Postpartum

See this little girl here? I don't think I knew what love really was until she came into my life. She is my sweet, funny, smart, adorable girl. My favorite companion. We have an incredible bond.

Want to hear something crazy? When she was first born, I did not feel attached to her. Don't get me wrong, I took care of her in every way she needed care. But I did not feel that instantaneous bond that I assume most mothers feel. After a challenging pregnancy and an unwanted c-section, I then had a baby with colic. And I had postpartum depression. And I felt very isolated. At that time, I didn't have a support system here in Michigan, and Walt worked long hours. I was home alone, during a Michigan winter, with a baby who never stopped crying and never slept longer than 20 minutes at a time. It was physically and emotionally exhausting and miserable, and I didn't think it would ever end. I felt really hollow and sad, and I felt immense guilt for not really liking my baby very much. 

But I went through the motions during those first 12 weeks... and then she started to smile on occasion. And maybe she would occasionally sleep for an hour straight. And after our initial struggles with nursing, she was finally feeding well. And I could say that I not only loved her, but I liked her too. And then another 12 weeks went by and, all of a sudden, I had a happy baby. She giggled and smiled all the time. She loved for me to read to her and play with her and snuggle with her. She was super attached to me. And I was super attached to her.

There is no perfect birth story, I suppose. I look back on that time and it makes me teary... but I did the best I could, and it turned out just fine. And Stefanie and I became the best of friends over the years. I can't imagine that our bond could be any stronger... she is the light and love of my life. And I know she feels the same about me.

Little Pink Pill

Going out on a limb here. Here is a picture of my little pink pill.

It's not a happy pill, as some people like to call it. It doesn't work that way. And depression is not a flaw in character, but rather a flaw in chemistry. Some of you will see this post and never look at me the same. But that's okay, I'm not posting this for you. I'm posting it to bring awareness and to maybe help someone realize that it's okay to get help.

There is a family history of depression on both sides, so I was basically doomed from the start. I remember feeling such embarrassment over talking to my doctor about it. I waited until I was 29 years old, but really, I think I can trace my depression back to my childhood. No one screened for it in those days. You just muddled through. I have never been suicidal, I have never been a substance user or abuser, and I have always been functional. But when you have depression, you sort of feel like you always have a low grade fever. And everything has a hazy gray cast, I guess you could say.

I do really well on my medication. Low dose Celexa, in case you are curious. And I don't walk through life thinking of myself as a depressed person. When I do feel it sucking at me, I overcome it. I find comfort in books, music, Zumba, creating things, writing, laughter, all the people who bring joy and love to my life... so many things. I love life. I can't imagine what it's like to feel as though you need to end your life to find peace.

We hear of celebrities who commit suicide... and we may know people in our own lives who have... but, for whatever reason, Robin Williams' death has really affected me. He always had that sad look in his eyes, even when he was making us shake with laughter. I just feel sad that he couldn't get through this.

So, if you are depressed, know that you're not alone in this... and it truly is okay to take an antidepressant. I don't feel any shame or stigma about it anymore. My doctor once said to me, "If you live in Michigan, you need an antidepressant!" Ain't that the truth.

A Story of Lost Friendship

When I was younger, I had tons and tons of pen-pals. Some of them became real life friends. In middle school, I started writing letters with a girl named Dana. She lived in Ann Arbor and I lived in Cleveland. We had the opportunity to meet since we didn't live too far from each other. Her mom drove her to my family's house to visit for a few days, and I would go spend time with her family also. We had the chance to do that several times as teens. And we would write each other 15-20 page letters, all the time.

In adulthood, we became very close friends. I moved to Texas, but I'd fly up to Michigan and spend whole weeks at her house. We helped each other through some tough times. Her boyfriend was killed in a water skiing accident. It was a terrible tragedy, and I was glad that I could be there for her... and we would go to the mausoleum together. She said none of her other friends knew what to say or do, and she appreciated my willingness to go with her to visit his grave. It was hard for her to go alone.

