The Edge

It got hairy there for a while, guys. And not in a Pierce Brosnan kind of way.

In a holy crap what is going on in my brain and why am I thinking like a crazy person and crying all the time kind of way. The best way I can think to explain it is that I fell into The Nothing, pushed by hormone imbalances and depression and things I've refused to deal with for a long, long time.

I'm approximately a thousand percent better than I was a few weeks ago, but there's wreckage to sort through. I kind of feel like I went through a mental hurricane and now all that's left are foundations and junk and trash and random cats. I'm bedraggled. Broken. Waterlogged and confused and not sure how to proceed.

But I am alive. So there's that. And that is BIG. Bigger than the fact that there are random cats all over my brain.

I'll talk about it some day. Probably. Maybe. I'm not really sure what to say. I need to reflect and let it simmer and make deductions and whatnot. I think maybe writing about PPD was a trigger, so I may put that on hold for a bit. Or I may not. I don't know. I'm just kind of going with the flow at the moment. Breathing. Feeling. Smiling. Realizing just how cool this life thing is again.

One thing I do need to say is "thank you". I know with absolute certainty that without my amazing family and friends, I wouldn't be here making Pierce Brosnan chest hair references. They kept me anchored in the midst of the storm.

So thank you.

Thank you for pulling me back from the edge.

Thank you for not flinching even a little in the face of my dark twistiness.

Thank you for the jokes and the kind words and the prayers and the hugs and the smiles and the love.

Thank you for the kicks in the pants.

Thank you for helping me find my spark again.

I love you all so very, very much.

The Five Stages of Writing, Animated

I've been writing about PPD and it's really hard. Reallllly hard. I'm pretty sure I'm correctly conveying about one percent of what I am trying to say and the rest is lost in a muddle of weird references and improper grammatical structure.

So today I say, "SCREW YOU, WORDS." Gifs are where it's at. Also, #irony. Love me some irony.

This is how I feel as I slog through the writing process:

PREWRITING:

That face you make when all the thoughts fly out of your head at once.

DRAFTING:

LEAP OF FAITH!
(I'm sure the bunny is fine, you guys.)

REVISING:

No, seriously, who wrote this?

EDITING:

This is when discouragement and self-loathing kick in.

PUBLISHING:

What did I just do? *sobs*

Source for all gifs except the bunny one, which came from here

Call The Midwife (a very bad name) {PPD Part 5}

Earlier posts in this series:

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Nothing {Part 4}

Aannnd onward!

***

I tried to cancel the postpartum check-up. I really, really, really, REALLY didn't want to go.

“I'm, like, totally fine,” I told the receptionist over the phone. "Just the usual adjustment period, you know *crazy laugh*."

"Sorry," the receptionist replied. "You're going to have to come in."

<click, click, click went a keyboard>

"The schedule is pretty tight. Would you mind seeing one of our other midwives this time?"

"Uhhh. Okay." G chose this particular moment to imitate a baby pterodactyl trapped in quicksand, so I hastily confirmed the particulars and hung up.

It will be good, I thought. I can BS the whole thing and she'll think I'm fine. Because I AM fine, dammit! *crazy laugh* We probably won't even make it to the office, anyway ...

A crippling phobia of driving was only one of the things that had bloomed in the void of nothing. If it wasn't a car crash, it would be a terrible disease. If it wasn't that, I would accidentally break her neck. Or drop her. Or she would suffocate. The worst was the fear that I'd completely crack and purposefully do something to hurt her.

Nothing {PPD Part 4}

Here are the previous posts in this series on postpartum depression.

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Here's a virtual lollipop >>> --o

And here's the next part in the saga ...

***

I went into labor at 1 a.m. on August 19, 2012. I'm not super-big on sharing gory birth story details, so I'll just say I dropped more F-bombs than I had in my entire previous existence combined and at 8:14 p.m., Gracelyn Violet Walker entered the universe.

She was not all that impressed.

I can't recall anything that immediately followed delivery, not feelings, not images, nothing. It's weird. I like to think I was happy, exhausted, and a little freaked out about being a newly minted parent of two (like any normal person). I'll never know.

Facebook, Take Me Away

I'm going to admit something embarrassing. Well ... more embarrassing than the stuff I usually admit.

I'm kind of addicted to social media.

It's a funny twist. I've always thought of it as a "GET AHOLD OF YO' BAD SELF AND DEAL, HOMIE" thing. A geeky, nerdy, socially inept (not that I'm not that, but ... ) sort of problem like mouth breathing and the inability to keep Harry Potter trivia from spewing forth at random inopportune moments (I never do this. Never). Lame!

And here I am. Pretty darn sure I'm addicted (according to several Facebook/Twitter quizzes about whether or not you're addicted ... totally legit). The Buzzfeed one even said it's worse than cigarettes! omg! fail! wtf!

(source)

The addiction is not the problem. The reason for it is.