In Need of a Recharge

You know those times when you feel totally and utterly drained?  You’re running on fumes… Your battery is down to it’s last bar…  You are mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted…

I have been feeling like that a lot lately.  I just want to give up.  But then I get to chat with a friend or spend some time with my husband or go to the store without the kids.  These things give me a bit of a recharge.  Sometimes, though, it is JUST enough to get me through the rest of the day.  Then I have to start over the next day…

When I wake up feeling like this, it’s a huge feat just to get out of bed, let alone getting to all the responsibilities I have to tend to.  Throw in all the things I WANT to get done in a day and all the things I would LIKE to do for others and it’s no wonder I feel hopeless at times. 

So how do you recharge when you’re feeling so down and empty and hopeless?  This question has caused me to reflect lately on my personality and what fills me up.  If you’ve never heard of love languages I would definitely suggest looking them up.  My primary love language is quality time.  I thrive on spending time with friends and family.  I am recharged when I have someone’s undivided attention.  I feel loved and cared for when friends visit or call or text or send me a message and ask how I’m doing and then respond with care when I answer.  I will always answer with the truth.  That’s just what I’m like.  I’m not good at saying, “I’m fine” when I’m really not.  Healing and refreshing comes to me when I am able to share my thoughts and talk through my emotions and struggles.  But there needs to be a genuine listening ear on the other end.  If not, it will have the opposite effect…

The other factor, I think, is that I’m an extrovert.  To the max.  Whereas an introvert may find times of solitude refreshing and rejuvenating (although there is the risk of too much isolation for an introvert), I find too much solitude fuels the depression I have been feeling.  I get lonely.  I get antsy.  I get anxious.  I need to reach out and talk to someone.  Anyone.  I’m the type of person who will strike up a conversation with the person in line behind me at the supermarket if we’ve been waiting too long.  I talk to the mom sitting next to me at my daughter’s swimming lesson.   I spill my guts to the pharmacist while picking up a late night prescription. 

I like to be busy.  I like to have things planned.  I like getting out of the house every day.  I love spending time with my children but I also need to have some adult conversation.  I need to get away from the daily grind of housework and dirty diapers and cooking… I need to talk to people who understand. 

Lately though, I have felt too busy.  I’ve been overwhelmed with all that needs to be done at home.  So I have scaled back on my commitments and plans.  A lot.  I haven’t been to playgroup in three weeks.  I’m trying to find balance.  It has been so difficult.  I know I need to build some solitude into my day.  I know I need to spend more time with the Lord.  But I struggle with that too.  Sometimes, especially during these “low” times, I need “Jesus with skin on”.  I need people.  I also need to not feel so busy and overwhelmed.  So where is the balance?  I have no idea.

I’m not sure, but I think maybe friends don’t often worry about me because I’m so good at reaching out.  I always call.  I always text.  I always invite.  But I’m getting tired.  I hate to admit it but I’m in a season of need rather than give.  I want to give.  I want to serve.  I want to reach out.  But I’m so empty at the moment that it takes everything out of me to do it.  When my counselor suggested that I stop having people over unless they can bring lunch, I drew back in horror.  Are you kidding?!  My M.O. has always been to cook and bake and love on people in that way. I love serving people.  I love baking and allowing my friends to enjoy a warm piece of banana bread.  That in itself is a feel-good activity for me.  I had a hard enough time accepting meals and help when my infant daughter was sick!  Now I have to tell people to bring lunch if they visit?!  No way!  To be brutally honest, a little part of me worries that friends may not want to come if there are “conditions”.  That’s totally my insecurity speaking… the fear that no one cares beyond what I do for them.  I know it’s not true but in my loneliness, those are the thoughts that come to mind.  

