Category Archives: anxiety

oh, you’re done lingering, I guess

09 Thursday Jan 2020

Posted by in anxiety, motherhood, pensive, postpartum depression, writing

≈ 1 Comment

The Mind Flayer is a raging ass bitch.

I was wrong. I’m not Will Byers. I don’t have Spidey Senses. There is no crafty, diabolical sneakiness at work here. There is no “waiting to pounce.” It’s just the depression bursting in like the damn Kool-Aid man screaming, “Oh yeah! Oh YEAH! Guess what? You’re going to be flesh goo now!”

On Sunday, when my son woke up from his nap, I suddenly could not stop crying. It truly came out of nowhere. There was no nagging, no sense of quiet foreboding. One minute Kiddo was asking for his music, the next minute I’m sobbing with snot running down my chin, texting my husband to come home please because I fell down into the deep dark place.

The most frustrating thing about it is that I could not, in the moment, explain WHY I was so upset. When my husband did come home, he kept asking what was wrong. He even threw out some good ideas, but it didn’t help me stop or really feel any better. It’s like there were too many emotions for me to process.

This has happened before. I remember distinctly the first time it happened.

It was January of 2018 (and YES, it just dawned on me that it was almost exactly two years ago). By that time, I was pretty deep into anxiety and depression but I hadn’t been able to recognize it in myself yet. Mostly because my postpartum depression didn’t look like what comes on the standard checklists. For one, I didn’t feel detached from my kid – I was OVERLY attached. I hated, hated being away from him. I felt like I was missing everything – every new babble, every new facial expression, every new connection he made. I thought it meant he wasn’t connecting with me. I genuinely thought he would forget me. I hated going to work each day. I hated work for being the thing that kept me from my kid. I hated that I felt like I had to work in order to keep our lives going, to help put food on the table and keep our house and all those things that money provides. I usually cried in the mornings before work, but one day, it hit a new level. I was on my way out the door, crying and holding the baby, husband following behind. As I was handing back the baby, my husband tried to say comforting, something to the effect of “it’s going to be okay.” I shook my head and responded with “you just don’t understand.” I couldn’t explain it. Logically, I told myself, my behavior made no sense. Mothers go back to work all the time and they were fine. I constantly wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Holding the kid, my husband asked me to try explain it to him, and it was just too much. There was too much FEELING. I was so indescribably sad and angry and now frustrated that I had to try to explain myself but knew that I couldn’t possibly make any real sense. It boiled over. I remember actually balling my hands into fists, jumping up and down, and screaming “you don’t understand, you don’t understand, you CAN’T!” There I was, 32 years old and literally throwing a temper tantrum. And then I remember the horrified look on my husband’s face. He had never looked at me that way before: a combination of shock and helplessness. A new wave of feelings washed over me then: shame and humiliation. Still silently crying, I went to the bathroom and stared at my stupid, drippy face. I eventually tried to fix my make-up and went to work.

Sunday was not that bad. Really. But it was bad-adjacent. I knew I had to stop trying to process my feels and just get out of them, so I started doing mindless tasks. I put away dishes. I dusted (it was disgusting). I Marie Kondo’d the crap out of our bookshelf. On Monday, I called my therapist.

I feel more hate rolling in. I hate that this is coming back. I hate that it keeps me from playing with my kid. I hate that he’s old enough to notice this time. I hate that to some extent, the Mind Flayer may never entirely go away forever. And I really hate knowing that there’s a risk it may come for my kids someday.

It’s going to be okay, guys. That’s the one cool thing about this go around. I can say (and hear) “it’s going to be okay” and believe it. With genuine confidence.

the mind flayer

03 Friday Jan 2020

Posted by in anxiety, motherhood, postpartum depression, writing

≈ Leave a comment

To clarify: I’m not saying I have full-blown depression again.

I know what that feels like and this ain’t it. No, what I’m saying is that I can feel the depression…lurking. We’re like Will and the Mind Flayer from season 3 of Stranger Things. And I’m Will in this metaphor, just in case you had any doubts. I can sense the depression is nearby, waiting to pounce. Or, since we’re calling it the MindFlayer, waiting to pump me full of chemicals until I explode into a pile of flesh goo that then becomes absorbed into the MindFlayer’s fifty foot tall fleshy goo form.

(Aside: I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that Noah Schnapp was WOEFULLY underused in season 3 of Stranger Things. The kid is an acting beast. We all know he can do more than be a glorified Spidey Sense.)

My Depression Flayer has been lying surprisingly low for the last month. I thought for sure that the holiday times would provoke it, but not yet. I had an almost scary ultrasound followed by a completely normal follow-up ultrasound, and I thought FOR SURE it would rise up during the intervening two weeks. Nope.

In the meantime, CONSTANT VIGILANCE.

did I tell you guys about that thing I had?

