Doing it on my own: EPIC FAIL.

I have been an extremely bad blogger and reader lately. But I've been bad at a lot of things in my life, and I'm finally going to attempt to explain.

About four months ago, I finished breastfeeding Brooklyn and was able to switch antidepressants. I wanted to get off Lexapro because my doctor had told me that after a year, it caused weight gain. I had suspected that it was already responsible for the weight that had been creeping on and would not go away, no matter what I did. So my doctor had said to call when Brooklyn was weaned, and they would switch me to Wellbutrin, which is better for the weight issue. But when I called, they said I couldn't just switch, I had to wean myself off the Lexapro slowly. I had been taking 20 mg a day. I had to drop back to 10 mg a day for a 2 weeks, then one every other day for 2 weeks, then one every third day for a week. I was supposed to call them for the Wellbutrin prescription when I got down to every third day.

But by the time I got down to that one pill every third day, I decided that I was doing all right. And here's the thing: I was prescribed that medicine for post-partum depression. Can you really say you have post-partum depression anymore when you have a toddler? Hardly. I was a bit more emotional, I cried at more things, both happy and sad. I figured it was just the fact that I didn't have the pills acting as a numbing barrier between me and my life anymore. I decided that I was ready to feel everything again. I stopped taking the Lexapro, and I did not call for the Wellbutrin. I was done.

Unfortunately, it didn't take long for feeling like I was all right to turn into feeling miserable. I was sad and unhappy and overly sensitive and angry at everything, I didn't want to go anywhere, I wanted to sleep all of the time, I fought with my husband about ridiculous things that normally wouldn't upset me. I cried countless times every day, again, often about things that weren't even that big of a deal.

Dave didn't get the carseat out of my car before I went to work, so he couldn't go get Brooklyn's prescription like I had asked him to. She was going to miss a dose. It was his off day. Why did he have to be so damn lazy? I was so, so angry. Why should she have to suffer because he doesn't listen to me? Meltdown.

Brooklyn had diarrhea on her Tucker sling an hour before bedtime. I didn't know how I was going to get it clean before she had to go to sleep. Dave was leaving for work. Brooklyn was pulling on my leg screaming and fussing. I stood there bawling.

I don't know. There are probably dozens of these scenarios I'd rather not think about because they just aren't me. Normally. But I let it go on for months. Stubbornness.

I sat at my friend's house and cried and told her about what was going on. "You know what you have to do," she said. "You already told me you're not okay. That's what these medicines are for. You told me that before."

"But how are you ever supposed to know when you can stop? Am I just supposed to be on these pills forever or something? I don't want that. That's ridiculous."

"You tried it without them, it didn't work. You're not ready. You have a lot of stress. You have too much going on. Maybe you can try again in a year or something."

I still did nothing.

On a day when I was at work and had treated my husband particularly badly, I had been ignoring his calls for some time. I finally picked up the phone to talk to him. He told me how frustrated he was with me, but that he knew how bad I had been feeling. "I really think you weren't ready to stop taking your medicine," he said. "You need to call your doctor."

"I'm not same damn psych patient that needs to be monitored on their meds," I snapped back.

"I'm not saying that! You're the only person who thinks that! You're so hypocritical! You work in this job where you tell people they need to get help, where you tell people it's okay to be on these medicines, that they help them, and then you think you're the only person who's above taking them. You won't even tell your own mom about it because you're so damn ashamed of it! I don't get you!"

Here come the tears. "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to take them."

"But I would. If something happened at work or something, and it affected the way things were at home between me and you and Brooklyn, I would do it, and I know you wouldn't judge me for it, right?"

"Hold on." I had to get up and close my office door before the serious waterworks started.

"Okay," I said, "I just don't get it. How can Brooklyn be 18 months old and I still have post-partum depression?"

"Baby. You don't. You just have depression now."

Now I was bawling like a baby. "W-w-w-whyyyyyyy???"

"I don't know why, baby. We just have to deal with it."

"That's not fair. I wasn't like this before."

"I know."

"I hate me. I hate this."

"I know. But Brooklyn loves you, and I love you. And we need you to be happy."