I just wish I wasn’t feeling this way… So I will continue to search for balance.  Rest.  Rejuvination.  And I’ll continue to survive.  That’s what moms do, don’t they?  They survive.  I’m hoping I can more than just survive though.  I’d like to thrive.  I know God wants that for me.  I'm very excited to be going away overnight next weekend with a friend to a Women's conference.  I'm sure I'll find some answers there.  At the very least, it will be the time of refreshing I have been needing.  I just need to hang on another three days...

What about you?  How do you recharge?  Have you found that balance?  What is your primary love language?  Are you in extrovert like me?  Or an introvert?  I’d love to hear your thoughts.   

A Picture of God

If they gave out an award for the worst mother in the universe, I’m pretty sure I would have received it this week.  I had been having an absolutely horrible day (counseling in the morning which brought up a bunch of things, an argument, that feeling of being totally overwhelmed, a migraine and just feeling completely DOWN) so when it came time to drive my five year old to Sparks (Girl Guides for 5 yr olds), I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I called a friend whose daughter is in the same Sparks unit and asked her to pick my daughter up and bring her home.  She said she would.  When she came to the door to get my daughter, my friend mentioned she would take some pictures.  I said, “Sure, okay, thanks,“ but was thinking, “Why?  It’s just a regular meeting…”

When my friend dropped her off again that evening, my daughter was wearing a crown and holding a certificate.  In that instant, it hit me.  I had missed her swearing in ceremony (where she states her Sparks promise and receives a badge and certificate to welcome her to the unit).  I burst into tears right there at the front door.  My friend hugged me, apologized for not mentioning it (she wasn’t sure if I had remembered and just didn’t want to go or had forgotten but would have been stressed out to be reminded at the last minute) and then said goodnight.  I closed the door and went and sat on the couch.  I began bawling and repeating, “I’m so sorry I missed it.  How could I have missed it?” over and over while my daughter hugged me and kept saying, “It’s okay, Mommy.  You can come next year.  It wasn’t a big thing.  I forgive you. Don’t cry.  It doesn’t matter.”  There I was, a total mess, beating myself up for being an utter and total failure as a mother (missing her very first ever ‘important’ day), and there was my five year old, mature beyond her years, consoling me, comforting me, instantly forgiving me.  I was the one that had completely let her down and she was trying to make ME feel better. 

My guilt plagued me all night.  I know the combination of the horrible day I’d had and the way I have been feeling lately made this event seem infinitely worse than, in hindsight, it really was.  Nevertheless, I cried myself to sleep and woke up in the morning with puffy eyes and a bleak outlook.  I took my daughter out for breakfast and drove her to school.  I apologized again for forgetting her important day.  And again, she forgave me.  She reassured me.  She radiated love.

As I thought about it that day, I began to give thanks.  For a daughter who forgives.  For a fresh start.  For the knowledge that, despite my numerous imperfections as a parent, God is in control.  He is molding my daughter.  He is protecting her heart.  More than that, He is using her to display His love and grace.  To me. 

I often think that, as a parent, I am representing God’s character to my children.  Whether we like it or not, they will, in many ways, view God the way they view us.  Are we forgiving?  Are we kind?  Are we harsh or unrelenting?  Do we discipline in love or anger?  Do we love to spend time with them?  Do we give them our undivided attention or are we always distracted with something ‘more important’?  I know I am always needing to work on these things.  We will obviously never be a perfect picture of God, which is why we need to pray and teach our children about grace and the need for a Savior and the importance of Scripture.  (We need to learn that ourselves as well!)

That day, however, I was miserably failing at representing God.  I was revealing weakness, frailty, humanity.  I allowed my struggle with depression to overtake me.  Instead, my daughter was the one displaying God’s character to me!  Weren’t her actions a perfect picture of God?  We let Him down and yet, in our devastation, in our agony, in our shame, there He is, consoling us, showing us grace and forgiveness, bestowing His perfect peace.  “Don’t cry, Mommy.” “Don’t cry, child of Mine.”  “You can come next year.” “There’s always tomorrow.”  “I forgive you.” “I FORGIVE YOU…”

