back in therapy
To the tune of Willie Nelson's "On the Road again:"
Back in therapy,
I can't believe I'm back in therapy
Dredging up awful shit stored in my memory--
Oh I can't believe I'm back in therrrapyyyy!
Ah, the lighter side. A very long and complicated story short, I have figured out that I have a form of post-traumatic stress about the birth of my son, and the events of the surrounding months. I will spare my readers the catalogue of distressing events, as most of you know them already and I want to write about something different. Because when it comes down to it, it's not really the events but my warped perception of them, and how they have colored the life I lead now, that are of consequence. I am in the process now of dredging them up and confronting them, and trying to gain some healing from the lingering pain and fear. Needless to say, I am exhausted.
I wrote earlier about the absolute terror of having another child, and my reasons for that. And after reading a few interesting articles on post-partum PTSD, I feel like a large chunk of guilt has been removed from my overburdened mind. Many women interviewed for this article expressed the same fears and the feeling that they just can't get over their traumatic childbirth experience. That they are frightened of visiting doctors because the last time they did, they nearly died, or the doctors treated them like a nuisance for being in pain or whatever. I felt so overlooked, having been sent home with the instructions, "Just take it easy for a while, and take this inch-wide iron pill every day," and then I was pronounced Fine at my six-week postpartum checkup. So I thought for the longest time that it was just my laziness or lack of mothering aptitude or something that made it so impossible to "bounce back." I mean, A was a very easy baby. I felt like, jeez I can barely function here, and my kid doesn't cry unless he's hungry or pooped all up his back, and sleeps well etc etc...and I know moms who would kill for a colic-free hour, and more than ten minutes of sleep consecutively. I somehow didn't put it together that having a near-death experience and operating on a half tank of blood would qualify for a bit of special treatment from the medical profession, and a valid excuse to myself for feeling unwell. So I just thought it was my problem, my usual inability to deal with reality.
One of the biggest causes for depression I think, is the feeling that I am the only one thinking or feeling this way, and that there must be something wrong with me, that I am not a good mother or a good Christian or some other rot lie to keep those feelings in the dark, for fear of exposure as the Fraud Lazy Apostate Child-Abusing Ingrate Hack that I really am. Those thoughts often come into my mind, perhaps not all at once, but they are still there when I look around at the filthy dining room floor, the pile of dishes in the sink, or I find that I have been reading for a half hour as my son plays by himself and I hadn't noticed the poop smell filling the room. Or when I see a Christian mom who has just popped out her 4th child and looks like she'd like nothing better than twenty more. And she wants to homeschool them all.
It's very difficult to remember that different people want different things for their lives, and are happy doing things I dread. Like having lots of kids and wanting them around all the time, for example. I'd rather be a part-time mountain hermit myself, and come out of my cave once a day to check on the family. I know I would miss A and D, but I would still be a hermit and deal with it alone.
Seriously though, this motherhood gig is so full of self-doubt, second-guessing and judgment that I wonder what possessed me to skip the birth control in the first place. There's so many conflicting messages in the media, in the Christian subculture, parents and friends that I find myself agonizing over giving A chicken nuggets for the second time this week--microwaved processed food that's easy to put together and he'll only eat half of it and shouldn't he eat some vegetables but he won't chew them up, should I force him to eat something green and assert my authority as God's representative in his life or just say screw it, he's going to hit puberty early because of the hormones in these God-forsaken chickens and on and on. And they're not from Trader Bloody Joe's and I give him white bread with real butter and I don't like giving him apples because he craps his brains out afterwards. But then I think, I ate vienna frigging sausages all the time when I was his age. I had scrapple and spam, and ate sugary cereals and drank coke, along with all the good-for-me foods my mom made too. It just feels like I'm making some political statement when I am feeding my kid, and he doesn't give a damn. Just give him something to dip, and he's happy. ---But don't drown your food, like the Saturday Morning cartoon said! It's no fun to eat what you can't even see, he said. I disagree. Pour on some Hollandaise and I am happy as a clam.