It still took me two weeks to make myself go to the doctor. I did it though. I'm taking Cymbalta now. It's been three weeks, and I'm having a hard time on it. I am starting to feel less depressed, but I'm very, very sick to my stomach and exhausted all of the time. I'm also taking a new medication for my migraines along with it, so I'm not sure if they're working together to make me feel awful. The 14 pounds I've lost is not too shabby though. I'm working through it. This too shall pass, right? Just bear with me, bloggy friends.

So much for doing it all by myself.

28

I am 28 years old today.

The Blogger logo has a piece of birthday cake with a candle on it today. Do we share a birthday?

09/09/09.

That sounds pretty lucky.

I hope it is.

I am having one of those days where it is hard to even force a fake smile.

I have got to do something to get myself happy. I guess first I have to figure out what that is. I need to find me. I used to know who I was. I used to have an identity.

Brooklyn is the only thing in my life that makes me happy anymore. She is the only wonderful, beautiful, bright, sunny spot in a world of gray. And that means that when she is unhappy, even when it is just grumpy/whiny/sleepy/frustrated typical toddler unhappiness, I am miserable. I feel like a horrible mother, a horrible person when she is not blissfully happy. I feel like curling into a little ball and disappearing. Really, I just want to go to sleep when it's like that (when Dave's home, obviously), but I already feel so guilty about missing out on spending time with my Baby Bear.

There is so much more to this, but it doesn't belong in this post. Most of this really didn't either, but oh well.

I hate being like this.

28 has to get better.

I want a happy birthday. I want a happy 28.

And I close my eyes and wish.

The Book of Love

As I was gathering my things to leave for work yesterday morning, my mother in law sat on our couch and chatted away about what she and Brooklyn were going to do that day. She wanted to know where her best walking shoes were. "I read online that she should be able to walk backwards by now," she said. "So I'm going to take her on a walk and we're going to try it."

"Oh, okay," I replied. "Just remember, she's been a little behind on her motor development, so she might not be ready yet, and that's okay."

"Yeah, I know. But she's ahead on some things too. And she only does some of the weird things that Jon did when he was a baby."

I swallowed hard. Jon is my husband's younger brother, who is autistic and mentally retarded. We have not told my mother in law that we are having Brooklyn evaluated by Early Childhood Intervention or that we are afraid something could be wrong with her. She doesn't seem to have noticed that Brooklyn is no longer speaking words. She doesn't know that we are taking her to the doctor this Friday because we are afraid of what this could mean.

I tried to find my words and pushed the lump in my throat back down. "Um. Uh. What does she do that Jon did when he was a baby?"

"Well, you know how she plays by herself, and she gets off in her own little world, and you can't distract her from it? And you say her name and she doesn't look at you or anything? Jon was the only one of my kids who was like that."

"Oh."

"There's a lot of other stuff he did that was off that she doesn't do. So I think she's going to be fine by the time she starts school."

"Yeah." Fake smile. Outside in my car, I make a panicky call to David, and he tries to reassure me and tell me just to wait until Friday. He says things like maybe his mom doesn't remember which child did what. He tells me that all kids "zone out" when they're playing, that it's normal.

Maybe. But maybe not.

I am distracted all day long at work. My fingers think for themselves as they type away at reports on criminals while my mind is racing, playing the "what if" game. At lunch, I look up the age-appropriate milestone checklists again. I read over the possible early signs of autism again. My baby doesn't have all of these warning signs by any means. She still makes eye contact with me, she smiles, she laughs, she talks to herself in her baby language. She doesn't flap her hands or arms or organize her toys into categories. But that big red flag keeps jumping out at me....loss of words. Where did her words go? Why? I try to look for other causes of this, but everything I read mentions that dreaded A-word.

That evening, I leave work and drive across town to pick up one of Brooklyn's prescriptions. I am blaring one of my mix cd's, and Peter Gabriel's "Book of Love" begins to play. The beautiful sounds of the strings fill my ears, and I feel my heart breaking.



Ever since we started trying to conceive, David has had dreams of a little girl, our little daughter, playing a violin. He wants so badly for Brooklyn to play the violin, because I love them so much, and he has dreamed it vividly so many times. It paints a beautiful picture in my head as well. We have been so excited to see that Brooklyn appears to be so musically inclined...she loves to listen to music, she dances to every type of music she hears with a big grin on her face, she seems to feel the notes and chords and rhythms deep down inside her little body. "I can't wait to get her a violin," David said the other night. "I can't wait to hear her play it."

