Not me, not this, not again.

I have been doing everything I could to try to prevent post-natal depression (PND) this time around.

Failing that, I have been trying everything I could to try to prevent the need for pharmaceutical antidepressants. Speaking generically, I have nothing against antidepressants. Speaking for me…. I wouldn’t say I hate them, but it does come close.

But… it’d be fair to say I’m not coping anymore.

Add to that that William is by far my most difficult baby… I just don’t know what to DO with him. He’s not necessarily miserable or a grumpy baby as such, but he definitely has a real high-needs personality. By which I mean, if he’s up, and he’s being held (the way he likes) and talked to / played with, he’s a flirty, happy, downright charming baby. If you try to put him down for a few minutes – in the swing, in the bouncer, in his playgym – he complains after only a minute or two. He just needs constant attention. To some extent his sisters can and do help with that, because he’s fine being in any of the above places if they’re around to interact with him, but he can’t / doesn’t go more than 5-10 minutes max without interaction before he complains. And he’s not very happy with ME just talking to him when he’s in bouncer / playgym etc, if it’s me I have to be holding him.

I’m happy to babywear him – and he’s happy to be worn – but truth be told I’m not fond of wearing him around the house much In part because, when big kids are at school / kindy (aka during school hours) that’s my main chance to sit (and he doesn’t accept sitting while being worn) so in effect it creates more work for me… and because although he’ll sleep while worn, it’s usually not for more than about a 20 minute stretch – which is half his 40 min naptimes (which I don’t love but no longer see the point of fighting)

Up until about 2 weeks ago, he’d scream the place down every car trip – now we’ve half sorted a solution (as in, it works some of the time) but it’s made getting next to impossible. He’s so darn interested in everything that he overtires himself trying to take everything in when out and about…. so if I spend the morning out, I typically spend the afternoon trying to make up for it. It’s gotten to the point it just doesn’t seem worth it for things that are non-essential. Factor in that I’m an introvert at the best of times, nowadays I’m a downright hermit.

Through trial and error we diagnosed a dairy intolerance. In a lower-than-low moment within myself this weekend, I slipped and had dairy (combo of mega bad cravings, day from hell, plus having not eaten for around 8 hours). Now of course I’ve ‘broken’ my baby… the baby that would at least sleep semi decently through the night is now waking every 40 – 90 minutes wanting a boob for comfort and not being settled easily any other way. It’s my own damn fault of course but that doesn’t really help either, because what kind of mum DOES that? He’s been relatively normal through the day since then at least, rather than screaming like he used to while I was eating dairy regularly, but part of me wonders if that’s just due to him being older now and coping with it better, rather than a lack of symptoms.

When the big kids are here the noise gets to such I level I feel a bit like my head is going to explode. A lot of it is just normal kid noises really, so then there’s the shame / guilt that I can’t cope with that. I love my children to pieces, but I don’t feel I’m very good for them lately. I keep thinking that we should have stopped at two, because at the moment it feels like I have two more than I can manage.

DH dragged me to the GP last week to talk about things, and we did – but her only answer is the drugs. I’ve been on Paroxetine (Paxil) twice before, worked fairly well the first time (but was utter hell to come off of) and second time worked less well with far more side effects and a self-injury episode – and was STILL utter hell to come off of despite doing it over about a 2 month period. Due to me BFing, the only other drug GP will offer me is Sertaline (Zoloft). I tried it the first day and spent the whole day feeling seasick and the whole night wide awake with a skin-crawling, jittery feeling. Standard advice, is of course, to take it for 2-4 weeks for the side effects to ‘wear off’… but I don’t know how well I can take 2-4 weeks of those effects, particularly the insomnia and jitters. With *any* SSRI medication, and the known withdrawal / discontinuation syndrome…. it scares me, frankly. The last time I went through it, super slowly, I thought, ‘never again’. ATM I feel like I have no choice… and am very worried that if I agree to take them, I’m signing up for life. (The Maternal Mental Health team, in my experience with them, suggested I should be medicated for life…. let’s not get me started on why I don’t love MMH)

Still feeling utter crap this week, and at the nagging of the husband, I tried again – and had the exact same effects, again awake ALL night, this time with a bout of restless legs as well as the insomnia and nausea. DH dragged me back to the doctor today and she’s now prescribed me paroxetine with the reasoning that she will put a referral through to MMH and that can keep me on an even keel until I make it through the waiting list for MMH to see me, where they might be able to fine tune / change my drugs.

I’m feeling completely trapped, and just want to have a massive tantrum. I don’t like MMH (hoping I get someone different this time…. ) and Paroxetine at the best of times just numbs me, puts me on autopilot and makes me feel very Stepford like… but the husband can’t afford more time off work, he’s taken more than he really has leave to already, and I’m not coping otherwise. I dread being alone with the baby because I feel like I don’t know how to make him happy…. and he’s always so good for other people.

