Coming off of an antidepressant, with a preschooler, and very little sense of hope

Here I sit. Quite still actually. There are hot tears rolling down my face and I'm pretty sure that my lab is merely sitting beside me out of pity. And you know what? I'll take it.



Say what you will about stigmas, and widespread knowledge of mental health, and acceptance. Say what you want about fighting a good fight, and remembering there are brighter days ahead.

Then imagine yourself curled up in the fetal position on the dog-drool covered couch, face mashed into a blanket, fancy mascara crumbling in a hot stream down your cheeks, too ill to move. Every eyeball shift, every head tilt resulting in a brain zapping hell that can't be described unless truly experienced.

It really sucks because it feels so lonely. The text to your hubby that says you're suffering probably just comes off as melodramatic. The physical pain and the physical withdrawal from the antidepressant Cymbalta.

But add in one more factor.

Have your wonderful, lively, bright eyed preschooler ask you repeatedly to please play with her Paw Patroller toys. You just can't. And then she sees your sobbing, messy face. And wants to know why you're crying.

My feeble attempts to explain that mommy's body is ouchy and that mommy just feels so sick just feel meaningless. I can't explain that this is a long fought battle that seems to keep ending in failure. That mommy is trying to find a way to be happy after a lifetime of hurt from various places, and a chemical imbalance in my brain.

That mommy hasn't slept through the night in over three years, and that Cymbalta has been the culprit for a good 18 months of that. I now see it's made me an angrier person and I've wasted some of her most formative years suffering physically from the effects of the drug.

And it isn't my first rodeo.

And I can't actually walk upstairs on my own accord at the moment, so I listen to her jam away on her piano Gramma bought her, while she sings her own made up song that she wants mommy to be happy. And that she is sad when mommy is sad. Seriously. Feeling low and then lower.

And as I can gut wrenchingly visualize her sitting in her therapist's office 15 years from now, she still manages to get a brain-buzzingly silent giggle out of me as she wiggles her butt to her song.

She tells me I'm a good mommy and all I can reply with is choked sobs. Counting the minutes until my mentally stable husband walks through the door.

Why am I writing this? I really don't know. I guess it's just really painful so I wanted some of it out of my head.

We went to a play date earlier in the day. I've been altering between no medication and a tapered dose. With Cymbalta, you can't just cut pills in half, you just dump granules out of a capsule. I haven't counted, I've just been slugging through. So I didn't want to miss her play date.

In a room full of joyous kids and happy moms and I feel like I'm dying. But I try to smile. I try. I try to joke, I try. The more of a downer I am, the less people want to be around me, for good reason. Everyone is fighting their own battles. No one wants someone in their life that is constantly negative or focused on all that is wrong. I've been told, more than once, that person is me.

It is just getting really old. Exhausting.
I want more for her.

And it hurts to feel so alone.

Oct. 28, 2016.


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Parenting With Anxiety: Park Edition

So, I bet this will probably shock every one of you.
I have anxiety.

I know, right?

You were all thinking that I am so COMPLETELY easy going, and carefree, and relaxed. My writing style, my self love... and BAM, outta nowhere I just hit you with that nugget.

It's true. It's crippling. It's hard to navigate.

Now, try having to deal with that AND a child who fuels/nourishes herself solely on that anxiety. And maybe some booby milk and pasta, too. But definitely lives for thrills.

Those two things combined lead me to be frazzled and fizzled out EVERY.SINGLE.DAY. By 11am.

Here's a look inside my head during a trip to the park.

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*unbuckles Baby D from carseat*

I hope this is installed right. I can't imagine the horror if something were to happen and I had just been too lazy or forgetful or tired to look up the proper parameters and installation. That's probably why I hate taking her in and out of her car seat so much.

Did I just say hate? Like as if I hate having to haul her around? That's just dumb. 

*tells Baby D to be careful and wait a second because we are near a road and she needs to hold my hand before crossing*

Jesus I should have grabbed my wallet first, I hate having her behind me out of her seat. I know if I let my guard down, that'll be when she bolts into traffic. But we've taught her traffic danger. But maybe I need to reiterate it again? Make it scarier so it sticks? No, she'd need therapy later in life probably. Jesus, pay attention woman.

*holds her hand, crosses street toward park entrance*

Uuuuugh. Those after school daycare ladies are judging me already. Do I look extra fat in this? Probably. They'd better not judge my parenting. They will. Who cares? Well, I'm thinking about it, so I guess I care.

*watches Baby D climb high ladder, effortlessly, simultaneously standing close enough to catch her while trying not to be her shadow*

That's awesome this kid is so fearless and agile. I hope she slows down though on that tall ladder. Once she knows she's got it, she looks around too much. Geez that makes me nervous.

*reminds Baby D to watch where her feet are and not to go too fast. Tells her she's doing a great job and that she is soooo strong. Asks if she needs help*

I bet I'm hovering over her too much. But this is a playground designed for 5 and older and munchkin is only 3. But tall. She's so tall. I hope that boys still play with her when she's school aged. I hate all the gender bullshit. She's tougher than kids older than her. She's tougher than me.