Buried in Clutter

Lately I have been feeling completely and totally overwhelmed.  I’m overwhelmed with my schedule.  I’m overwhelmed with the to-do lists I have written in my head.  And mostly, I’m overwhelmed with the clutter in my house.  I feel like I’m drowning in clutter – in toys and clothes and shoes and dishes and boxes and books and papers… Like my house is going to cave in on me any second.  One minute I’ll be standing in the midst of the chaos, looking around, utterly hopeless and lost.  Where do I start?!  Then the next minute I am going on a rampage cleaning the closet, or the junk drawer, or that one box that has been sitting in my bedroom forever.  It’s like an obsession overtakes me and I NEED to clean the closet.  I tell myself I’ll feel better when my closet is clean.  And I do.  Until my husband fails to hang up his jacket in the newly organized closet.  Or until my three year old decides that the newly organized closet is the perfect place for her stash of Strawberry Shortcake figurines and plastic bracelets and random lego blocks and broken crayons.  Or until we take out the winter stuff and I have to reorganize the closet all over again with the addition of the new stuff.  OR until I look around and notice MORE clutter and chaos. 

I dropped off two garbage bags full of STUFF to the Salvation Army thrift store the other day.  It felt good.  It felt cleansing.  But then I drove back home.  And walked into my house.  I realized that I wasn’t feeling better.  I wanted to run away.  I fantasized about moving to a new house and leaving EVERYTHING behind.  I had a nagging feeling that the clutter was not really the problem.  STUFF was not really the issue.

My counselor confirmed this (I have been to three counseling sessions now).  As I described my thoughts and feelings, she led me to the realization that maybe the way I feel in my house is really just a representation of the way I feel in my head.  I’m not comfortable in my house at the moment.  I’m not comfortable in my head at the moment.  Did the clutter bother me before I realized I had post-partum depression?  Has anything changed in the house?  No.  And no.  All of a sudden I’m severely irritated and thrown off balance by all the “clutter”. 

I realized that I’ve lost my sense of control and this is my attempt to regain it.  I can’t control my emotions so I’m going to control my environment.  I’m reeling.  I’m grasping for any sense of stability.  You know that feeling you have when you’re in the thick of the flu and the world is spinning and you just need to find ground?  So you swing one leg off the bed and put your foot on the ground?  That’s what I’m doing.  I’m swinging my leg off the crazy roller coaster bed, looking for ground.  So I’m cleaning the closet.  I’m yelling and crying and stomping and throwing and going numb.  But I’m cleaning the closet.

I do need to clean the closet.  But not the one at my front door.  More accurately, I need to allow God to search the hidden things.  To cleanse the doubt and the guilt and the shame and the pride. 

So as I sort the shoes, throw out old batteries, recycle the flyers, organize my recipes, I’ll pray.  I’ll ask God to be my grounding, my sense of stability.  I’ll allow Him to heal me.  Maybe soon I’ll be okay with a messy closet.  Maybe I’ll even crawl in there and play Strawberry Shortcake with my daughter while she tries on my shoes…

God and Pride and Brutal Honesty

I’ve been pretty silent up until now about where God fits into all of this.  The truth is that my thoughts have been really scattered.  The other truth is that, if I’m really honest, sharing about God’s role in this is a bit too personal, a bit too intimate.  I did say that I would be brutally honest though.  As uncomfortable as this post is for me to write, it needs to be done.  I need to put it on paper so that it’s real; so that I learn from it and remember it.

God has been so present in all of this.  Even when I’ve tried to ignore His voice (we all do it), He has been there revealing some painful truths to me.  This struggle that I’m going through with Postpartum Depression has very little to do with my emotional health.  It does, however (in my case), have everything to do with my spiritual health.  This is totally about God getting my attention.  And putting a finger on my pride.  Exposing it.  Taming it.