And then I went through my divorce. I spent a lot of time visiting her during those long months during/after my divorce. During one of those visits, I was pretty lost, and caught up in my own thoughts. And she got mad. Said I wasn't any fun. Resented that I sat around and moped. We got into a huge fight, yelling and screaming and crying (well, I cried)... and I had gone out onto her back deck, and she locked me out of her house. And she drove off.

I ended up calling her mom to ask if she could please let me back inside the house. I was supposed to stay for a couple more days, but I changed my flight... I packed up my stuff and called a cab and flew back to Texas. We didn't talk for a while, but we did eventually talk again. And I ended up moving to Ann Arbor... for a job... but the whole reason I looked for a job in Ann Arbor was because of Dana.

Things were never really the same between us, even though we now lived 10 minutes from each other. Other complications arose due to relationships we were in with new loves (long story), and when I asked her to be in my wedding, she said no. And that was that. We never spoke again. It's now been 11 years since I've talked to or seen her. Before that, we were friends for 23 years.

I don't miss her anymore, but I do still think about her from time to time. Weird how life is. To think I moved here because of our friendship, and started a whole new life here... that she wasn't part of for very long. So now when people ask what brought me to Michigan, I just say it was for work... I leave out the part about Dana.

Lost

Do you ever wonder what you're here for? I mean, what you're HERE for? Other than going about your day-to-day business and busy-ness. I feel like I should have a bigger purpose. But maybe I'm reading too much into this thing we call life, and there is no purpose other than to be.

I feel thankful that I get to be. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to be here. To have the opportunity to live. To have my senses... to see, to touch, to hear, to taste, to smell. I love that I can listen to wind chimes, see the autumn leaves change color, hug someone, read books, smell freshly brewed coffee. I cherish my relationships with family and friends, and those random sweet interactions you sometimes stumble upon with a total stranger. I feel blessed that I have the ability to learn... and learn some more... and then even more. That I am healthy. That I have freedom. 

Maybe sometimes I take all of these things for granted and want more than I should... more than I am entitled to have... but I can't seem to help it. I feel like I am continually searching for something that's missing. Because there is something missing in my restless soul. And I feel guilty for having that emptiness inside me. It isn't fair to others who are missing basic needs, basic freedoms, the ability to walk around the block, the chance to go to college, all of the opportunities I have had and continue to have. Therefore, it creates such inner turmoil. I practically make myself sick. But I'm human! I'm human, and so very flawed. 

"Meant to be." I say this sometimes, in a flippant way, that something was meant to be... or perhaps not meant to be. But, really, that's just silly. The universe is not out there creating my destiny. Right? Aren't I responsible for creating my destiny? Regardless, sometimes I feel that my purpose is to be a mother. That I was MEANT TO BE a mother. I do feel this, in my gut. I went through a lot to become a mom... and I think I'm a damn good mom. My daughter... oh my goodness, my daughter. That I helped create this person practically blows my mind. She is truly a gift to the world. Maybe I am here to help guide her, to help teach her, to help support her... so that she can have a truly genuine life. A life of her own making. Where dreams come true! Where she will experience all of the wonders of love and the mysteries that await around every corner. I want this for her. For her to be brave, successful, adventurous... happy. Oh, that elusive happiness.

But she is her own person, and my purpose in life can't be solely tied up in being her mother.

So then, sometimes I think, oh, I missed my calling. I should have been a writer. Not because I'm so grand. Maybe simply because I have so much to say... and my Facebook friends are getting tired of me. I make them weary, with all of my ramblings... hell, I make myself weary. But still. Maybe a book is my purpose? Not as some amazing literature that will long be remembered when I'm gone... but maybe just to touch a handful of people. Do I have the ability to make someone feel something? Through my words? How I would love that. To write something that might make someone stop in their tracks and think... yes. Yes, I get that. I have felt that way. I understand.

My mind is kind of obsessive. I try to shut it off. Shut 'er down, puh-leeze! I mean, really. Who do I think I am?

I am really just nobody. Just a simple girl. Making my way through the madness, without a map to guide me. Lost in the wilderness, sometimes found. Always looking for the North Star.