There’s also a wee voice saying to just keep persisting with the sertaline, because admittedly I’ve felt a bit better today (took it yesterday but I think the effects are still on). Granted, space cadet like from insomnia, but once I gave up trying to sleep I still feel like I have more energy than when not on drugs and with my usual 3-4 hours broken sleep. But I also know if I have a couple nights in a row of zero sleep things will likely get ugly. I’m feeling the “come down” (for lack of a better word) from them now and the tiredness is definitely hitting, but that’s it really. Granted, I’d only taken one dose so not really built up in my system to come down off of.

Sick and tired of being between the rock and a hard place. Pissed off that, even with admitting I can’t function without medication, I still don’t get to feel good. I feel like the sacrificial lamb, resigning to something between years and a lifetime on drugs still feeling only so-so in order for the rest of the family to function. Pissed off at the unfairness of life that I am so broken and can’t just get on with it and enjoy my baby.

I just feel I’m damned regardless of what I do. I’m judged as a bad mum for getting PND in the first place. I’m judged if I go on medication – and if I don’t.

I hate post-natal depression. I hate the stigma around it that makes it so much worse than ‘normal’ depression, because everyone knows having a baby is “the happiest time in your life”. I hate the side effects of the medication, and the dependency it creates. And I hate myself for being so broken that I end up unable to function each time I have a baby.

This is not the life I was meant to have

God, that sounds terribly arrogant, but I’m not quite sure how else to put it.

The fact is, I was raised as the product of a double-income, single-child household in solid middle class USA.  My mother not only had a degree, but was a highschool teacher, and thus the utmost emphasis was placed on education.  My father was classic blue collar and proud of it, but expected the world of me – and likely for good reason.  I had potential.  I was streamed into honors programs and classes through most of my pre-university years, and aside from the hell of middle school, I achieved high grades.  With very little exception, when my grades slumped it was due to lack of effort rather than lack of understanding or ability.  By and large I relished the positon that put me in.  I was comfortably near the top without sticking out like a tall poppy.  I was solidly good without the pressure of being exceptional.

It was always expected that I would proceed straight from highschool to college, get a four year degree and possibly more, then settle down into a solid, respectable career.  Somewhere in the path I would likely find a life partner, although honestly there wasn’t much emphasis on that.  And it was assumed I’d probably want kids – 2, most likely, because one is dumb (said as an only child) and more than two is silly on so many levels. Plus I’d probably be nearing the end of my childbearing years by then, so mightn’t have huge amounts of choice in the matter.

So clearly I got off track fairly early on in the piece, by getting married straight out of highschool and moving all the way to New Zealand, leaving worrying about the degree til later.  I managed to snag a reasonable entry-level office admin assistant type job, held it until I got permanent residency and only then started my tertiary education.  I burned myself solidly out of that by the third year, took a break by getting another series of jobs then got pregnant.  All things considered, we thought that was probably a good thing – mum’s health was starting to fail, she might want grandkids.  I was already burnt out of University, this would give me a different focus.

I went back to work – for a week.  They loved me – but I had just gotten a positive pregnancy test.  Knowing how much pregnancy takes out of me, I made the call that it wouldn’t be fair to them to only give half of myself, and resigned.

For sheer practical reasons, I finished up my last year of University (with significant child-care help from my husband) and got the BA I’d started – mainly so the money already invested wouldn’t be lost under changing requirements for the degree.  But then I had 3 more kids, including a stillbirth.  I tried going back to work after #4, as I was desperately missing adult connection.  Another menial entry-level job – 30 hours a week give or take – and I LOVED it.  But had to resign that one after 6 weeks as we were rapidly losing money during the process, to the tune of about $200 in the hole after childcare.

So, now I’m “just” a mom.  Can’t afford to be anything else.

Which would be fine, if I was any good at it.

I have four children, and I’m not sure I can manage any of them.  As it is, the three ‘big’ kids (ranging from 6.5 to 2.5) are in school or care 30+ hours a week.  And I STILL can’t cope with them in the 2 – 3 hours per day in between school / kindy finishing and the husband getting home.

I’m not managing to get dinners cooked.

Washing is done but almost never folded, just picking through baskets of clean clothing to find the required item.

I long since gave up cleaning the house – instead the husband does a hurried “everything off the floor” blitz tidy Wednesday morning and pay a cleaner to do everything else, despite the fact we can’t really afford it.

You’d think by the fourth (living) baby I’d know what I was doing – but this time around, I don’t seem to.  Breastfeeding at least has been pretty trouble free, but this baby’s had reflux issues, which is totally new to me.  Most of these have been solved by going dairy free, which – although I MISS cheese and other dairy – has certainly been easier / preferrable to having an unhappy, unsettled baby due to pain.