Fear ran through my body as I listened to the song playing, the strings swelling.

What if she CAN'T.

What if she can't do all of these other things that I want for her, that I dream of her being able to do. Doing well in school, becoming whatever she wants to be, getting married, having a family of her own. What if she can't do anything.

What if she's like my brother in law and can't ever live independently? What if, like him, she has to live isolated, trapped as an angry child within a grown-up body, unable to relate to anyone else? What if. Oh. My. God. What if.

I lost it. I sobbed hard all the way to the pharmacy, tears blurring my vision of the traffic, my throat so tight that it was painful to breathe, my chest feeling like it was going to burst wide open. "Dear God," I whispered, "Please let my baby be okay. Please let her start talking again. Don't do this to her. I can't take this."

These fucking what if's, and this fucking waiting game. I am not trying to dwell on the worst possible outcome, and I'm not trying to be negative, especially when we know nothing at this point. I don't want to jump to conclusions or assume anything. But I am so afraid. My mind wanders off to dark places these days, and sometimes I can't bring it back.

This machine cannot communicate these thoughts and the strain I am under....

I knew I hadn't blogged in a while, but I was shocked to get on here and see that it had been just a couple of days short of a month since my last entry.

Allow me to attempt to explain myself.

No, I can't give you a single specific reason why I haven't been writing. I will tell you that I started this blog to be my personal, somewhat-anonymous space where I could say what I wanted, where I could vent and worry and talk about things that I am normally too afraid to talk about in real life. Well, either afraid to talk about or I just don't feel like anyone wants to hear about it. And now, apparently I am getting that way with my blog too.

I could write about how more often than not, my marriage seems to be crumbling. How my husband and I fight for hours at a time, days at a time, yell at each other, and how I want to hit him so badly for saying the hurtful things he says to me. How I have cried so hard that I cannot stop and end up having panic attacks in the middle of the night, because I never, ever thought that we would be like this, and I never would have dreamed that I would feel the way that I do about him so often now.

I could blog about how my brother was living in a Wal-Mart because he has been kicked out of overy homeless shelter in town because he refuses to stop using drugs. I could tell you about the call my parents got from one of my brother's friends, saying that my brother had a cyanide pill and planned to take it soon to end his life. How my parents asked me to help, and so I knew nothing else to do but to use my connections at work to have a probation violation warrant issued for his arrest. I went and told his probation officer's supervisor about every violation that I knew of. I found out where he was going to be dropped off and when on the day said warrant was released. I stayed on the phone with the officers as they found and followed him, and arrested him. How my brother said he would kill himself in jail and my guilt related to that. What kind of person orchestrates her own brother's arrest? Me, apparently, when I see no other way to try to save him from himself. But if something happens to him behind those bars, I will never be able to forgive myself. Because although I am not the REASON he is in jail, I put him there.

I could write about my worst fear in the world right now...that at sixteen months, my baby girl has stopped using all of her words. How every word with the exception of "Dada" has seemingly disappeared from her little mind. That it has been nearly a month since I have heard her sweet, tiny baby voice say "Mama", "baby", "apple", "hi", "hey", "bye", "puppy", "egg", or "fish". That she no longer points at pictures in books, asking to hear the words for everything by saying "This? This?" How I am completely terrified of that horrible, ugly A-word...autism. That my husband is sick with worry over it because it runs in his family. "If she has it," he says, "it would be all my fault." And that it is taking what seems like a million years to have her evaluated or seen by her pedi. That I truly don't know if I could handle that diagnosis. I am so afraid to even think of it as a possibility, to type or speak the word. As if doing so will curse her with that condition or make it suddenly real. It tears me into a million little pieces.

I could write about any of those things.

But I end up pushing it all back down inside, rolling my fear and anger and guilt and sadness and worry into a ball in the pit of my stomach, and not using this blog for what it was intended to be - my only outlet for all of these feelings and fears. I tell myself that no one wants to read whiny, negative entries. That if I write the things that I am thinking, that people will think I am some kind of self-pitying, bitchy, crybaby drama queen.

