It's been a tough two months. I've previously described this, in part, in recent entries. But it's been more than just what's occurred inside of the NICU, and I'd essentially be lying if I didn't admit all of it. By publicly posting these updates, I'm giving everyone a window into what our lives have been like since July 9th. I'm disclosing some pretty intimate details about our daughter and this family, and it is only fair to everyone involved that I force that curtain back a little further no matter how much I may be afraid to.
Last night, I came to terms with the truth that I've been purposefully discreet about a big part of the past eight weeks. That of which we do not speak of outside of the confinement of these walls. Not even to extended family. Not even to the staff at the hospital. Not until now.
Shortly after the birth of Number Five, MFH began to sense that something was very wrong. I thought it was just hormones. I blamed it on lack of sleep. I assumed it would pass. I became a monster. I despised everyone around me. I hated myself even more. I couldn't look in a mirror without wanting to spit on the reflection that stared back at me. I couldn't stand being touched, and ultimately withheld affection from my own children. I didn't want to hurt anyone else, but I couldn't do enough to hurt myself, both mentally and physically. It got to the point where I was saying and doing things that I am ashamed to so much as introspectively recollect. It wasn't until he gave me the ultimatum to either get help or get out did I recognize that the situation was no longer within the boundaries of my own control. And he was more than justified in his demand.
So, I did. About a week later, I sat in front of my doctor and damn near palpably forced the words from my lips. I needed help, and I needed it yesterday. He didn't second guess me, and that alone was terrifying. I got very lucky with the first medication I tried. Within a few more weeks, MFH and the kids noticed the change. I no longer locked myself in the bedroom when the baby cried. I was able to answer the telephone again. I stopped screaming over stupid shit like an overlooked wet towel on the bathroom floor or a disregarded lamp not being turned off. I didn't overreact to spur of the moment changes in daily routines anymore, such as an unexpected call from the school nurse or a forgotten item on the shopping list. Going out in public no longer reduced me to tears. I felt normal again. I was normal again. And things remained that way until early this year, when I began to suspect that the rabbit was about to meet it's demise.
The most ironic part of being pregnant is that you can not take most mood stabilizing pharmaceuticals. I know, right? If at any time during the course of a woman's life a situation absolutely warrants the need for them, that would be it. So I stopped taking the medicine, and everything was okay, or at least under control. And then along came Little Bird. So very early. So very critical. So very emotionally unprepared. It was merely days before I felt the seams begin to pull apart again. I lost all composure when they didn't prepare my discharge paperwork quickly enough, and unleashed a violent and verbal, and embarrassingly obscene tongue lashing upon the unsuspecting nursing staff. Having been an insomniac for as long as I could remember, as much as fourteen hours wasn't nearly enough sleep. I was 'accidentally' forgetting to eat for days at a time. Showering became a chore that I began to avoid. I knew it was a matter of time before I'd come undone. I was beginning to self destruct. After realizing that more than three weeks had passed and I was still leaving the house in pajama bottoms and bedroom slippers, there was no doubt about it. The creature was back and rearing it's ugly head full force.
I had a decision to make. I could either continue pumping for the benefit of the baby, and risk the well being of the other five kids as well as my husband. Or, I could wake up and smell the Enfamil. I was fully prepared to take the responsibility of that risk until two weeks ago. Not particularly giving a flying fuck anymore, I pulled the phone cord out of the wall. No longer wanting to get out of bed, I ripped the ID bracelets off of my wrist. It was dark. It was unnerving. It was life threatening. And to no one more so than Little Bird.
A day later, and as a direct result of my selfishness, we missed a very important phone call that nearly cost that baby her life. That was uncalled for. And that was literally my wake up call. Last night, I finally came face to face with the demon, and I've begun to beat it back into submission. I swallowed the pill. It was a lot less bitter than I had anticipated it would be. It tasted like sanity. It tasted like self worth.
I consciously passed on the only opportunity that I had to be able to offer Little Bird the one form of help and healing that I can right now. Benefit versus risk. I hope that the staff at the hospital can understand this decision, let alone what forced me to make it. I hope that none of you will view me as that unstable, shopping cart shoving personality found in too many a late night Wal Mart parking lot. It took a lot to acknowledge this problem, especially for the second time. It took a lot more to confess it to everyone who knows me. And it took everything to concede to it to myself. But it is what it is. An incredible relief to no longer have to shoulder the burden of.
Maybe my family can rest easy tonight, knowing that they are safe from any flying cutlery. They don't have to fear another sudden, sobbing tantrum or unpredicted onslaught of profanity. They can once again invite friends over and not worry about being humiliated by having to explain why their mother's clothing doesn't match or why that pile of dishes is still in the sink from yesterday. They don't have to draw straws and send the unlucky relative to my door to check up on us again (thank you for that K & H). We're okay now. I'm okay now. Or at least, I know I'm going to be.
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