*sits on wood edging of playground*

Ah crap... that was close. She's so fast. Why did The Hubs teach her to raise her feet when she's going down the slide like that? She almost flew off again. She loves it, but that'll hurt if she lands on her back on the ground. Friction. Geesh, this kid needs NO MORE SPEED.
My butt crack is hanging out again. I should have worn a longer shirt. I'm so gross. I bet all the skinny moms think I'm just a lazy pig. I guess I kind of am, but I don't mean to be.

If you think this is scary, you should try watching her speed climb a seven foot rock wall.

*shouts for Baby D to STOP! Don't make that 4' jump straight down!*

Oh god. I looked down for a second and she almost fell. I cannot let my guard down. She's so fast and crazy. Man I love her. Jesus my heart in is my throat. That other little kid wants to play with her. Oh man, I hope I don't have to parent anything with the other kid. Especially if she's with the daycare and not her own parent(s). She seems nice enough.
 How can the daycare people watch so many kids at once? Dalia would have run away by now if I weren't here.

Am I creepy? I'm staring at them both. And smiling. All creepster. It's cute this kid wants to play with her, but I feel like most kids can't totally understand what she's saying. But I don't want to follow them around. I have to pee. There are no bathrooms here, dammit.

I hope I'm doing this right. Should I be letting her climb all this at 3? I can't stop her wild, fearless nature. I don't want to stifle her or scare the adventure out of her. Man she's running fast up there. I hope she doesn't bang heads with anyone. Is she too little to be here? She overpowers the little tot lots around here now. She's so tall and strong that she kind of hops and she's at the top. I don't like those older girls hogging the rings. Pretty sure they just told them to go away. Grrr, don't make mama bear step in. Why isn't the daycare lady saying anything? Okay, they ran away and don't seem to care. 

Aw man, I wish that girl would slow down on the curved ladder. Baby D is trying to keep up with her, but she's at least a few years older.

*Reminds Baby D to watch where she is putting her feet. Baby D slips off but gets caught. Regains footing*

Ohgawd that was close. I don't know what I'd do if she got really hurt or broke something. I can't keep her in a bubble but...

*tells Baby D NOT to climb over the 7' tall rock climbing wall railing to imminent injury*

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Okay. That was approximately 7 minutes at the park. Good times. I got super anxious just typing that and it was literally just the tip of the iceberg of thoughts.

I'm so chill.

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Why I Keep My Toddler On A Leash

I'm quite certain a lot of that title didn't need capitalization, but here we are and I'm out of white out.

I keep my toddler on a leash.
Yes, I'm one of THOSE parents. I see the looks you throw my way. I see the literal DISGUST aimed at me when you see and my Baby D wandering around the festival. Tied up no better than a dog, forgawdssake.

"Who DOES that?!?" You ask yourself. The answer?

ME. I keep my toddler ON A LEASH.

Before you throw up a little in your mouth from my lack of ability or desire to control my child otherwise, let's take a quick looky-loo into the life of Baby D and her Momma.

Exhibit A: My child is one sneaky, deaky, mischievous little thing. Wonderful, but sneaky and deaky. And mischievous. Don't forget that part. And curious. (Unrelated side note: spell check just made me realize I have been misspelling and mispronouncing mischievous all of my life).

Exhibit B: My child is small in stature, standing at approximately strangers' crotch height. This makes her hard to spot in a crowd, with her face in incredibly bad placement right now.

Exhibit C: My child is sofa king FAST. I can sense your eye roll. But I assure you that in a short distance sprint, she would kick your ass, and she would deliver your ass back to you in the can of whoop ass that she opened in order to destroy you in the sprint.

          Exhibit C-1: I learned as soon as she was mobile that wedge shoes, high heels, heeled boots and flip flops are never, ever an option. (For me! Yes I leash her, but I try not to dress her in high heels. Usually). I am both injury prone, and slower than her, even on my best days. A rubber soled shoe, ninja-like reaction times, and sprint training is the only way to go with Baby D.

          Exhibit C-2: I live on a hill. Baby D is smart enough to never have the desire to travel uphill. If she is given enough space to squeeze between me and the car door, she will unfailingly sprint the kilometre down the road to the park. Downhill = increase in speed = Mommy heart attack.

Why I keep my toddler on a leash: To guarantee we will see each other even after we've completed the daunting task of navigating IKEA. Visible here: a quick "I'm not moving" break.

Exhibit D: My child suffers from a hearing disorder called "THE TERRIBLE TWOS". This is a widespread phenomenon worldwide, and is compounded by Exhibit A. I may scream "Oh MY GOD, STOP! Cars! DANGER!!" and while she turns her head to display the curious gleam in her eye, she can often fall down, fall off the curb, or interpret that to mean "Hey Baby D! Run as fast as you can away from Mommy! Good job!". This can have serious, serious, even fatal consequences. People in British Columbia are terrible drivers to start with, with a penchant for hitting and badly wounding or killing pedestrians.

Exhibit E: My child is my friend and little monkey nut. I carry her when she wants carrying, but part of the disorder mentioned in Exhibit D parlays into her needing to "do it myselfs!". Which means no hand holding. And the S, D & M in Exhibit A.