Here’s where I bare my soul and confess my sins and cringe as I’m doing it… A couple of months ago, I said to my husband (and a close friend) that I wondered why so many women, especially Christian women, struggled with depression or anxiety and needed anti-depressants to be able to cope.  My husband and I were so glad that we didn’t have to deal with that.  What a prideful and arrogant thing to say.  That was totally the epitome of my pride spoken in one question.  Within it, implied statements such as:  I am competent.  I am strong.  I am healthy.  I can do this alone.  In themselves, there is nothing all that wrong with these statements.  In that context, however, was I not judging?  Was I not putting myself above other women, wives, and mothers?  Basically, I was viewing myself with the ultimate self-sufficiency and arrogance.  No wonder God needed to intervene.

Looking back, that was where it may have started (or at least started to get much worse).  God reached down and put his thumb on me.  And pressed.  He was saying, “Here.  You wanted to know why so many women struggle with this and have a need for medication?  Experience it.  A cup of anxiety.  Live it.   A pound of guilt.  Feel it.  A dash of rage.  Learn from it.  A sprinkle of paranoia.”  Have you ever had that feeling?  The knowledge that this experience you’re going through is 100% about breaking your pride?  That’s where I’m at. . .

So how do I move on from here?  I journey through it.  I roll with the ups and downs.  I ask for forgiveness from the Lord, from my family and from my friends.   I write about it.  I learn from it. 

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.  Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”  Hebrews 12:11

I need to allow the Lord to “train” me in this.  This is for my sanctification.  This is God’s plan.  This is ultimately God revealing His deep and all-consuming love for me.

 “My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.”  Proverbs 3:11-12

I will be thankful for this.  God loves me so much and has such a great plan for my life that He will not allow me to continue to live in pride and arrogance.  He will use this experience in my life to bring hope and healing to others.  I’m sure He will also use it to teach me many other things.

This realization doesn’t lessen the struggle I am having.  I will still have ups and downs.  I’ll still try to get ahead of myself and then be forced back a few steps (see my other posts).  Who knows how long I’ll continue to take medication.  I’m seeing a counselor next week to talk about things. 

It does, however, give a reason for it.  God can certainly take this mess I’ve made and turn it into something fruitful and beautiful.  I’ll rest in that.  In the anxious times, I’ll remember that.  In the moments of anger, I’ll let it calm me.  When I’m questioning myself (which I do often), I’ll defer to the Lord.  This is about surrender, humility and dependence on God; admitting that I’m human and that I need a savior.  We all do.  We all need to surrender the messes we’ve made of our lives and let God transform them.

This post has been about my experience and the things God is revealing to me through it.  It won’t apply to everyone.  In fact, it probably won’t apply to most of those struggling with PPD.  PPD is a very real illness that needs to be taken seriously.  It is a brain chemical thing, a hormone imbalance that often requires medication.  I am also absolutely not saying that God inflicts PPD on women because of sin or pride or anything else.  In my case, however, this is also a spiritual journey.  And since I promised myself absolute honesty (which itself leads to restoration), it is one that needs to be shared.  Laid out for all to see. 

If you are struggling with PPD and are wondering where God fits into all this in your life or are wondering about where God is in general and you want to talk to someone about it, please feel free to email me at katdimoff@gmail.com.  I don’t want to engage in debate but I am absolutely here to support, encourage and share the journey!

Getting Ahead of Myself

The other day was a bit of a roller coaster day.  I was feeling good in the morning because my daughter had actually slept through the night (10 hours! 10pm-8am) and so I actually slept too!  It was such a shock that I got up at around 4:30am to make sure she was still breathing!  (Moms reading this: You’ve done it too!  Admit it!  J)  I haven’t slept longer than a five or six hour stretch in probably six months!!!

