mothers, babies, snuggle
in quiet cover of night
lone tear slides down
whirlwind swirling round
fall down stand up breathe in out
exhausted collapse
bright blue sky overhead
clouds drift across as I stare
remembering peace
tiny leaf bud clings
tightly to branch, mother hug
yearning to escape
(The picture I’m describing can be found here. The user disabled downloads of her work so I’m not able to share it with you on my blog post.)
Purple flowers hang upside down, surrounded by sharp green blades of grass, but it’s not how they’re meant to be seen. It’s how the camera sees them, how the artist sees them. It’s all a translation of beauty, seen from a different angle.
There’s a quote beneath the photo, “Life takes your dreams and turns them upside down.”
I can’t think of a better description for Postpartum Mood & Anxiety disorders, can you?
For many of us, we painstakingly plan our pregnancies, buy the right things for the nursery and laugh and giggle at our baby showers. Others may not feel the same way but hope to feel better once baby arrives, banking on birth to improve their mood. Still others are just struggling to adjust to even being pregnant as it’s unplanned.
Whatever your situation, there are hopes and dreams you have attached to the outcome of your current journey. When those hopes and dreams are dashed against the rocks by the trauma of a PMAD, things get a lot darker. You feel turned upside down and inside out. As if there’s no escape from the hell in which you’ve found yourself.
But, even in that darkness, even when you least feel it, just as those purple flowers, you are still beautiful. Flowers begin as a seed, some as a horrific bulb which is then planted in the dark earth, covered with dirt, and forced to fight it’s way out into the sun. Once it emerges, you don’t see the dirt for long. It shrugs it off and speeds toward the sun, toward blooming into a gorgeous thing of beauty. Flowers require care, sunlight, water, nourishment. They need to be tended to in order to bring joy to the world. Think of how bland the world would be without the colourful variations of flowers springing forth in even the most difficult of places.
You are not destined to spend eternity in that dark place. One day, you too, will burst forth, speed toward the sun, and bloom into a gorgeous blossom.
(This post written as part of WEGO Health’s Health Activist Writer’s Month Challenge. You can check it out and join here: http://t.co/kp15ymv1)
After I fell down the rabbit hole so far that only a weekend in a mental hospital helped me, I realized I wanted one thing. To talk to another mom. I needed to know that my crazy wasn’t permanent. That I was okay, normal, and I would be well again. Even if I wasn’t going to be well again, I told myself, I need to know I’m not here in crazyland by myself.
During my stay, a psych nurse told me something which has stuck with me for over six years and I suspect will stay with me for quite some time. She told me I didn’t have to tell anyone where I had been that weekend. I know, you’re hearing the record scratch in your head too, right?
It’s a moment in my story I have discussed several times here at my blog. But it’s an important moment, I think, one which truly sums up the state of mental health awareness in our country, even among those who are involved in directly treating those struggling. The message it sends is chilling.
Sssshhhhhhhh. Don’t tell anyone you’ve been to the crazy house.
Why the fuck not?
Why would I remain quiet about this? Why do I deserve to be judged for something which is no more my fault than the breast cancer? Would a nurse dare tell a patient in for Chemo they don’t have to tell anyone where they’ve been?
I get that health is private, HIPAA and all that. We have a right to remain quiet about our health, physical or mental, but to suggest to someone that it’s absolutely not necessary to tell anyone where they’ve been is simply neurotic. This did not happen while signing papers or during admission. No, this happened during a casual conversation during my first day there.
What, was I supposed to go home and pretend I’d gone to Bermuda? Would I be given parting gifts to help fake my weekend tropical get away? Quite frankly, if they wanted me to believe I’d been in Bermuda, they should have given me stronger drugs. But I’ve digressed.
The more we give into this culture of silence and stigma surrounding mental health, the more we enable the stereotypes to stand. Yes, I had depression and a whole slew of other issues (OCD, PTSD, suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts…) but you know what? I’m a perfectly normal person. I’m just like you. I think, I eat, I breathe, I function quite well most of the time. I hit a rough patch and needed help to get through it. It’s no different than someone being hospitalized for a serious injury or infection. At least, it shouldn’t be any different.
This is why I write. I write because it’s important to acknowledge that people with mental health issues aren’t of the insane Hollywood variety. We are normal people you see every day. We are your sisters, your wives, your cousins, your mothers, your aunts, your friends, your co-workers. We are human too. Treat us as such.