Exhibit F: My child completely loses her shit when you try to strap her in a stroller.

So, if you take into account all of these exhibits, I can assure you I am not a lazy parent. I don't walk around with her leashed while I surf Instagram and only acknowledge her when she barks for a treat. You may think I look like a jackass. I don't care. If it means that I keep my daughter, my world, safe from cars and sickos in the world, then go ahead and judge.

It's worth it to know she is as safe as she can be beside me. And not in traffic. And not in the arms of some sick, opportunistic sonofabitch. She does get freedom everywhere it's safe. But a festival, a busy street, or anywhere else I deem to be an at-risk situation requires me to do my job as a parent: keep her safe and loved.

I rest my case.

Also: I'm tired.


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So... How Does One Resign From Parenting? #Fail

Two days ago was not a happy day. Nothing dramatically awful happened, no one was hurt or anything.

I just realized that I am not cut out to be a patient mother and that I really suck at the "terrible twos" with a child. For those of you who call this stage the "terrific twos" I have only two words for you: Fuck you.

There have been many mornings where I wake up and immediately begin the internal judging/berating/belittling inner voice to myself about how I should be doing so much more for my daughter. Or that I can't believe I'm late again for something. Or that I've plopped her in front of Paw Patrol or Toopy & Binoo or the Price is Right (if I am feeling especially selfish that morning and don't want to listen to that annoying talking rat any longer), in the hopes she will eat her sugar-laden Mini Wheats and put SOME TYPE OF FOOD in her little, running, crazy, fearless, adorable little body today.

But two days ago was just so bad. Nothing particular really happened. I just had little patience, high irritation, and low will to live. I made several depressive revelations in succession, and had no energy to deal with any of it.

A vague run down of where my life is at now:

• My house always ALWAYS smells vaguely of shit. Occasionally it's my own aroma being shared with the house, since my child is vehemently against me doing anything personal with the door closed. But usually it is a combo of festering poop diapers in her fancy odorless Diaper Genie pail (HA, odorless her ass!), the random droppings of my ancient blind Great Dane, or the random droppings from my child's butt in failed potty training attempts. No candle can burn all of that shit smell away.
• Dishes. So many fucking dishes. Spanning all the counter tops, and hiding on every other ledge in the house. Dishwasher not quite full enough to run right now with dishwasher safe items? Imma just plop all this highly meltable plastic kid shit in there and a few non-stick pans and fire that baby up!
• Laundry. Always. Then more laundry. My system includes forgetting clean stuff in the dryer for days, having to redo Hubby's stuff (I ALWAYS look like a bag lady, so what's a few more wrinkles to me?), and putting the clean clothes in a pile on the downstairs couch until inspiration strikes and I fold it. (Side note: possibly another 3-5 days until it is carried upstairs when one of us discovers we are totally out of something, like, say, pants).
• Insomnia. So tired I can fall asleep almost instantly, but dammit I cannot stay asleep despite all the sleeping medication in the world.
• No childcare breaks. I am at home with my daughter. I am perpetually battling injury/illness. Pain is exhausting and toddlers give zero fucks about your problems. She never stops. She sprints, she jumps into water, she tests me every 5 seconds, she fights 80% of diaper changes. I am so fucking tired ALWAYS (see above), and have family help for a few hours (often during nap time) maybe twice a month. My family lives provinces away, so when they come, I wanna hang out and visit and not sleep the time away. But I need breaks from my monkey.
• I am horribly impatient. Toddler games are cute for the first five or ten minutes. Then I don't want to play tea cups that spill all over, or pretend to eat mudpies. I have limited patience, and I feel shitty about it, but it's true. Nature walks are fun! If you're idea of fun includes repeatedly wiping gravel out of your child's mouth, standing still while they "fix" leaves with sticks, and don't mind moving 40 feet in about an hour. It's cute, but let's be honest: it's booooring day after day. Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Probably both.
  
• My child subsists on sugar alone, or sugar-laden wheat. I have begged her to finish her chocolate muffin or to at least eat her fries for our Mother's Day meal in the park (spoiler: she ate neither). She won't eat veggies, she rarely eats meat, she feeds mostly off of my desperate offering of every conceivable healthy food option in the house. That seems to satiate her; she has no need for food.

Oh, my Sweet, the world is your jellyfi- I mean... oyster.

I love my little monkey bum. She's so cute, and smart, and charming. I WANT to be a good parent for her, and give her all she needs to thrive. But it's tough not being able to leave and do anything for more than a few rushed hours to get back to relieve someone else. It's tough that she's such a handful that we don't trust many people to watch her, and worry when we leave her. It's tough that hubby and I can rarely do anything together outside of the house. It's tough that I want to keep breastfeeding her, and love the time, but that her latch seems to be getting worse and my boobies are sore all the time. It's sweet that she ALWAYS wants mommy, but tough to always be the one to soothe her despite how hard the Hubs has worked into her good books.

I know the days are long and the years are short. And there are more times when I feel so overjoyed with her. But I think the intense combo of everything above is just burning me out. Suck it up, buttercup. I know.

I just had to get it off my chest.


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