Pause

Do you ever find yourself looking for a pause button? That things are getting a little out of control and you need to stop, drop, and take a moment to catch your breath? Not the stop button, that's not what you're searching for, but just a breath, a moment, a pause. 

I just finished my first clinical placement in the midwifery program. Four months of following midwives around and being thrown into as many learning opportunities as (superhumanly) possible. I took blood, started IVs, performed vaginal exams, read lab reports, palpated bellies, examined tiny, minutes-old newborns, listened to fetal heartbeats, and, oh right, I caught babies. With my own two hands. As in a woman pushed her baby into the world and I was there to catch its round, soft head in my hands, asking her to push just one more time so that I could reach the baby's shoulders, and then, after the baby swam the rest of the way out into the world, I did my most important job--I lifted to the baby to its mama. I'm going to tell you a secret: it doesn't get much better than that.

I'm two years into my midwifery education program now. It's hard to believe that I'm here at this point, the point at which I can stand in the middle of this enormous, life-changing program and look back to my eager, excited, and wide-eyed first year self. The thing is, I'm still eager, excited, and wide-eyed, these two years later, probably more so now that I've dipped my toes in clinical practice.

It's only been two weeks since my placement ended, and it's still a little too fresh in my mind for me to talk about all the feelings, feelings that are still swimming around in my head, deciding where to land. I'm trying to navigate around the ups and downs of learning how to be a midwife, from the highs of being a witness and a participant in the birth of a human being, to the lows of sleep deprivation, to the complicated middle place of being challenged/judged/evaluated/supported as I learn my way around caring from women and their babies.

It's intense and amazing. Let me leave it there for now.

Sometimes we pause. Or at least, sometimes I pause. I'm pressing the button, just for a short while. For the next year I am taking a medical leave from my program, because while I've been in school these past two years, I've also been figuring out how to cope with fibromyalgia. I was diagnosed a few months before I started midwifery school and frankly I didn't quite know what to do the diagnosis. It felt (and still feels) like this fuzzy, catchall for someone who is depressed, exhausted and in chronic pain. I was diagnosed, like most people, after no other disease or syndrome could be identified, a sort of last-minute declaration that since it isn't all these Other Things, it must be This Thing. Truthfully, I've never really done much with the diagnosis. I've made half-efforts at caring for myself with my diagnosis in mind, but it's always come second, third, tenth behind all of life's other responsibilities: parenting, working, and midwifery school.

I'm reaching for the pause button because I need to finally pay some attention to my own health. As first year midwifery school turned into second year and clinical placement, my health strategy of sticking my head in the sand declared itself to be a shitty plan. My exhaustion got worse (no big surprise), my body ached, I moved slower and slower, became more and more depressed, and I gained weight (because I needed another thing). Through all of this I was willing and able to do the hard work of clinical placement, motivated by the all those eager and excited feelings I mentioned above.

Now, I'm depleted. I need some time. I want to take a moment, sit awhile, and come to terms with the fact that my health sucks. Most days I feel like I'm one hundred years old (and not one of those spry and youthful hundred year olds we read about on facebook. I'm talking bent over, shuffling, declaring things like "Oh! My aching back!" kind of centenarian). Grumpy, too, just ask Matty. But the thing is, I'm not 100, I am 37, and I want to feel that way. I owe it to myself, to Matty, to my girls. And most importantly I think, with some hard work I can feel more like the healthy almost-40 year old I know is hiding behind all the fibro symptoms. But I can't do this without a break from midwifery school. I just can't.

And so I stop and take a breath. For the next year (the duration of my medical leave) I will make it my business to discover what I need to feel vibrant again (and my vibrant might look different from your vibrant, but the point is that I am desperately craving some lightness and sparkle). Here is to my year of health! And to me oversharing about it! Yes, I will be blogging about my adventures in learning how to leap and cartwheel through my days, rather than hobble my way through another unbelievably busy year. Knowing what I know about my (un)health habits, I truly believe that I can find a point at which my health doesn't stand in the way of my thriving as a student midwife.

I'll see you around then.

Ready, set, pause.

xo

Be well!

P.S. I caught that baby.

(Photo used with permission.)

Exhale

Wow. Writing about my experiences with depression and anxiety was a good thing. Of course I worried that I'd shared too much, but something told me otherwise. Maybe that something was the hope that someone would hear me and say, yes, that's me, too. It turns out that something was right.

So many people have reached out in the past few days. I can't even begin to describe what that feels like. But I'll try: You are all good people. I am grateful for your shared stories and your shoulders to lean on, long-distance as they might be. I am sad because some of you feel the same way. I am inspired that some of you have chosen to deal with own depression, in part because you read my post. I am a bit wobbly from the realization that more than my mother and best friend read what I write here each week. I am encouraged to stand with you, shoulder to shoulder, against the shame so many of us feel when our lives don't run smoothly. I am here, for the long haul, so pull up a chair.

Things are changing around here, and while I'm not sure what shapes will form, I know I'm headed in a good direction. I feel overwhelmed on a daily basis, but underneath that I know there is strength. I think that's what I've forgotten all along. I'm still there, underneath all the details. Thanks for helping me remember.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

Be well!

I'm feeling a bit chatty

This. Week.