13 Wednesday Nov 2019

Posted by in anxiety, motherhood, postpartum depression, responsibility, writing

≈ 1 Comment

So, I had a thing for awhile. And I didn’t know I had it for…well, awhile. And then when I figured it out, I dealt with it for another year-ish, realizing to some extent that it’s never going to entirely go away.

Kids, I had postpartum depression and anxiety.

It was…horrible. Like really horrible. Hor-ree-bleh. Once I got my diagnosis, I didn’t exactly hide what was going on. I gave it a name. I told other people the name. But I didn’t really talk to a ton of people about what it was like. What it felt like. What it made my brain do.

Now I feel like it’s time.

See, I’m pregnant again. (first: YAY! but also…well, keep reading). I’m at risk of the horrible thing happening. Again. In fact, it’s starting to creep up on me already.

Two weeks ago, I was driving home after work, listening to It’s Been a Minute with Sam Sanders. They end every podcast with people who call in to share the best part of their week. I typically enjoy this segment but this time I rolled my eyes. I had not had the best week. The morning sickness had been coming at all hours of the day. I had to run out of meetings at work to go retch in the bathroom. Even the mere notion of certain foods made me gag. As the cheery parade of voices bubbled through my car speakers, I thought to myself, “the best part of my week was eating dry toast without throwing up.” And then immediately after that, I heard a voice in my brain say, “you stupid bitch, you can’t even handle the first trimester. You’re going to royally fuck up everything once THIS kid gets here.” I gasped and locked my hands on the steering wheel. I recognized that voice. I had heard it before. That’s what my PPD was: the darkest things I didn’t know I could think of myself automatically pouring from my brain.

Two weeks ago, I went to brunch with a really good friend at a place that was small and sweet and a little bougie. It was great. We started talking kiddos and she asked if I felt ready to have two. It wasn’t a real question – it was one of those cute topic transitions: “So…are you ready to have two??” Wink, smile, wink.

I smiled and said “Yes, I definitely think so.” At the same time, my brain said “The fuck you are.” My smile froze.“Run,” said my brain and snapped by body into fight-or-flight mode. As my friend, with all the best intentions in the world, talked about her experiences with two and recommendations about preschool and day care, the blood drained out of my brain and drummed in my chest. “Run.” My wrists started to turn numb. “Run.” I pretended to look at my decaf coffee while whatever rational part of my brain was left tried desperately to turn the voice off. The ensuing brain battle was making my eyes burn with tears.

The tears helped, I think, though they just brimmed in my eyeballs instead of falling. I was able to breathe again. I was able to enjoy my friend’s company and some delicious ratatouille toast. But I haven’t been able to shake the knowledge that the darkness is lurking in my brain, waiting for a chance.

I need to take some proactive measures here.

So I’m going to write. I’m going to write about what it was like then. And what it’s like now. It’s going to suck. I’m going to hate it. But hopefully I’ll find some trends or signs I can watch out for. Or maybe it will just help me feel better in some small way. I already know writing can do that for me.

Buckle up, folks, it’s gonna get awkward.

 

imposter syndrome: whiplash

31 Tuesday Jul 2018

Posted by in anxiety, pensive, sci-fi, writing

≈ Leave a comment

I had some sci-fi microfiction published!! WHEE! Check it out! Thank you to Alex Massey and Story Seed Vault! A second story will be forthcoming! ALL THE EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!!!!

140

Ok, that was the high I was riding last night. Today, I am in fear of the 150+ comments on the short story I submitted to my writing workshop. It is truly the very first short story I have ever finished. I have Disneyland fanfic that I started EIGHT YEARS AGO which is sitting on a back burner. On a very low simmer. Think like the “warm” setting on a Crock-Pot. And it’s going to stay there. Maybe forever. (Oh God, did I just admit to having Disneyland fanfic???)

Back to the short story that I did finish. I like it a lot but also, I hate it fiercely. I like it because it’s aspirational. It’s a fairy tale re-telling. And I love those. It’s what I WISH I could write. It’s what I wish could BE. But mostly, I just think it sucks. Because it’s not actually me. It feels like singing. I suck at singing. It feels like I’m singing at a concert to my favorite song, but someone hears me over the band and says “oh, what’s THAT noise?” and then I turn red and want to die a little bit. That’s what this story feels like.

I have another story (NOT DISNEYLAND FANFIC, JUST SHUT UP ABOUT THAT, OKAY?) that really does feel like me but I wasn’t able to finish it before the due date. In the last draft, it took a REAL dark turn. Not like horror spec fic dark but like the capacity-for-malice-and-cruelty-that-lurks-in-every-human-heart dark. And it kind of knocked me out and I needed to step away.

So yeah, I’m going to read these comments eventually. But right now, I’m just going to hide. Maybe in a cave. Or a hole. Send cookies.