Later in the morning I had my follow-up appointment with the doctor.  The appointment was quite short and kind of anti-climactic.  I went into the appointment in good spirits and with hopes of convincing the doctor that I no longer needed the medication.  I figured he’d encourage me to continue with the prescription for a little while longer though.   I thought I would try anyway.  I told him I had started feeling better and more in control the first day of taking the pills and asked him how long it usually took for them to start working.  He said it was usually at least two weeks.  I told him I had weaned my daughter and was blogging about my feelings.  I said that even just having the diagnosis had helped make me more aware of my feelings and had given the ability to control them more easily.  He agreed.  He said I had obviously made enough changes besides taking the pills to help me recover, especially considering the pills really wouldn’t be having much effect yet.  He gave me the go ahead to stop taking the medication and sent me on my way.

I left with mixed emotions.  I should have been relieved.  I should have been happy.  Part of me was.  Most of me wasn’t.  I doubted my decision and the doctor’s nonchalance.  I called my husband to tell him.  I hid my uncertainty but he didn’t hide his.  He felt I should continue the medication but he told me he would support me in whatever I chose to do.   

Later that evening I began to have some anxiety about stopping the medication.  Obviously, it has just been “the placebo effect” that has been working for me until now.  But it has been working for me.  I worried about how I would feel with the knowledge that I was no longer taking anything.  Would it change things?  Thoughts were swirling through my head.

Am I getting ahead of myself?  Am I trying to get “back to normal” too quickly?

Will this cause a setback?

What was the point of weaning if I was only on the medication for two weeks?

Long story short, the next day I called the doctor’s office to make another appointment so I can get another prescription.  I have to take things slow.  I can’t force this.  I have to accept that I won’t be 100% back to normal overnight and I need to give the medication a chance to work.

What a roller coaster.  I’m not used to this “take things slow” kind of approach.  I jump in with both feet.  I land on my feet.  I blaze through.  This time I can’t.  I need to slow down and take it one day at a time.  Ugh.  This will be good for me…

A Slow Realization...

I think it must be difficult to be the family member or friend of a person suffering from PPD especially if she isn’t being treated or hasn’t realized it.  Now that I’m feeling better and am able to begin reflecting back on the last couple of months, I have been talking to friends and family members more about it.  My close friends have said, “We knew something was going on.  You just weren’t yourself.  You were holding onto things and you were all over the place.”  A few friends did mention Postpartum Depression.  My response was always, “Yeah, maybe.  Or maybe I’m just really exhausted.   Maybe when my baby starts sleeping better, I’ll be okay.”  I never denied there was a problem.  I just didn’t know what the problem was and didn’t really know what to do about it.  Maybe no one else really knew how to help me figure things out either.

At one point, I was invited to a PPD support group.  I did attend once.  At the time, however, I didn’t think I had the symptoms of PPD.  I just thought I was exhausted and angry with my husband.  I had no idea that how I was feeling and what I was going through are symptoms of PPD as well. 

I was talking to that friend (who invited me to the PPD group) about things recently and she was saying that it is sometimes called Postpartum Mood Disorder rather than Postpartum Depression.  I think that is a better description.  When I think depression, I think sadness, crying, no energy etc.  I don’t think mood swings, irritability, anger, anxiety…. I think that is a misconception that needs to change. 

When I finally realized that maybe this REALLY WAS a postpartum thing, I mentioned it to my husband.  I told him I thought I should see a doctor and that maybe I needed some medication.  He was hesitant.  Understandable.  There is definitely a stigma attached to antidepressants.  People don’t like to talk about it.  My husband didn’t want me to go on medication.  He was worried about the side effects and he was worried that I would develop a dependency.  Frankly, I was worried about all that too but I knew I needed to do something and I didn’t know what else to do. 

I finally just made the doctor’s appointment (see my first post “Postpartum Depression Snuck Up on Me”) and called my husband to tell him.  It was then that he spoke to a mentor.  His mentor assured him that this was best and that he should support me in the decision I felt I needed to make.  After that, my husband felt better and he has been fully supportive ever since.  I’m sure it was hard for him though. 