Don't let the door smack you on the way out. It wasn't a bad week exactly, just one that kicked my ass. I have a post that is five lines short of being published, waiting since Monday to be finished. Seriously? Five lines. But the needs of my week stomped on my blog post and pushed their way ahead in line. It was a bossy week.

There were multiple appointments at the doctor. A big deadline for work. An application due. And two nutty children, as per usual. Now I have a chest cold. Awesome.

This post was going to be a short rant about my week overwhelming me, but just this second it is changing to a post about depression and anxiety. I have both of them and I've been ignoring them for a long time. I'm all of a sudden writing about this today because I'm coming to realize that suffering from depression and too much anxiety is terribly annoying and really gets in the way of my coping with daily and weekly obligations. I don't think everything is filtered through this, but it shows up a lot. Remember when I wrote about yelling? That was my depression getting really loud. When I posted that my cousin called me out on it, gently suggesting that impatience and irritability is a sign of depression. I knew that, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too busy yelling and being irritable.

I almost never talk about my depression, and I certainly don't ever write about it. Another cousin of mine (I have really good ones) asked me months ago if I would write about postpartum depression. I've been sitting on that request for some time now, assuming that I'll write it next week, or maybe the next. But the problem is I never do. I've been dealing with depression and anxiety for ten years but I almost never share it with anyone. I am too much the happy person to be such a drag about feeling sad or overwhelmed or irritable. Because the thing is, I am happy a lot of the time. I'm not faking it when I see you and give you a big hug and tell you that you look beautiful and I'm happy to see. These children of mine? I love them so much my heart actually smiles. And Matt makes me roll my eyes laugh so hard I count myself as one of the luckiest ones. But that doesn't mean that I don't also feel overwhelmed and sometimes a bit lost. The lows of the past two years have been hard to handle some days, and I don't think anyone would be surprised that I've had a hard time managing. Not always a hard time, but often enough.

You see, I don't even talk about it with those close to me. I have a couple of friends who know me well enough to ask, but mostly I keep it under wraps (not the most fabulous way to deal with depression, in case you're wondering). I've just barely talked about it with my family. It's Matt that gets the whole me, who listens to me go on and on and on about my feelings. Poor guy. He's full of so many good strategies to help me feel more in control, but I'm a slow learner. Sorry, Matty, but I come with other benefits, like the ability to bake at a moment's notice, my witty basketball commentary, and that constellation of freckles on my thigh that forms an almost perfect Big Dipper.

Yet I'll post about it on a blog. I'm complicated that way.

I have this pesky quality where I believe somewhere deep down that it is my responsibility to make others happy. I think this might get in the way of my dealing honestly with my inability to keep myself together. As much as I speak honestly about my preferences, I think I bury my needs somewhere under that unyielding desire to be responsible for your feelings. That, and I'm afraid you won't like me, a quality that I must take ownership of if I'm going to get anywhere. I care too much about what others think and this gets me into big trouble. I put my needs last on the list because I put everyone else's needs (or what I think are their needs) first. And then I go home and avoid my own needs and responsibilities because by that point I'm crawling out of my skin.

Some people thrive under stress. Others, like me, get depressed and anxious and start wringing their hands. I spend hours worrying in my head instead of doing the things that need to get done, even though completing said things would probably make me feel better. But it isn't having a long list that makes me depressed and anxious, I know that. This goes back further, back to my biology. I'm pretty certain that I'm wired to react to the world this way, a mixture of good-natured, joyful, and anxious. I'm coming to see that I can't ignore this part of me anymore than I can ignore my body's slowing metabolism (hello, there). Just like I can exercise more and help encourage my body to stay in shape (I love how I write that as though I could be exercising more), I can do things that help me manage my moods. 

I've been on and off (mostly off) medication for ten years and I'm back on now, but making the appointment to try medication again was not easy. Do you know why? Because my depression doesn't always look like depression to me, like the commercials I see of people stuck in bed or on the couch. I am always busy, always running around after two children. I didn't see myself in the posters I see on the bus that gently encourage people to seek help from their doctor if they experience any of the following symptoms: lethargy, not getting out of bed, suicidal thoughts. That's not me. My depression feels like this: everything is hard. Getting my jobs done? Hard. Deciding what to make for dinner? Hard. Making any decision? Impossible. The same thing happened when I experienced postpartum depression (yup, had that twice). As a reader and constant researcher I started turning to books and blogs about PPD and I didn't see myself there. I wasn't having negative thoughts about my babies. I was sleeping (as much as a new parent sleeps). It was just hard and I felt overwhelmed and alone some most days.

So this is why I'm writing this today. Maybe someone else's depression looks like mine. Maybe this is you, and you need a nudge to dig around and see if medication might help (mine is helping a lot). I have a lot of work to do around this, I know that. Medication can't make me stop caring about what other people think, that's all me. But maybe it can give me the pause to do this work, give me a break from that feeling like I'm drowning in the day.

Or maybe I'm writing this today because I know that it is for the good. Maybe if I post this today it will become easier and easier to be honest. With myself, with my family, and with you. This is me being dreadfully honest, so go easy on me. Medication was my first step. Telling a few people about it was my second. Now here I am, telling you that sometimes life feels really hard but I'm trying. Trying to do what I can, trying to drink in these early years with our children, trying to give myself a break. 

Now I'm going to hit publish before I can talk myself out of it.

Be well!

d