable mental condition. What I had thought of simply as a bad case of depression and occasional anxiety turned into medical terminology giving me an  official diagnosis. 


Bipolar Type II and OCD tendencies with General Anxiety Disorder. 


The doctor said she was discontinuing both of my anti-depressants and the anti-anxiety medication. Instead I would be given an anti-psychotic as a mood stabilizer that I would take at night since its main side effect is sleep. 


That night I did sleep like the dead. I woke up the next morning with my right leg asleep from hip to ankle because I hadn't turned over, only sleeping on that side. For the first time in memory, I woke up early without benefit of an alarm or crying baby. I was calm and ready to start the day. I knew when breakfast was and knew I wanted to shower before that. That's right - I had a goal. And I was able to accomplish it. For the five days I was there I got up every morning, showered, did my hair and got dressed. I hadn't had the peace of mind to shower every day since before Penny was born. Gross, I know, but the honest truth. Somewhere over the last year and a half I had given up on myself a little. OK maybe a lot. But suddenly it seemed like an objective I could achieve. 


I was excited about facing the new day and every day that was to come. 

the committed part of commitment, part 1

It happened much more suddenly than I was prepared for. Actually, I hadn't really prepared at all. I went in for the assessment and the next thing I know I was signing the self-commitment papers at a mental health facility.


Over the last few weeks, Jason and I had become extremely aware that what we had been doing to help my severe depression was no longer working. For months Jason had been picking up the slack that I had been unable to carry. And as wonderful and reliable as he is, he couldn't carry the load by himself anymore. His emotional and physical health were deteriorating as fast as mine was. We decided that we needed to see a psychologist quickly if we were going to save my sanity and our marriage. The good thing was that this new doctor is a great fit for helping us deal with how my depression affects our lives and with working on communication skills. On the flip side, he quickly realized my other problems were more medicine related and, that being said, something he couldn't help with. He strongly recommended a psychiatrist or in-patient treatment to help get me back on track. 


Fast forward almost 24 hours later to when I finally realized what I was signing was paperwork for my immediate placement in-patient. To say I was unprepared would be a drastic understatement. They were taking me to the women's unit with only the clothes on my back. I couldn't even keep my bra because it was an underwire and such dangerous things weren't allowed. I hugged and kissed Jason, sobbing into his chest as I sent him 40 miles back home for clothes and basic toiletries. I cried because I didn't even get to say a proper goodbye to Penny since she was staying with friends. 


As I rode the elevator with the nurse to the 3rd floor, the overwhelming hospital smells only increased my anxiety; the combination of bleach and medical cleaner permeating the air. By now it was almost 10pm, I hadn't eaten since noon and I was having to forcefully remind myself that this was voluntary. In the common room of the women's unit I was greeted with a strangely welcoming shout of "Hey, new girl, come join us in some fuckin' Blackjack, Nigga." They didn't know me and I didn't know them but we all knew we were here for the same overall reason - either voluntarily or not. We were here for the kind of help we couldn't get anywhere else. 

keel-hauled

It's a turn of phrase that's been running through my mind lately. Keel-hauled. Sounds ominous and pirate-y. And it perfectly describes how I've been feeling.


Do you know what keel-hauling involved? You were tied to a rope that looped beneath the ship, thrown overboard, then dragged under the keel from bow to stern. If you were pulled quickly, the barnacles would tear you up, sometimes limb from limb. If they dragged you slowly, you would sink enough to miss the barnacles and instead you drowned. 


Back in January I was taken off the thyroid medicine I'd been on for a year. The doctor and I discussed it and because all of my blood tests had been normal and I was still suffering from the same symptoms, we concluded it wasn't working. By the beginning of March I could tell something was definitely not right. Apparently the thyroid medication had been making a difference, small though it was. Enough of a difference that when I didn't have it anymore the fallout was massive. My depression, which is always in a state of flux, took a nose dive. I crashed and burned. It got so bad that at one point I couldn't bring myself to care about what Penny was doing. I'd put on a movie for her and then wait it out until we could both go down for a nap. Sleep had become my escape. The place where I didn't have to think or do or be; I could just be numb. 


Fundamentally I knew this wasn't right so I went back to the doctor and had an ultrasound done on my thyroid. Then they scheduled an uptake exam at the hospital which is just a fancy type of CT scan. Then I was scheduled to see a specialist. Turns out my right thyroid is twice the size of my left, which is already larger than it should be. The blood work is still showing no problems at all. The doctors put me back on medication and I have a biopsy scheduled in June. 


And yet knowing that something else was wrong didn't fix anything. Do you know what the first major symptom is of hypothyroidism? Depression. And mine was getting significantly worse. Jason took a week off of work and my parents even flew in to help. And it did help. For a time. Then they had to go back home and Jason had to go back to work. We're taking steps to improve this all-consuming depression, looking into therapists and new medications.