But, he’s still not a fan of sleep.  And less of a fan of sleeping without the breast in his mouth.  Which would be fine, if a) I could sleep while breastfeeding.  But I can never get anything past a light doze.  We ‘can’ co-sleep, but by that I mean the baby on one side of the Queen size bed in his little pocket, and me far on the other edge.  And still I don’t sleep as well.  Ideally he’d be in the hammock in the same room, as I sleep best when room-sharing.  Close enough I can still easily hear the baby without anxiety over monitors, but far enough away I’m not subconsciously trying to prevent accidental smothering.  Baby has other plans though, and only sleeps in it now and then without significant complaining.

Baby does not travel well in the car – he does sometimes sleep in his seat, but if he’s not sleeping, he’s usually screaming.  And he overstimulates and overtires super easy, making it a mission to get out of the house.

I’m hardly managing to get myself fed and watered these days.  Showers are only happening maybe twice a week, when I need to go out, plus about one bath a week shared with the baby.

Meanwhile my five year old has had a birthday and had no party for it.  And while I know not every birthday needs a party – 5 is pretty special here.  And she’s only had one proper party before, as every year something’s come up and it’s been cancelled.  Compared to the eldest, who had a party every year but this past year.  Compared to virtually all her friends, who had stunning magical parties, which I couldn’t even manage to take her to, but had to rely on DH to do that.

The five year old started school in the middle of last week and I havent’ managed to do one night’s worth of reading with her yet – three days into school and she’s yet to have done her homework properly.

The six year old meanwhile started the school year nearly a full term ago, and most days doesn’t even remember her book bag, and certainly isn’t doing her school reading most nights either.  Granted, she’s a great reader… but we’re failing her there.

There is no one-on-one time with my children, other than the baby.

I’ve had to leave the baby to scream in his hammock (gee, wonder why he hates it) on multiple occasions because I’m worried I may lose it if I don’t.  All the while wanting to stab myself listening to him screaming and going over the multitude of ways it’s damaging to them and hurting him.  I have only one child with me for most of the time DH is at work, and I still can’t manage that.

My eldest two spend virtually all their waking hours in front of the computer – gee, wonder where they learned that?  But it’s hardly anything to be proud of.  I have no patience with them.  At the moment the only way I benefit any of the three girls is simply by being a taxi driver, and a (fairly incompetent)  babysitter until DH is home.

I’m 30 years old and have amounted to nothing so far.

I have a degree that’s next to useless.

I don’t have a career or an industry to go back to.

I’m unemployable due to 7 years out of the workforce and two blips of a job both quit due to not managing to have children and work.

I can’t keep my baby happy.

I’m not their for my older children other than in case of emergency.

My house and health have gone to hell, my relationship is heading there fast.

I’m 30 years old and I’m a failure.

The only use I am is as a boob to the baby.  Which is nice, I guess, especially with the dairy complications.  But really I’m no more use than as a family cow.

This is not the life I was raised for.  This is not the life I was meant to have.

Welcoming the little brother

Every pregnancy is different, and it’s own ‘thing’, but the more pregnancies I have, the more I tend to connect events from past pregnancies with the current one – especially when it comes to labours.  With Marta’s pregnancy – my most recent before this one – I had approximately a week’s worth of pre-labour contractions, that were painful and distracting but not terribly productive.  At one point, after most of a night’s worth of strong and regular contractions, we went into Birthcare only to be met by my midwife, examined, and told that I wasn’t at all dilated, and would be best to go home and come back later – either when things felt like they’d progressed, or when I couldn’t take anymore.  Needless to say, things eventually DID progress and she was born relatively smoothly, but that one experience hung in my mind rather a lot throughout this pregnancy.

When I was approximately midway through my 38th week this time around, I started having periods of contractions.  Not nearly as unending as with Marta’s pregnancy, but contractions that were bordering on painful, and came in a regular and orderly fashion.  Having learned from last time though, this time around I did everything I could to distract myself from them, and alternatively, rest as much as possible, so should it progress and turn into ‘the real thing’, at least I wouldn’t have spent all my energy before the going really got tough.  In most cases, the episodes of steady contractions would only last two to three hours at most, and each time they happened I got better at telling myself that this wasn’t the real thing, no reason to get worked up or excited.  I’d know the real thing when it happened.  This was my fifth time labouring, after all.  Plus the plan this time was to stay home (and hopefully have a waterbirth) so there wasn’t any need to stress about when was the ‘right time’ to go in, making that every tricky call between far enough along not to jinx things, but not so far that the baby was born before all were ready for him.

