February 20, 2016, 5:49 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I added a new medication to my routine last week. I am titrating up to my full dose during a week long process which means I am doing SCIENCE IN MY BODY. It also means that my moods have not been as stable as they hopefully will be once I have leveled off at my target dosage.

Which is fun for everyone around me, naturally.

I think I’ve been handling my work situation “Okay”…but once I hit home I fall apart. I’m moody, snappy, weepy, –all cousins of the original 7 dwarfs–and just not great to be around, I’m sure.

My ability to be a good mother has been shipwrecked and I find myself with no patience or understanding of what my Tiny Human is doing at any given time. Why aren’t you eating the broccoli you specifically requested? Why are you still messing with the dog when I told you she was trying to sleep? Why OH GOD WHY does it take you 58 minutes to walk down the stairs and get your shoes on in the morning for school?

I understand that these are normal gripes for any mother, but with my unstable condition the last week, they have become issues that will literally put me in a fowl mood for the entire day. There has been no gentle correction from my parenting side; simply shouting and storming away.

Not fantastic.

My husband does his best to pick up the pieces afterwards. I feel that he does this a lot for me. When I am deep in my rage I encouraged him to leave me, to take our child, to leave me alone to self implode. I usually end up feeling like a tumor for our family.

It’s then, in those dark moments, when I think “Oh I haven’t blogged yet this week” when I realize that I don’t really have any right to write about what I do here, or over at Postpartum Progress. I may be able to articulate my struggle and the struggle of others, but deep down I am still just a mess.

But hey, here’s what I want you all to know. Once I surface from those dark periods and reexamine my intentions as a writer, I think the mess is what helps with the words. When I write, there is true, raw emotion behind it. If I am feeling like crap, I will often willingly admit that.

I never want to come across as preachy or above what I am going through. I battle every day to feel at least normal, if not happy. There is no glory to be had in that struggle and I write about it because I want you to know that if you are feeling even a little bit the same, that it is okay. There may not be a light at the end of the tunnel, but the waters will recede sometimes and you can stand on solid ground again, until the next wave  hits you.

It is a safe place, for me, to admit that I am failing as a wife and a mother this week. That I yell and scream awful things that–even as I am saying them–I realize aren’t me.

It is a place to talk about how much I hate medications, how much I am hopeful about medications, how much I fear medications.

It is a place to be myself, since I seem to get emotionally constipated when asked about it in person. Therapy didn’t take. Blogging did.

So blogging it is.


Maximum Effort
February 14, 2016, 2:37 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I saw Deadpool last night. I highly enjoyed it, despite my hesitations about it’s creation back when it was first announced. Deadpool is and has always been a raunchy as heck comic book character who breaks all of the rules along with the fourth wall.

I didn’t go into the film expecting to really take anything deep from it; but guess what, I did.

Throughout the plot, Wade Wilson repeats one phrase to himself to get himself hyped and ready for anything–usually he surveys the scene, counts his bullets, takes a deep breath and then whispers to himself:

“Maximum Effort.”

This sat in my brain, like a ticking time bomb until this morning when I woke up and was all like, “Dude, YES. This is what I need to be doing.”

I go through life hesitating. I am indecisive. I am noncommittal. I am never really sure.

Even with writing, I am hesitant to through myself fully out there in fear that nothing will happen. I am afraid to give all of my energy to something when a success isn’t guaranteed.

Well, guess what Carrie?

Success is never going to be guaranteed. There is no such thing as luck. The world owes you nothing.

If you are not willing to throw your whole being into something, you don’t deserve to win. I need to work harder. I need to branch out into new themes and ideas. I need to explore the parameters of my dream and stop being so afraid of failure.

This rings true with every aspect of life: professional, relationships, parenting, self-care.

You don’t have to pick and chose which facets of your life get your energy. You can have it all; you deserve to have it all if you work hard for it.

Maximum effort, guys. Full steam ahead and don’t give a crap about failing.

The End Game
February 10, 2016, 11:45 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

My psychiatrist left me a voicemail this week saying that she had some positive feedback and ideas from crowd-sourcing my ridiculous file to her peers–you know, after admitting she was at a total loss with what to do with me last month.

I went in today, with my Tiny Human in tow, and sat on the expensive white leather sofa and watched her click around on her MacBook Pro.

“It’s funny,” she started.

“When I listed off everything that we’ve tried and why it didn’t work, several of my colleagues mentioned that perhaps you didn’t want to be well.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“I told them,” she continued, “that I don’t have many clients as motivated to be well as you are. That shut them up real quick.”

The rest of the appointment was the usual–trying Wellbutrin to go with my Seroquel to hopefully make me happier, less inclined to gain all of this weight, and less agitated.

However, what stuck with me as I stood in the padded elevator after the appointment was that, even in the company of psychiatrists, there are still neigh-sayers. There are still men and women narrowing their eyes at me in judgement.

I don’t want to get better?

I get it. I know there are people out there that thrive on being sick and needing medical attention constantly–but I guess I’ve always just been so self aware of what is going on with me that I can’t fathom letting myself become my disorders.

I dream of a day where smiling comes regularly, without forced thought. I fantasize about being a more present mother and not relying on my child to ground me to the real and good things in my life.

I may be many things–

I may be a sad, sullen girl. I may be prone to suicidal thoughts and anxiety attacks. I may get hives that cover my body. I may restrict my diet when I feel especially out of control of my feelings. I may be angry.

But, above all of these things, I am a fighter.

I am fighting.

I have been fighting, in the trenches, for years. Just because I do not accept these side effects and adverse conditions brought on by certain medications does not mean I am indifferent to the outcome. I research everything that goes in my body. If I come across a side effect that is severe enough for me to not want to be on it, I double check that it’s actually a medication induced effect.

I may get frustrated at times–there have been two instances where I have thrown a temper tantrum and stopped medication all together. It was and is always a mistake and I go crawling back to the white leather sofa.

I have been living with depression perhaps since middle school. In a way, it is part of my personality–but never, ever have I thought that I would miss being that girl if I finally found the right combination of medications.

My emotions are complex–far more complex than most people see. I am a puzzle, a constellation, a tangle. I know that two years of trying to find the right medication may seem excessive to some people, but I don’t care. I am the one putting my body through this–not for attention, or glory, or validation. I do it because I want to be better.

It’s true that I have found a professional writing voice in my disorders. I hold my banners high for those suffering to flock to. I tell my story because I want others to know that it’s not always a one and done deal. You don’t deserve to suffer through medication because it only kind of makes you feel better. You wouldn’t marry someone who only sort of made you feel good. Why put something in your body that you don’t hold to the same standard?

I deserve to feel better, and

much more importantly,

I eagerly await that day when I do.