Yesterday I asked him. “Was I really acting that crazy?  Did you ever consider leaving?”  I was starting to feel embarrassed and worried that people had been thinking I was crazy this whole time but just weren’t saying anything.  My husband said, “No, never.  You were exhausted and you had a short fuse.  I knew you weren’t feeling like yourself.  But never once did I think there was a serious problem.  I was never embarrassed to be around you.  I was never worried.  I realize now that I was frustrated and angry but there was never a time where I wanted to leave or anything like that.  Even now, there’s not a night and day difference because you weren’t that different.  You’re just more yourself.  You’re calmer and more relaxed.”  His words made me feel so much better.

When I told my friends about the appointment, I think they were relieved as well.  I know that my friends care about me and they weren’t sure what to do or how to help.  I’m sure they prayed.  I know they tried to support me.  No one ever sat me down and said, “I think you have PPD and you need to see a doctor to find out.”  Even if one of them had have done that, I’m not sure I would have listened or acted on it.  I may have just brushed it off.  However, I may have listened.  I wasn’t getting the suggestions and subtle hints that people were giving.  Maybe someone needed to talk to my husband about it.  I’m not upset about it though.  I think I needed to come to this realization on my own anyway.  I wish I had have realized sooner.  I know my husband was suffering.  My children were suffering.  I was suffering.  But that’s why I started this blog.  I don’t want others to suffer if I can help it.  They say hindsight is 20/20.  That’s definitely true in this case.  If my experience can help someone else seek treatment for PPD, then I’ll continue writing about it and being brutally honest.

And so I encourage you, if you know someone who is struggling with symptoms similar to mine (see my other posts as well, like “Anxiety, with a Side of Panic and Paranoia for Dessert”), to talk to them gently about it.  If you don’t think they’ll listen, then talk to their spouse or speak to a close friend of theirs and enlist his or her help.  Don’t spread it around.  Don’t talk behind the person’s back.  Do what you can to help and support.  Do some research yourself and find out what resources you can point them to.  Send them a link to this blog…

If you yourself are feeling “just not yourself”… if you’re struggling with anxiety, panic, anger, irritability, trouble with your spouse, even sadness, sleeplessness, lack of energy etc…. talk to someone about it.  Make an appointment with your doctor.  Don’t be afraid or ashamed to admit you may need help to get through this phase.  We all struggle.  We’re all human.  But we are never alone.

I have a follow-up appointment with the doctor later this week.  I’ll see how it goes.  I’m going to talk to him about other steps I can take to improve my mental health and hormone balance.  I’m sure exercise, vitamins and eating a little healthier will be on the list.  I’ll take it slow though so I don’t get overwhelmed.  I’ll write about my progress.  I’m hoping I won’t have to continue the medication for too long.  But I won’t give it a timeline.  I’m not even going to allow myself to feel ashamed or worried or embarrassed about having to take an antidepressant.  Life is too short and my family is too important.  The most important thing is that I am feeling better and more in control.  My husband is definitely happier and less stressed.  My children are more at ease around me.  I’m no longer having bouts or anxiety or moments or rage.  If I can feel and act the same way with alternative methods, then great.  It’ll be an ongoing journey.  Stay tuned.

Anxiety, Served with a side of Panic and Paranoia for Dessert

A couple months ago I had this horrible dream that a man came into my house (in the middle of the day) pretending to be a workman when really he was there to attack me.  In my dream I was home alone with just the baby who was sleeping upstairs.  I was in the kitchen when the man all of a sudden burst into the house talking about a water leak and that he needed to get under the stairs.  As he entered the kitchen, I stopped him and asked for identification.  When he hesitated, I realized what was happening.  I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.  In my dream, however, no one answered.  He moved forward to attack me and then I woke up.

Normally when I have unpleasant dreams (I dream a lot), I can replay them in my head, think of a solution and fix the problem.  Then I can go back to sleep.  This time, I couldn’t do that.  Every solution I thought of just caused a worse consequence in my head.  I finally woke my husband up because I was anxious and I couldn’t sleep.  At the time, I just attributed it to the fact that I probably wasn’t getting enough REM sleep.  That was probably partly true.