On Monday night, I had an especially long-lived string of contractions – I went to bed with them at around 10pm, in an effort to get some rest.  They were coming approximately every 15 minutes, although not getting any closer together, and they were strong enough that they stopped me sleeping through them, but didn’t seem to be increasing in intensity at all.  The contractions lasted through to around 6am, and I slept only in fits and bursts through the whole night, repeatedly being woken by the persistent – and annoying! – contractions.  When I woke up on the Tuesday the morning, I simply decided to give up attempting sleep, and go with what happened to come.  I was grumpy and out of sorts, and possibly slightly grumpier when the contractions simply disappeared a short time after I was up and about.  I had breakfast, then figured I’d do the senisble thing and attempt more sleep while the contractions were gone and the husband handled the children and morning rush.  I managed an extra hour’s worth (contraction free!) and got up again in an improved, but still grumpy and over-it, mood.  The husband picked up on my mood, and combined with my night of ‘niggles’, decided it was best to stay home from work, and phoned to let them know that there might be a baby on the way.

The day then progressed fairly normally.  I’d have the random one-off contraction / Braxton Hick’s, but nothing even approaching regular.  I had a friend come over for a bit during the day, largely just for the mental / emotional relief, and the distraction.  As mid-afternoon approached I started feeling progressively more ‘off’, without being able to put my finger on it.   Because of this, the husband left to do the school pick-up and gymnastics drop-off, and had his mother pick up the younger two from kindy and drop them home, so that I didn’t have to.   As she was here dropping them off, I started getting fairly strong contractions again, but pushed it out of my mind, figuring it was more of the same.  Once she left, I put together an easy dinner for the preschoolers, and ushered them off to bed.  Through this time I noticed that the contractions were regular again – and felt stronger than they had before.  Strong enough, now, that I started needing to stop, and focus through them – but was able to finish the bedtime process in-between.  Husband txt’ed, as he usually does around then, to see if I wanted / needed him to pick up dinner on his way back with the school child (from gymnastics, as she doesn’t finish gym til 6:30).  I was feeling decidedly vulnerable and shaky by then so I texted him to just come straight home as soon as she was done.

6pm
By now I was feeling that things may well be happening that night, though I was sure this was just the early niggle stage.  I took a dose of panadol, and lie down in bed to try to get the most rest / relaxation as was possible, but I only lasted about two contractions that way, as I found it nearly unbearable by then to be lying down.  Instead, each time a contraction hit – every 10 minutes by then – I got on my knees leaning against furniture (i.e., my chest draped over a chair / the bed) as it was the best combo of relaxing with pain management, and although they were definitely both strong and uncomfortable like that, I found them quite cope-able.  When the husband got home, he quickly got the (protesting) school child to bed and came to see if I needed dinner / help / anything.  I suggested he put up the birth pool… he said “what, you really think this is it?”  to which I answered, let’s just do it, worst case we can take it down.  So he started clearing out the lounge (of toys / rug) and getting the pool blown up.

8pm
Contractions were every 8 minutes by now.  I was still largely convinced this was just a build-up, pre-labour, or possibly just another night of fruitless niggles.  Regardless, I texted my bestie Lou, who was scheduled to there for the birth if possible, mainly for support, but the added bonus of photos if she had the chance as well.  I said I wasn’t sure it was really all on, but it would be nice to have her company / distraction either way.  She replied she had something to do first but would be over about 10pm.  From there I pottered around, supervising the husband putting up the pool, mostly up and about between contractions, but still quick to assume the kneeling / leaning position for each contraction.

8:30pm
Contractions, as roughly monitored on my iPhone, were roughly every 4 – 5 minutes by now.  When it first jumped to 4 minutes apart, I was fairly sure this was the beginning of them breaking up and becoming irregular.  After all, this was all just pre-labour, and I wasn’t going to have my baby til the wee hours of the morning anyway.  I did notice that the app I was using to time the contractions now labelled me as in “Active Labour” rather than “Early Labour” but I didn’t think much of this – my experiments with the app in the day or two before had shown that one contraction closer than the others could make it think you were in the next stage on, and it didn’t adjust backwards if the rest of the contractions resumed the previous pattern.

Regardless, I suggested that the husband – who’d only just finished getting the pool fully set up (but not filled), start filling the pool.  We’d been advised to start with cold water, and leave it sitting until I was about ready to get in, then start filling with hot.  Husband grumbled a touch but set about getting hoses etc connected and water filling in the pool.  We knew it’d take awhile.

I was starting to think I actually would have a baby sometime that night.

9:30pm
Pool still filling – had gotten a third filled with cold water.  I suggested husband start the hot water, as a pool might be nice to relax in.  And we knew it’d take awhile, after all.  Husband dutifully set about making it so.

