Crazed Mind

Lily finally smiled at me last night and then this morning when she woke up. That warmed my heart.

We found the number to Kaiser's Behavior Health Line. Alfred called and spoke to a psychiatrist over the phone. They provided him with the number to call, and also stated that if I wanted to talk over the phone, I call the BH Line and can talk to them, as they're all psychiatrists and most have experience with PPD. But, and here's the big but. In my mind, the logic is broken. I may know that I need help, and I may want the help and I know that I should probably get it because given time I may be at the risk of losing everything, but I won't do it. It's not that I don't know any better, its just that I won't. I can't explain it. People who have been mentally ill before, depressive wise, probably could understand exactly what I mean. I know Heidi does. So, I won't make the phone call for an appointment, and if I did, I wouldn't go to the appointment. This is probably why they emphasis to partners of PPD suffers that they may have to be the ones to take over, to make the appointments, to drag the person to the appointments. Something goes on in our minds that puts a stopper on what we know is probably right. So, he's supposed to make the phone call today. He made me provide him with my medical record number before I left the house for work. We'll see what comes of it, he's making the call as I type this.

My mother sent me a horrible email. I know she's trying to help. I know its because she loves me. But basically she told me to stop being stubborn and selfish and get the help before its too late, before Alfred leaves and leaves with Lily, etc., etc., mmm yeah, not the type of email you want to get in a emotionally fragile state while at work. I can't break down here, I can't cry. I have to suppress everything and get through the day. You have any idea how difficult that is? You realize how little there is out there regarding being a working mom with PPD? Yeah, there's an article or two from people who are freelance writers for a living but it doesn't touch on what its like being in an office from day to day, in a corporation, like so many of us are, working full time while suffering from PPD. Working is a trigger that contributes to PPD. Where is the information? I guess perhaps, as I go through this, maybe I'll be that person, to say this is what its like when you must go into the office when you rather stay home and cry.

Hazy

I tried calling. I tried calling for help. My employer offers an Employee Assistance Program which offers 6 free visits to a therapist, however, I was just given names of general psychologist who have the standard experience in plain depression only. I know enough to realize PPD must be handled differently. It is imperative to find a doctor with experience in PPD/A patients, otherwise, you're just shoved medication, and belittled for not being happier. So, I was out of luck there. I tried searching through the Postpartum Health Alliance (PHA) resources, but many of their doctors do not accept insurance, of if they do, do not accept my insurance. I can't afford to get the help. My health plan has psychiatrists available, but again, I've no idea if they have the experience and knowledge I'd need. So, I tried and failed. Alfred took the number for PHA's helpline to call for me as I gave up and was tired of being discouraged. I mean seriously, how is any of this helpful? It's just stressing me out even worse. So, he called, and is waiting for someone to call him back with maybe some sort of information.

In the meantime, I fade, slowly, sinking into a hazy stupor. My daughter is my joy. She hasn't smiled at me since Monday. She's smiled at my mom, my step-father, Alfred's mom, and most of all, her daddy. I've lifted myself from the fog to smile at her, to talk to her, to play with her, to bathe her, to read to her and nothing. This morning she kind of crinkled her face at me like, "Whatever." She doesn't want me. She clearly doesn't need me. She's got Alfred. She's got her daddy who loves her so very much and who she obviously loves more.

My joy is lost.

Therapy, I think

I'm considering therapy. I realize I probably need it, but I rather, like Meredith in the last few episode's of Grey's Anatomy (Season 4), defiantly declare, "I don't need therapy!"

I thought I didn't have anything to talk about, but apparently I do.

You see, I was diagnosed with Postpartum Depression (PPD) three weeks after our daughter, Lillian was born. Alfred, the ever loving piece of my heart, contacted his doctor, got me in to see her (as I did not have a primary care physician at the time), she asked me a few basic questions, then scribbled a prescription for Zoloft. I was absolutely adamant about not wanting to take the medication, so I just didn't. I'm now at 4 months postpartum with good days and bad days. Unfortunately the bad days have become worse and last longer. I felt numb, I just didn't care. Yeah, I could go through the emotions, but really, I didn't care. Last night, I figured out where it stemmed from.

I was depressed pretty much the entire pregnancy. It wasn't the joyous occasion it should have been. I could not revel in it. I could not rejoice. When people exclaimed, "Congratulations" I'd feel the smile on my lips, stretched and wooden, as I pronounced the words I knew was polite to say, "Thank you." But did I really deserve the admiration? I didn't feel like I did.

The pregnancy wasn't planned. It was that silly little 1% of the 99% effective birth control pills at the wrong time. It was born in a field abundant with stress and negativity and for sometime it did not get better. Emotionally, it was always a struggle because I felt guilty. I felt as if I did something wrong by deciding to keep the baby. I felt ashamed. I was hurt for so long, I was very, very hurt but felt it was a proper penance for the pain I had caused in the past so perhaps I deserved it after all.

And that is just the overview of why I probably need therapy. So, I stare at the number on my desk. I've picked up the phone twice only to place it back into its holder, changing my mind. I don't need therapy, but, perhaps, just maybe, I do.