And then I can't think of anything else I have to say, because all of these horrible feelings seem to consume me completely these days.

And no one wants to hear about that, right?

A perfect heart

Brooklyn had her cardiologist appointment on Wednesday. The doctor listened to her heart for quite a while, then did an ECHO. Then he told us that the hole in Brooklyn's heart (a ventricular septal defect) had completely closed! He said that she had "a perfect heart" now! And she no longer needs to see the cardiologist! I just wanted to hug him. It is so wonderful to know that something that has caused us a lot of worry is ALL BETTER. I hope the same will happen with her airway issues and her reflux in the near future too.

Brooklyn weighed 12 pounds, 13 ounces on the scale at the cardiologist's office. Not as bad as the 12 pounds, 7 ounces she weighed the day before on the gastroenterologist's scale, but still some weight loss. Sigh.

She got her Synagis shot right after we saw her cardiologist. Her cardiologist is her only specialist that we get to see here in our hometown instead of driving to Dallas. They come to our pediatrician's office once a month to see their patients here, which is nice. Dr. A's nurse gave Brooklyn the Synagis shot, and she did really well. She cried, but stopped as soon as I picked her up. Dr. A is having a flu shot clinic tomorrow and I am supposed to take Brooklyn to get a flu shot then. She has to get the flu shot twice and will get Synagis shots every month throughout RSV season.

We went to visit Beth, our wonderful lactation consultant, after we got done at the doctor's office. It was so good to see her, since it had been about three months. I just love her! She has been such a great source of support since Brooklyn was born. I always feel so relaxed as soon as I walk through her door. Not only did she help me get my newborn baby to eat and gain weight (which I promise you was no small feat), she was my shoulder to cry on for the first few months of Brooklyn's life. She always comforted me, understood me, hugged on me, and told me that everything I was feeling was normal and okay. She called my OB when Brooklyn was about 7 weeks old and got me an appointment to see her because I was so depressed. I felt like I was going to die. I didn't think I could do this anymore. I thought that there was no way I could love my baby enough or be thankful enough for her. I wasn't sleeping because I thought that God was going to punish me by taking Brooklyn from me during the night. I felt like the worst mother in the world and I thought that my baby would be better off without me around. And I couldn't tell anyone but Beth. That's when my OB put me on medication for PPD. Beth was the only person that I could talk to about the whole ordeal. She will always mean so much to me for being there through all of that, and I can never thank her enough!

Anyway, Brooklyn and I hung out with Beth for a couple of hours. Oh, and Brooklyn weighed 12 pounds, 12 ounces on her scale. A mommy with a 12-day-old baby came in and I got to talk to her some. She was crying and was really overwhelmed and exhausted. It made me realize how far Brooklyn and I have come. Yes, I still feel overwhelmed and inadequate and all of that at times...but I don't feel the way that I did when Brooklyn was 12 days old. Overall, things are much better now because I don't constantly feel like there is no way that I can do this parenting thing. It made me kind of proud to realize that Brooklyn and I are both making progress.

#$^@&%!

I am so damn mad today. I don't have one specific reason why or anything in particular that set me off...I'm just angry. And anger is not really my emotion of choice. I don't like it, and I'm not usually like this.

But I spent much of my day at work halfway wishing that one of my clients would try to attack me so that I could kick and hit the crap out of them. When I got gas on the way home, I thought, "If someone tried to rob me, I would get to stomp the hell out of them, and it would be okay."

What is that all about??? Weird. I know it is.

Don't worry, I would never actually haul off and hit someone, no matter how good I think it might feel. That's not my style. I bottle it up and pretend all is well instead.

Part of the problem, I think, is that for the past week, I can't cry. I feel profoundly and deeply sad, and all I can do is just feel sad. I'm on the verge of crying my eyes out, but nothing happens. I feel like a huge rock is stuck in my throat, my heart is beating fast, my stomach ties itself into a thousand knots, I feel shaky/panicky/anxious. My thoughts race with all that I am worried and sad about. And no tears, even though I feel like I really, really, need to let them out. Is my medicine doing this to me or something??? I truly don't know.