Contractions were quite a bit stronger by now, and I was nearly exclusively parked against my recliner, kneeling on a pillow on the floor, top half draped on another pillow on the seat of the recliner.  My phone helpfully beeped to tell me I’d been in the active labour phase for an hour.  I wasn’t paying much attention to it by now though.  I was starting to get curious as to where I was in the labour process though.  I was now fairly sure that this was labour, though still sure I wasn’t nearly as far as I would need to be though.  I considered calling the midwife, but didn’t want her to arrive only to find me at 3cm with ages to go, or worse still, not making progress.  Combined with the fact that I’d done some reading on an ‘undisturbed birth’, and was thinking strongly of requesting no vaginal exams – but on the same note not sure I could trust myself not to find out for my own knowledge, as I’m one that wants all the details that can be gotten, to know “officially” rather than trusting myself.  No midwife meant to unnecessary (or even requested by me) vaginal exams…. and no being told I wasn’t that far along and getting off-track with my internal coping methods.

That said, I’d red about ‘the red line’ that some women get during labour.  Not being either able or in a position to see myself, out of curiousity, I described what I was looking for to the husband, and asked him if I had one – he said I did.  So for kicks and giggles I asked him to measure it.  I’m pretty sure he thought I was completely loopy, but obliged me regardless – and said it was 10cm.  Then wanted to know what I was on about.  So I said I’d just read some random thing on the internet – no big deal right? – that suggested sometimes this red line corresponds to dilation.  And I was just curious anyway.  He said “um… it’s 10 cm…”  I said it probably didn’t matter anyway, and I’m not sure we got it right anyhow.  We left it at that.

10pm.
Lou arrives, almost exactly to the minute, which was brilliant, because I was starting to reach the edge of my coping ability.  She took a couple minutes to assess the situaiton, saw Don being run ragged trying to support me while I crushed his hand, whilst still attempting to boil water to heat the pool up, and made herself busy working on water and fetching things as needed.
Contractions got weird.  Slowed down, then would come in a bunch, then slowed down again.  I figured either things were finally packing up and ending like I still suspected they would.  Phone said I was in transition.  I tried sitting down ‘normally’ on the recliner, as my knees were sore and I was just wanting to be in any other position.  Contractions slowed but then would hit like a freight train and were unbearable sitting down.

I started feeling panicky.  Then thought, we should really ring the midwife, things might start happening.  Also felt desperate for the pool, as I hated the pushing in my drug free birth with #2, but the pool was still too cold to reasonably get into.

I felt a little pushy.

Husband rang the midwife.  Midwife’s phone went straight to voicemail, but said to leave a message and she’d get back shortly, otherwise try again in a few minutes.

I felt a bit more pushy.

Pool still definitely on the cool (but not *cold*) side, but warm enough I was tempted to try it regardless.  I stuck a leg in and decided it was comfortable – would probably be considered lukewarm. I got in.  Going with what felt right, I pushed with the contractions, as they hit.  I reached down to see if I could feel anything telling, like a head, and felt only soft and squishy, so decided baby was still a ways up.

Husband rang back midwife.  Voicemail again.  He asked me what I thought we should do.  I suggested we needed a midwife.  He asked if I wanted an ambulance called.  NO – this was a birth, not an emergency – I wanted my midwife.  He said that the backup midwife’s phone number was given on the voicemail message – should he ring it?  I said yes – someone is better than no one, and I didn’t know what was up with my midwife.  He rang the backup, who was genuinely surprised to hear from us, as ours wasn’t off duty and wasn’t busy as far as she knew.  She said to leave it with her and she’d get back to us.

My midwife (Gail) rang back about 5 minutes later.  Her mobile was apparently in a dead spot – a previously unknown one – in her house, but her backup had rung her house number (which she doesn’t distribute) and managed to get ahold of her.   She was free, did we want her to come over?  Don said yes – rather calmly I thought, given the situation.  She said she’d head straight out.

Don sat by my side, holding my hand (poor him) during the contractions, whist I stayed on my knees in the pool, in much the same position I had been for most of the labour.

I decided at this point that I’d quite like an epidural thankyouverymuch – I’d fully had enough of this whole business.

I felt really pushy.  Still wondering how far I was, I reached down to see if I could feel anything, as I was at least convinced that baby was on his way down, but I had no idea how far.   I first felt soft and squishy again – then pushed with the contraction, and realised the soft and squishy was halfway outside, and these must be the (still intact) waters, rather than the firm surface of the skull.  So I gave another almighty push, and suddenly the baby crowned, then another quick push and he was born, waters breaking as his body came out – much to the surprise of Lou and Don as I simply sat back and picked up the baby.  (Honestly I was about as surprised as they were).  Don pointed out the cord was around his neck, but it wasn’t tight, and we simply unwound it.   Baby seemed as stunned as I was (but was a decent colour and clearly breathing, though he took an extra 30 seconds or so to cry).