And all the while, I'm still here. Either crashing against the keel or drowning. 

funniest and bestest

My sister-in-law Heather posted on her Facebook page not long ago that she has "gleaned from Facebook that having kids sucks more days than it doesn't."

This statement made me sad and all too aware that it is much easier to write about the bad than the good; too easy to note all the things that went wrong or didn't happen instead of reflecting on all the little moments that make me so happy to be a parent. 

Today was a good day. I have to start out stating this because as most who read my blog by now know that not every day is a good one for me. But Penny was less cranky, I was less cranky and she even got in two naps. Plus there were two noteworthy, nay, potent, moments that reminded me why I wanted to become a mother in the first place. 

The first was when Jason,  Penny and I were playing out back. She has discovered a new love for the outdoors since the weather has finally started to warm up above freezing and wants to be outside every chance she can get. She wants you to put on her shoes, find her jacket and then she's at the door trying to figure out how the handle works. Today she was mostly just exploring the back patio when she spotted a garden box that only has dirt in it. She was in the midst of bringing handful of the soil to Jason when he told her "thank you." And she replied "thank you" in sign language. Normally this wouldn't seem like such a big deal until you note that this is 'thank you' and you add in a palm-ful of dirt and an open slobbery mouth. The sad thing was Jason and I were laughing so hard we had a hard time trying to help her get the dirt off of her face. I was absolutely no help with tears streaming down my cheeks from laughter as Jason tried to wipe off as much dirt (which was quickly turning to mud) from her cheeks and chin. And the tough little thing that she is, she seemed undisturbed by what happened and just wanted to continue playing. 

Just a little while ago was bath time. This is by far still her favorite part of the day. Even if she's been extra cranky all day long, you can usually get some laughs out of her while she's in the tub. But today was a little exception. Today she was completely focused on me. She insisted on washing my face and arms with her wash cloth. Then to make sure I was truly clean, she wet her hands, slapping and rubbing my cheeks over and over again. This process repeated itself a half dozen times and was interrupted only by sweet baby kisses and the resting of her head on my arms.

I am so lucky to have such an incredible little sweet potato as a part of my life. I write this not so you will know how wonderfully lucky I am, but as a reminder to myself. I need to remember that the amazing times are even more numerous than the tough ones and forget that they're usually not spaced very far apart. 

another brick in the wall

Over the years Valentine's Day has been pretty hit or miss for me. Usually more misses than hits.


Like that time in kindergarten when the boy everyone avoided because of his tendency to wet his pants in class made me an extra special valentine and told everyone we were going to get married. 


Miss.


Or in junior high when the school put up paper hearts all around school with every student's name on them and you had to search yours out to see if anyone special took it. And I found mine with a maxi pad stuck to it. 


Miss.


But then there's the time when Jason sent me tulips at work and called me his girlfriend for the very first time. 


Definitely a hit. 


Or two years ago where I found out I was pregnant. On Valentine's Day. 


Again, a hit.


But this year was a little trickier to discern. Hit or miss? It definitely didn't involve a miss but I cringe to think of it as a hit. I'll let you decide. 


Jason had to work on Valentine's Day so I was going with a friend to the mall, trying to avoid that long stretch of time where Penny doesn't want to nap but also doesn't want to be not cranky. I had a few minutes before I was supposed to be at the meeting place so I thought I'd get the car washed. There was already someone ahead of me in the automatic wash lane so I was waiting patiently, thinking how apropos it was that a cop was in front of me since I would be spending the day without mine. Then my friend called to say she was already at the mall. OK, no big deal. I'd gone this long without a car wash. I'd do it another time. With someone already in front of me and a drive that opens right onto the open road, I decided to do a three-point turn so I wasn't backing out into traffic. Problem was, I didn't notice how close to the brick wall I was. And once I'd pulled into it, there was no other choice but to reverse. 

The cacophony of screeching and rattling as my right headlight hit the pavement brought me to the attention of the car wash owner, who just happened to be there, and the officer, who the owner flagged down. I'd already called Jason before I even got out of the car. I didn't think I could handle looking at the damage without him there. I checked on Penny, who was fine since we were only going about 3 mph when the wall jumped in front of me and I got out of the car to talk to the spectators. 


Luckily the officer knew Jason well and the owner could see I hadn't damaged his wall. Jason got there and I just fell into his arms crying because that's what I do when I don't know what else to do. The owner was a little disconcerted by this until he realized who I'd meant when I said I'd called my husband. No accident reports were filed and I was sent on my way since the car was definitely still drivable. So off to the mall I went, still in tears because this was my very first accident. I made Jason come have a cupcake with me since it was the only way I was going to feel better about having run into a wall. 


I'm just glad it hadn't involved another car and that our insurance rates didn't go up. It's been a few weeks and the car has been mended beautifully. Except for how shiny the new headlight is, you wouldn't know there had been a problem. 


So as far Valentine's Days go, not the best but definitely not the worst. Is there a middle ground between hit and miss?