I'm so mad that Brooklyn's doctors can't figure out what is wrong with her. I'm so angry that she has to be in pain. What could she have possibly done in her 6 short months of life to deserve to hurt so much? She screamed for over an hour tonight, horribly sad, painful, gut-wrenching screams. When she's like that, her face is so sad, it breaks my heart wide open. She makes these pitiful "ooohh ooohh ooohh" noises when she calms down a bit from the screaming, and she's still crying, and the noises just sound to me like "Help me, mama, please, help me" and I CAN'T. I do everything I know to do and nothing works. She's in pain...I know she is...you can't hear these cries and believe otherwise...she's arching her back and those screams just aren't normal. She hasn't been able to eat well since last night...lots of gagging and screaming at the bottle. I just want to crumple up into a ball and sob with her as I rock her, because I'm so damn sorry I can't fix it. It feels like a knife is being twisted into my heart. But of course, I can't cry with her because I can't cry.

I'm angry that we have to wait so long to even take the next step to try to find out what the problem is. I'm pissed that this many pediatric specialists are having this hard of a time figuring her out. Is it seriously that hard??? I'm angry that I keep having to put her through all these tests. Are we even doing the right thing? I don't really know.

Then I am mad about our financial situation, how Dave got demoted at the worst possible time. I'm trying to figure out how we are going to afford everything. We got an unexpected phone bill for $368 from our old phone company today. That's going to be half of Dave's check. It's so stupid. How are we going to afford that??? I don't think the bill is correct. I called customer service and griped at the lady on the phone. I hoped she would get rude with me so that I could yell at her, but no such luck. She put me on hold for 20 minutes and I just gave up.

I'm pissed off that my place of work won't help us out by letting me use the sick leave pool to take care of Brooklyn. That the HR woman repeatedly shows how little she cares by refusing to lift a finger to call me back and tell me that she doesn't really intend to try to help me. I'm mad that I don't have the money to be able to afford to take time off without pay to take care of my little baby bear.

She is so, so wonderful. After I got home from work today, she grabbed both of my cheeks and pulled my face against hers. So incredibly sweet. I'm angry that I can't enjoy this more because I am constantly so sad and scared and upset. Why can't I just be happier? I'm so grateful and so blessed and have everything to be happy about. What the hell is wrong with me? Seriously, who does things like this???

On top of everything, I get pissed at myself for being mad. And I feel so guilty for feeling the way I do. There are so many people that have it so much worse than we do. I know that. Parents whose babies are much sicker than Brooklyn, who have something wrong with them that can't be cured, who are terminally ill. I know that there are mommies who have lost their babies and I can't even imagine their pain. I don't have things nearly as bad as those people. Thinking of their situations makes me feel so guilty every time I talk to anyone about Brooklyn's medical issues. I feel like I don't have the right to even say anything that might make it seem that I am not so, so thankful for all we have. I know things could be so much worse. Trust me, I do. So I feel like a whiny, complaining little brat when I tell people what's going on...even the super short synopsis. I really hope that others don't see me that way, but I'm afraid that they might.

I just want to scream so bad...but I can't. I'm holding my baby and she is finally sleeping. And I feel a little bit better after venting here. Thanks for listening.

The space between us

I never, ever, ever would have thought that starting a family would be so hard on my marriage.

Last night, my hubby told me that he doesn’t feel close to me at all anymore. He wanted to know whether I still loved him. If I knew that he loved me. He said that he feels completely useless and unwanted.

Not that any of this was really news to me. We have had abbreviated versions of this conversation several times over the past few months. There is such a distance between us now. I think it’s just the stress we’ve been under, but I don’t know. We don’t have time for each other. We are often in the same room but barely talk to each other. We snap at each other over seemingly minor things. I have absolutely no desire to be intimate with him.

David said that there are three things that really upset him: 1. He can’t “fix” Brooklyn’s medical problems. 2. Because of that, he can’t “fix” me (the post-partum depression). 3. He doesn’t think that I am at all attracted to him anymore. He feels like he has had to almost force me to have sex with him the few times it has happened since Brooklyn was born. He doesn’t feel wanted.