I sat back against the pool side and cuddled baby to my chest, and we waited for the midwives, who arrived within about five minutes after.  I was glad to have them – they reminded me to push out the placenta when I felt it, and then sorted out the cutting of the cord (after placenta was out) and were especially handy for the mundane but necessary stuff – tarps etc on the furniture, helping me out, keeping me and baby warm and skin to skin and sorting out food for me.  Eventually they did the official once-over and weighing of the baby, but by then he’d been skin to skin with me for a decent amount of time (no idea of actual amount, but I’d been dried off and had half a sandwich and some tea by then) and had had his first feed as well.  He weighed in at 3.9kg, or 8lb 10oz – roughly a lb and a half more than any of my other babies.

He wasn’t officially named until a couple days later, but in the end we’d decided on what we’d been thinking of during the pregnancy.  William (after my father – and both my grandfathers to boot) Edward (Don’s middle name) – though I’m still trying to get the nickname ‘Teddy’ to stick.  Born 11:11pm, 5th February 2013, weighing 8lb 10oz.

Old Habits Die Hard

Tonight’s been a night of challenging habits.  Habits which were in place for so long, the impulse is still fully there, though most of the causes, or reasons behind the habit, have changed.

I have been a sugar addict, as well as a Mountain Dew addict, for decades now.   For the past several years I’ve known that it’s an increasingly bad habit of mine.  I would eat and drink more sugar each day it seemed, and yet still moan about my weight and moan about how I could never lose it.

Then I quit sugar.  Quitting sugar was originally inspired by my bestie Lou, but like all things I went a bit research crazy.  I’m now fully convinced, of my own accord, that sugar is toxic in anything but the tiniest amounts and I have, as much as one can reasonably do in today’s modern society, quit sugar.  The husband is on board (which is fantastic as it’s double the support) and the kids are being slowly weaned off it as well.

Now that I’m roughly two months into it (and 6.6 kg – or 15 pounds – lighter for the effort) virtually all of the temptation sweet foods – even Mountain Dew – had over me is gone.  It literally is easy for me to pass on.  The habits behind the sugar cravings (other than physical addiction) are still very much there however.

Tonight, as he has been known to do, my husband completely ticked me off.  Really it’s an accumulation of things, and the ‘why’ is not important.  I was going out anyway, and stormed out of the house and down to the corner connivence store – often my first stop on any trip out.   Still seething, I stood in front of the soda chillers and was very tempted to grab a Mountain Dew (or two) and to say the hell with it.

But only for a moment.  About that time I realized that I didn’t actually want the taste of the Mountain Dew.  I wanted the high it used to give me, and furthermore I wanted a big fat ‘so there’ over my husband – despite the fact my annoyance with him had absolutely nothing to do with diet, sugar, or weight.  Realizing that was all I needed – and I moved on to my now-normal Diet Coke.

Similarly… I used to begin every morning with a Mountain Dew.  Literally my first stop after rolling out of bed – sometimes even before the toilet – would be a nice cold Mountain Dew.  It ‘woke me up’, got things moving, and started my day.  Two months into it, I still have the craving for something cold and sweet on getting up.  Originally I switched to a sugar-free V drink, but I think that won’t last much longer.  I’m finding now that I very rarely can finish the V – even when I have the smaller size – because there’s just no appeal after the first sip or two.  I know realistically I should be drinking water, but I no longer see water (instead of Mountain Dew or even sugar-free V) first thing in the morning as akin to Mission Impossible.  Rather, I think it’s quite doable.

Finally, tonight at a knitting night, there were several attractive looking, home baked dessert goods on offer.  I particularly drooled over one – a cake with a crumbed oat topping.  While lusting after it, I realized that I didn’t want the cake – I wanted the oats.  And of course eating the cake in order to have the oats is a bit silly, particularly when I can come home and eat sugar free wholegrain oats to my heart’s content.  Thus, the cakes were easily passed on as well.  Even the chocolate didn’t tempt me.  Seeing as I was indeed a bit peckish though, I happily helped myself to a handful of water crackers with a variety of toppings – cheese, avocado, and pesto, which left me feeling both indulged and satisfied.

Now that I’m on the other side of it, I find it really quite hard to believe the pull that sugar had over me.  Instead I indulge in moreish, savory offerings, which are usually better quality and better for me anyway.

The habits I associated with sugar are clearly still in place.  But the unearthing of the habits is letting me discover reasons why I ate that I never even was aware of, and better yet – ways to deal with the reasons at the same time as finding more genuinely tasty and satisfying ways to change the habit.

I haven’t just ‘given up’ sugar.  I’ve discovered a better way of life.

On Grief

I don’t like being alone with myself much anymore.  There was a time I thrived on it, that I got all my thinking done, and was just able to be me.

Lately being me – and only me, with no distractions – is too painful.  I guess that’s part of ageing, experiencing, growing what ‘they’ call wiser.