The next day, a friend came over in the morning to babysit my baby (my two older daughters were in Ottawa with my parents for a visit) so I could go out alone for an hour or two and have a break.  I had decided the day before that I would take a walk in the conservation area near our house and collect some twigs for a decorating project I had in mind.  As I started down the path, I breathed deep and took in the peacefulness of the place.  I listened to the birds and crickets chirping and let myself relax.  As I walked deeper and deeper into the woods, I began to realize just how isolated I was.  My dream came back to me.  All of a sudden, standing in the middle of the woods, I panicked.  Thoughts were swirling in my head. 

What if someone attacks me here?!

No one will hear me scream… 

There’s nothing around to defend myself with… 

I’m totally isolated and alone…

I started walking quickly back to the entrance of the woods.  I walked faster and faster until I made it there.  If I had run into anyone, man or woman, I probably would have started running and screaming.  That’s how panicky I was.  When I got to the edge of the woods by the road, I stopped myself.  I knew I was overreacting but I could barely control my breathing.  I forced myself to slow my breathing and calm down.  Then I crossed the road to my car.  There was a man in the small parking lot, just getting out of his truck.  I practically ran to my car and jumped in as fast as I could.  I knew that reaction was crazy.  At the time, though, I couldn’t control it.  I drove into town, hands shaking, and let myself relax until I was no longer panicking.  Then I went into a thrift store and did a bit of browsing to get my mind off things.

A few weeks later, I was home with my youngest two (my oldest was at day camp).  The baby was sleeping and I went to put my two year old down for her nap.  When I came back down the stairs, our back patio door was wide open.  In my head I knew that my two year old had just opened it and I hadn’t noticed (she has a habit of leaving it wide open when she goes to play in the backyard).  However, my heart felt otherwise.  My dream came back to me again.  I was worried that there was someone in the house. 

My plan had been to go to the basement to do a load of laundry while the girls were napping.  Now I was scared to go downstairs.  I called my husband at work so he could talk me out of my paranoia.  It didn’t work.  I called him back and made him stay on the phone while I slowly went downstairs.  I checked every nook and cranny of the basement while he was on the phone.  Again, I knew that was crazy behavior but I couldn’t act otherwise.  I needed to check.  I threw in the laundry and went upstairs.  After I got off the phone, I checked the rest of the house.  I looked in closets and behind doors until I was convinced there was no one in our house.   It honestly bothered me all afternoon and evening.  I just couldn’t shake the feeling.

I think it’s pretty normal for mothers (and fathers), especially new ones, to feel a bit panicky or anxious from time to time.  If you’ve ever brought your newborn into bed with you on a difficult night, then you probably know the feeling of waking up in a panic because you think your baby fell out of the bed or you rolled on him or her, only to realize that your baby is sleeping safely in the bassinet or crib.  Or we see a potentially dangerous situation for our toddler and have a panicked flash of the worst-case scenario.  A ‘what if my child let go of my hand, ran across the road and got hit by a car’ kind of feeling.  They don’t last.  They don’t linger.  We don’t act on them. 

It’s when the feelings linger that we need to realize there may be a problem.  When anxious thoughts cause us to look in closets and behind doors, and after that, the feelings remain.  When they stop us from doing what we would normally do or when they cause us to do something we normally wouldn’t. 

Looking back, this was a definite sign of Postpartum Depression.  It was a sign that things weren’t quite right.  Anger, anxiety, panic, paranoia – definite symptoms of PPD. 

Today I’m sitting on our front porch while my daughter rides her bicycle up and down the street.    She’s doing great.  A few minutes ago a neighbor had to go out.  My daughter heard the car start so she pulled over, got off her bicycle and stood on the grass until the car passed by and left our street.  She knows the safety rules.  I’m not anxious.  I’m not worried.  I didn’t panic.  I wonder, though, if I would have felt the same two weeks ago.