I can’t seem to make him understand that it really isn’t anything personal. I am so, so, so tired and so, so, so stressed out. I know he is both of those things also. But I can’t ever put it aside. I stay sad and weepy and exhausted. I feel guilty and inadequate. I am anxious and worried and scared. I use what little energy I have at the end of the day to take care of Brooklyn. To try to be happy around her. To try to be a good mommy. I don’t have any energy left for what he wants from me.

Furthermore, as a man, he doesn’t comprehend that I can’t be in the mood to be close in that way when I don’t feel close to him in any other way. And I can’t really explain why we aren’t close in any other way now.

David and I were so close and such good friends that we didn’t have problems with some things that are regarded as being hard on a marriage. “The first year of marriage is the hardest year you will ever have,” we were repeatedly told. Our first year was a breeze. No problems. “Working opposite shifts will put a toll on your marriage,” they said. Nope. We made time for each other and we were great. We felt like we were closer than most couples were and thought that was the reason we didn’t have a hard time with those things.

This is not to say that our relationship has always been perfect. Of course not. But when there have been problems, we have quickly worked through them. And now it seems that we can’t. I don’t know what to do.

“I wish I was better,” he said. I asked him what that meant. “A better husband. A better dad. A better provider so you didn’t have to work.”

“I wish I was better,” I told him. “I should be happier now than I’ve ever been. I have to take these damn pills just to deal with life, and they don’t even really work. I’ve always wanted what I have right now, and I can’t be happy. I don’t understand.”

Useless

I am so frustrated.

I got home from work. I tried to nurse Brooklyn. It only worked for a couple of minutes, and she was pulling off every couple of sucks. She ended up screaming, and Dave made a bottle for me to give her.

I eat dinner, then I go and take a nap, because Dave is working a security job until 6 a.m. I wake up. Brooklyn isn't crying. Dave gives her to me, and she starts crying. I offer her my breast, and she screams inconsolably. She cries. I cry. Dave makes her another bottle and leaves. I just finished giving it to her.

She's asleep. But I'm still crying.

I feel like she doesn't want me. I'm working so hard to continue pumping while working full time and breastfeeding while I'm home. Why? She doesn't even want me. Even her doctors want me to either quit or exclusively pump. I try even harder to make it work. She's sick. She needs the best nutrition that only I can give her. But I can't give it to her if she won't take it. I feel like the most useless person, a ridiculous excuse for a mother.

I will post later about what's been going on with her doctors. We have to take her to Dallas (2 hrs away) to a new pediatric pulmonologist this Thursday. I'm too stressed about this right now.

I don't know what to do....how do I make her eat from me? I know she needs the breastmilk. And why can't I quit crying about this? I just love her so much and I wish I could feel a little of that in return. Is that stupid? Probably.

Heron Blue

"Heron Blue" by Sun Kil Moon

don't cry my love
don't cry no more
a crashing sky, a roaring scream
a city drowned in god's black tears
i cannot bear to see you

she lay under the midnight moon
her restless body stirring
until the magic morning hour
like poison, it succumbs her

her baby skin, her old black dress
hair twists round her necklace
constricts and chokes like ruthless vines
til sleep, she overtakes her

her room is painted heron blue
lit by candlelight and chandelier
and from her headboard perched so high
a million dreams have passed her

don't cry my love
don't cry no more
it overwhelms my breaking heart
her mind a swell of violins
i cannot bear to hear them

a mother shepherds her young birds
she fills their mouths and warms their souls
til they are strong and good to fly
away from her, alone she'll die

cradled on quiet old oak limb
as heaven blew her light fell in
a breath of soot into her lungs
a life a journey's end in one

don't sing that old sad hymn no more
it resonates inside my soul
it haunts me in my waking dreams
i cannot bear to hear it

don't play those violins no more
their melancholic overtones
they echo off the floor and moan
i cannot bear to hear them

Bonded?

Today when I came home from work, I picked Brooklyn up and she started fussing. She was fine until I held her. And that was all I had been wanting to do all day long. It broke my heart.

I am scared that she is going to be closer to her grandmothers and my hubby than me. It shouldn't be that way. It makes me so sad. I just want to be at home with her. I think Mondays are the worst for me at work because I have been glued to her all weekend, and I feel completely lost spending the day without a baby in my arms. Or attached to my boob.