The problem is that when I’m alone now, I’m not really alone.  I’m surrounded my thoughts and crowded by the memories, worries, and obsessing that I’ve successfully managed to block out during the day.  In the midst of three children five and under, trying to be everything to everyone, I don’t have the time to slow down and wonder, “how am I feeling today?”.  Plus knowing the answer isn’t much use when I haven’t got time to do anything about how I feel anyways.

Evenings are another matter entirely, and evenings like tonight – a weekend evening with two of the three children at a sleepover, and the hubby passed out early from pure exhaustion – are particularly bad for it.  I’ve already caught up on my recorded TV from during the week.  I’ve knit enough in the day it no longer feels like I’m stealing time for myself.  I have plenty of time and space to get a good workout going, but the centrifugal force of sitting on my bum is too pervasive and I can’t muster the energy.

So I sit still and think.

I browse the web and think.

I read a book but am distracted by the thinking.

I clear my throat and realise it sounds like my mother when she cleared hers.  I play a time-wasting game on my phone and realise a portion of the fun has gone out of it now that it’s no longer a weekly battle against her for a high score.  I let my laptop screen saver – an endless slide show of photos of my girls – take over and find it hard to look at the ones from our trips to visit Grandma.  For the most part it’s happy memories, and they will undoubtedly stay happy memories, but right now it’s just raw pain.  When the baby wakes up momentarily it’s not the usual annoyance, it’s relief.  It gives me something to do.

“They” say time heals all wounds.  In reality, time heals nothing.  It’s just that as time goes on, we learn to live with another hole in our heart.

When did I become the household maid?

The situation is getting out of hand here.

Now, as a mother, and further as the stay-at-home partner, I accept that some degree of my ‘job’ is picking up after the offspring. The youngest one (16 months) in particular is a wee tornado at the moment, leaving a wake of mess. She pulls folded off washing off the unofficial folding table, she scatters crumbs like rain, and most of all, her particular phase at the moment is delighting in pulling small things out of big things. Thus, the spice cupboard gets emptied daily and the catfood is dispensed handful by handful. She does understand the theory, if not the reasons, behind tidying up. She delights in picking up all the duplo – because it’s much more fun to upend the box when they’re all in there to start with! She is, of course, a baby, and all of the above is more delight than annoyance, even though it generates a constant stream of work for me.

What I do find annoying, however, is that the oldest and largest child in the house has much the same outlook. By this I refer not to the going-on-six year old, but rather the thirty-four year old. Not a child I birthed, but the one I married.

Not that it’s all bad. I do get a weekly night out crafting with likeminded mothers.

Tonight I came home from one such evening, parched for a drink, and needing to make rice bubble bars that I’d promised Miss 5 I’d make to take on her school field-trip tomorrow. On entering the kitchen however, I find the rubbish from tonight’s dinner (takeaways) scattered all over the benchtop. On opening the cupboard under the sink to throw the trash away, I find a mostly full bin. Although I admit I grumbled to myself, I figured I could probably handle throwing the trash out and emptying the bin at the same time. But first I’d get that drink.

On opening the fridge, however, more calamity. The chilled bottles of water have been shoved to the very back of the fridge and buried, now supporting various precarious stacks of other items. On rearranging things in order to get my drink out, I notice several items which were due to be thrown out several days ago – that I’d specifically mentioned to the other half needed to be tossed, in fact. So I grab the items, also manage to find that we have two open mostly empty bottles of tomato sauce, suddenly space appears in the fridge, and everything in it rests in better harmony. The rubbish bag now bursting with recent additions, I walk it out, put the new rubbish bag in the bin, and put it all away. Now that there’s space in the fridge the empty bottles on the counter can be washed and refilled of water to chill, so I do that as well. I start the marshmallows for the rice bubble bars melting on the stovetop, and turn to load and run the dishwasher – because they, of course, have not been done, and after all, I’m in the kitchen anyway. The marshmallows then overheat, and burn, and I now have more food in the bin and another dirty pot. I’ve gotten my cold drink at least, but the rice bubble bars will have to be sacrificed, as I have no other marshmallows on hand. It’s now a good 40 minutes since I got home, and only now is the kitchen in a workable state.

My husband clearly thinks he has a magic house elf. Unfortunately, I know who it is.

A bit of a catastrophe

The past three or four days here have been a bit of a catastrophe.

Outwardly, nothing big or dramatic has happened. However, inwardly, it’s been turmoil.