Back in therapy,
I can't believe I'm back in therapy
Dredging up awful shit stored in my memory--
Oh I can't believe I'm back in therrrapyyyy!
Ah, the lighter side. A very long and complicated story short, I have figured out that I have a form of post-traumatic stress about the birth of my son, and the events of the surrounding months. I will spare my readers the catalogue of distressing events, as most of you know them already and I want to write about something different. Because when it comes down to it, it's not really the events but my warped perception of them, and how they have colored the life I lead now, that are of consequence. I am in the process now of dredging them up and confronting them, and trying to gain some healing from the lingering pain and fear. Needless to say, I am exhausted.
I wrote earlier about the absolute terror of having another child, and my reasons for that. And after reading a few interesting articles on post-partum PTSD, I feel like a large chunk of guilt has been removed from my overburdened mind. Many women interviewed for this article expressed the same fears and the feeling that they just can't get over their traumatic childbirth experience. That they are frightened of visiting doctors because the last time they did, they nearly died, or the doctors treated them like a nuisance for being in pain or whatever. I felt so overlooked, having been sent home with the instructions, "Just take it easy for a while, and take this inch-wide iron pill every day," and then I was pronounced Fine at my six-week postpartum checkup. So I thought for the longest time that it was just my laziness or lack of mothering aptitude or something that made it so impossible to "bounce back." I mean, A was a very easy baby. I felt like, jeez I can barely function here, and my kid doesn't cry unless he's hungry or pooped all up his back, and sleeps well etc etc...and I know moms who would kill for a colic-free hour, and more than ten minutes of sleep consecutively. I somehow didn't put it together that having a near-death experience and operating on a half tank of blood would qualify for a bit of special treatment from the medical profession, and a valid excuse to myself for feeling unwell. So I just thought it was my problem, my usual inability to deal with reality.
One of the biggest causes for depression I think, is the feeling that I am the only one thinking or feeling this way, and that there must be something wrong with me, that I am not a good mother or a good Christian or some other rot lie to keep those feelings in the dark, for fear of exposure as the Fraud Lazy Apostate Child-Abusing Ingrate Hack that I really am. Those thoughts often come into my mind, perhaps not all at once, but they are still there when I look around at the filthy dining room floor, the pile of dishes in the sink, or I find that I have been reading for a half hour as my son plays by himself and I hadn't noticed the poop smell filling the room. Or when I see a Christian mom who has just popped out her 4th child and looks like she'd like nothing better than twenty more. And she wants to homeschool them all.
It's very difficult to remember that different people want different things for their lives, and are happy doing things I dread. Like having lots of kids and wanting them around all the time, for example. I'd rather be a part-time mountain hermit myself, and come out of my cave once a day to check on the family. I know I would miss A and D, but I would still be a hermit and deal with it alone.
Seriously though, this motherhood gig is so full of self-doubt, second-guessing and judgment that I wonder what possessed me to skip the birth control in the first place. There's so many conflicting messages in the media, in the Christian subculture, parents and friends that I find myself agonizing over giving A chicken nuggets for the second time this week--microwaved processed food that's easy to put together and he'll only eat half of it and shouldn't he eat some vegetables but he won't chew them up, should I force him to eat something green and assert my authority as God's representative in his life or just say screw it, he's going to hit puberty early because of the hormones in these God-forsaken chickens and on and on. And they're not from Trader Bloody Joe's and I give him white bread with real butter and I don't like giving him apples because he craps his brains out afterwards. But then I think, I ate vienna frigging sausages all the time when I was his age. I had scrapple and spam, and ate sugary cereals and drank coke, along with all the good-for-me foods my mom made too. It just feels like I'm making some political statement when I am feeding my kid, and he doesn't give a damn. Just give him something to dip, and he's happy. ---But don't drown your food, like the Saturday Morning cartoon said! It's no fun to eat what you can't even see, he said. I disagree. Pour on some Hollandaise and I am happy as a clam.
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