Sometimes I feel like the only thing I can do to make Brooklyn happy is nurse her. That's the one thing I can do with her and for her that no one else can. I love to hold her against me and know that I am giving her the best nutrition she could possibly have. I rub her back and stroke her fuzzy hair while she eats. I gaze at her delicate little face, watching all of her expressions, in awe of her rapidly changing features. Sometimes she grasps my finger with her tiny hand, or holds on to my shirt. She feeds for a loooong time, and then lays her head on my breast to sleep. I don't mind how long it takes...I feel so bonded to her then. I love our cuddle time.

So, nursing is good. But sometimes it seems like that's all I've got. If that's the only way I can soothe her, and the best way I have to bond with her, what happens when she's not breastfeeding anymore? I'm scared she won't have any use for me then.

A crying shame

Post-partum depression is:

-Feeling like you could never be a good enough mother for this beautiful little angel. That you can never do anything right and that your baby will always deserve a better mommy than you.

-Feeling guilty because you should be happier right now than you have ever been. And you're so thankful, and so in love with your baby, and so amazed by her...but not happy. Why?????

-Being afraid that you will never, ever feel normal again. You've become a shell of yourself.

-Crying yourself to sleep at night because you are so, so sad and hopeless...but you're not sure exactly why.

-Having so much anxiety about every little thing. Ending up so overwhelmed that you just can't do anything.

-Keeping how you feel a secret from nearly everyone...only your husband, OB, and lactation consultant know about your "diagnosis."

-Putting on a show around your family and friends so they'll think you're okay. This makes you even more exhausted than you already constantly feel.

-Being afraid that when people hear the words "post-partum depression" they will automatically judge you and think that you don't love your baby. Or take her from you because they think you are the next Andrea Yates.

-Being so ashamed to talk about it that you hesitate to even post about it on your blog because of what total strangers will think of you.

There. I've put it out there now.

Breathe, baby, breathe

So, I have this sleeping problem.

The problem is that I can't sleep at night if I'm home alone. Not because I'm lonely or insecure or anything like that. I'm scared.

I am terrified that Brooklyn is going to stop breathing. I'm petrified of SIDS. I have to stay awake and make sure she is still breathing. I'm scared to death that just the two of us will be at home and something will happen to her in her sleep. I'm afraid that she will make some kind of noise while suffocating and I won't hear her, or I won't be able to see her in the dark or get to her in time.

I know I would never forgive myself if something happened to her. I have to protect my sweet baby from that horrible monster, SIDS. And sometimes I think that God is going to think I'm not a good enough mom, or think that I'm not grateful enough for her, and take her from me. She's the best part of me, the best thing that ever happened to me. She is more important than anything. I love her so much that it literally hurts sometimes. I couldn't handle losing her. I know I would die. And I have such anxiety about this that I have even had several panic attacks since she was born. I don't know why my mind does this to me.

This fear has intensified since Brooklyn went to the pediatric cardiologist 4 weeks ago. He told me that the type of heart murmur she has (a ventricular septal defect - VSD) can cause too much blood to go to her lungs. "Keep an eye on her breathing, especially when she's sleeping," he said. I became even more afraid after Brooklyn started making this horrible noise with every breath she took last Monday. She had an upper GI done, and it turned out the noise was due to gastroesophageal reflux and tracheomalacia, not an airway obstruction or anything with her lungs. But I am still just so afraid of the worst.

So I sit awake and hold her, so that I can always hear her.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Then I can let myself breathe.

Most nights, my husband gets home from work by about 2 a.m. On Tuesday nights, he works an extra security job until 6 a.m. Every day, he tells me to try to sleep when Brooklyn sleeps. And every day, he comes home to me sitting on the couch, holding the baby.

I don't know why I can sleep when my husband is home. I don't understand why that changes things for me. How is it any different if he's there, but asleep too? I don't know. I still lay there and worry for a while, I still listen for her little breaths. But I can let it go and drift off to sleep after a while, as long as I'm not alone.

It's okay for now, because I don't have to wake up at any particular time in the morning, except when Brooklyn wants to nurse. But I have to go back to work in 12 days. I don't know how I'm going to function then.