I am on Paroxetine (generic brand of Paxil / Aropax) and have been since feeling the onset of Post-Natal Depression (PND) start approximately 2 months after having my most recent baby, now nearly 11 months. The drugs have been good – they’ve most definitely been effective, they keep me on a much more even keel, and make it much easier to find the motivation, that get-up-and-go-ness, that is absolutely essential to being a mum. They give me the joy to see my child smile at me, even when that smile comes in the shadows of 3am and I gently try to coax her back to sleep. They give me the motivation to just get on with it, when “it” is the endless routine of planning meals, cooking meals, picking up toys, picking up rubbish, refereeing, taxiing, reminding little princesses of manners, washing clothes, collecting clothes from various ingenious spots throughout the house…. you name it.

But not everything about the antidepressants is rosy. I’ve known this for awhile, as I had the same issues when I was taking the same drugs after the birth of my first child. This week, the dark side of the drugs have made my life a living hell.

At the beginning of this past weekend, I finished my active strip of the drugs. I had two more strips around, so I wasn’t concerned in the slightest, and put it out of my mind. But, with the distraction of the weekend, and having thrown the used strip out (thus out of sight) I completely forgot about taking the medication at all. Sometime on Monday I remembered, and had a brief look for the box containing the rest of the medicine, but couldn’t find them quickly and easily then got distracted, as mothers do, with the incessant calls of children.

By last night I was feeling truly terrible. I’d been getting dizzy spells all day, some extreme enough that I was concerned I would faint if I stayed upright. I had on and off nausea. I’d been up most of the night the night before, with a combination of a good book and not feeling particularly tired, then not having much luck when attempting sleep, plus of course being woken when I was finally asleep by the baby. Then I went to the store for the ingredients for a last minute snack to be cooked at home, spent the very last of my money until payday, came home, and ruined the late dinner / snack when attempting to cook it. I would have been annoyed in any case – but with the combination of everything, I was beside myself. Overnight, I managed around two hours of very broken sleep, most of which was obtained just as the sun was starting to rise. Lack of sleep didn’t help the situation any and this morning I felt nearly out of my mind. With no money left to pay a doctor for a prescription refill, and as I was sure I had no refills left on my current prescription, I figured I’d have to bear with it until payday, when at least I should be able to get a new prescription if the meds hadn’t appeared yet.

However, the husband – obviously thinking clearer than I was able to – popped into the pharmacy to check, and found that I did indeed have one refill left on my current prescription, so brought it home for me…. after which, of course, the originals turned up very near to one of the places I thought was highly likely they were.

Oy vey.

Paroxetine states in the literature about the medicine that one is not to stop taking the drug suddenly. In other literature I’ve found on the Internet, GlaxoSmithKlein admits that “up to 7%” of patients “may” experience “discontinuation syndrome” on suddenly stopping the medicine. In my personal and anecdotal experience, that figure is MUCH higher. Everyone I’ve known who’s taken the drug has had issues coming off it, even when slowly lowering the dose as recommended, and not just being an idiot like myself and stopping unintentionally. The discontinuation syndrome, in my experience at least, is drastically worse than the depression was in the first place. I know this about the medicine, and indeed, knew it before I started back on them this time (after having similar issues coming off them the last time). The problem is, Paroxetine has a very short half-life, the shortest of all SSRI style antidepressants. This is the cause of the withdrawl / discontinuation syndrome – and it’s also the reason why I’m on this particular drug. A short half life means very little medication transferring into the breastmilk, and thus best for baby. The longer the half-life, the longer it’s in the mum’s system, and the more it gets into baby’s.

When all goes to plan of course, the drugs are taken regularly (as in, within the same hour or two each day), and side effects are minimal. There are a range of side effects even under proper use of course – I alone have had excessively vivid dreams, a sleepy feeling after taking them, light nausea that comes and goes. It’s similar to feeling like I’m constantly in the very early stages of a pregnancy. (And NO, I am definitely NOT). I also strongly believe that although my moods are much more level, it also eliminates the true joys as well as the true sorrows of feeling, having a general numbing / dulling effect on life really. There is a big portion of me that feels like, when I’m on the drug, I’m not 100% myself, that some essential essence of me gets castrated whilst taking the drug. That, as well as being hard to put into words, is also quite unscientific, and thus hard to add to a list of side effects. But it adds up, and in my mind is definitely a negative side of the drugs.

However. The discontinuation syndrome kicks my ass, very thoroughly. Doing a quick and fairly unscientific read around the Internet last night, and the main recommendation for those having severe discontinuation syndrome (when legitimately intending to discontinue) is merely to resume taking the drug. Discontinuation syndrome does not mean that the depression isn’t cured or past yet. It merely means that the drug is now so essential to the system that it has become a necessary for the system to function… much like other well known addictive drugs.

I didn’t intend to come off Paroxetine this week, and thus, am back on my regularly scheduled dosage, hopefully to be all evened out within a couple days. However, the past week’s experiences have highlighted that I may well be on this cursed drug for the rest of my life – or at the very least, until significant medical advances have been made in the area of depression and the medication used to treat it.