The LDS Church & It's "New" Policy

I was sitting on a bench at the dance studio, waiting for Malia's class to get out.  Nothing out-of-the-ordinary; I do this a minimum of 3 times a week.  I received a text from my little sister who lives in Utah.  She tends to hear about these things before I do, due to geographic proximity.  I clicked on the link and began to read.

My stomach knotted, and I felt an overall feeling of "yuck."  My usual jovial conversations with surrounding moms ceased, and I read the article over and over.  Something about it didn't sit well with me.  This is not a feeling I am accustomed to when I hear things from the leaders of the Church. I began a frantic google search on my phone for other sources or official statements.  The internet at the studio moves at a snail's pace.  I gave up and stared at the wall in front of me as the final 5 minutes of Malia's class seemed to tick ever-so-slowly by.  I sent the link to my husband who was at home, getting the other 3 kids to bed, imagining he would somehow, miraculously, find a free minute away from a chaotic bedtime routine, truly outnumbered, to read it and extinguish my building anxiety with a comprehension that had somehow passed me by.

Malia came out of her class and I faked a smile and a hug, asking her how class went.  As we drove home, I listened in a perplexed silence as she chatted on about friends and dance routines.  At home, kids were running amuck, avoiding their father's pleas to calm down and "JUST GO TO BED!"  It took about another 20 minutes but, eventually, they were all tucked in with lights out.

When we got downstairs, I asked David if he'd read the link.

"Sort of."

"It's actually really bothering me..."

"Why?" he asked.  He clearly hadn't done more than lightly perused it.

A wall of tears pushed through the damns of earlier resistance.  I began to unleash the frustration and the confusion that had been building up inside for the previous hour.  I couldn't understand why it seemed as if the place of worship that I had grown to understand as a defender of the right to be a free agent had taken that away from so many.  I was being ripped in half by an unconditional, devoted love for my faith, and the pain and sympathy I felt for so many of my amazing homosexual LDS friends who still loved a gospel they had felt betrayed by but might still want for their children.  The Mormon in me was angry, and the mother in me was anguished.

It sounds incredibly dramatic, but it was the reality for me in that moment.

I knew I couldn't go on facebook.  I have too many Mormon friends.  I have too many gay friends. And I have a startling number of friends that are a combination of both.  The torrent I felt inside didn't need to be exacerbated by the hurricane I would likely encounter there.

I have never been so affected by a policy in the Church as I was by this news at this moment.  I grew up in the Church.  I was always active and did my part.  I was, personally, converted to its teachings when I was around 13/14 years old.  I have never considered myself a "blind follower."  It is not in my nature to be a lemming.  Far from it, in fact.  I will rarely do anything that I don't feel 100% committed to in my heart.  It is one of my greatest strengths and deepest flaws.  There have been moments here and there where Church leaders have said things that have taken time to settle in, or even required some time alone with my thoughts, prayers, and a need for personal revelation to convince me of its rightness.

But, this was the first time I've ever felt completely knocked over by something that I just couldn't see myself finding peace with.  This was the first time I'd ever pictured the Brethren in my mind, and thought, "What were they thinking?  How could this possibly come from the God I know?!"

I cried for a good length of time, as my husband sat in stunned silence.  I'm not really sure where he stands on this issue; he's an internalizer.  We were having friends over that night.  Friends from out-of-town.  Friends who are probably in my top 10 friends of all time.  So, I had to swallow it down.  They are LDS as well, but hadn't heard as they'd been playing at Disneyland all day.  We touched on it a little, but I didn't want to put a damper on the night since we hadn't seen each other in so long.

I woke up several times that night with an uneasiness I just couldn't shake.  In the morning, I was exhausted, swollen-eyed, and had a pressure headache from the dehydration.  I braved facebook and read dozens of articles filled with "pros" and "cons" (I inserted the quotation marks on purpose).    There was a toxicity there.  People who were defending the policy were doing so in a pious, unempathetic manner.  They were calloused and almost, I hate to say it, bigoted.  Those opposing it were taking it personally and offensively, making comments about a choice being taken from them I highly doubted they would choose, anyway.  I was desperate for a place in the middle where I could reconcile the strength of my testimony with the hurt... and I couldn't find it.  I decided to immerse myself in a project that needed finishing.  With the girls in school, and JD playing on the floor behind me, I found solace in music & lyrics.

https://soundcloud.com/user138886209/beautiful-city

It plagued my mind all day as I went about my duties as mother and wife.  Just before I went to bed, an official interview with D. Todd Christofferson, a member of the quorum of the Twelve, surfaced on my social media feed.

I watched it.  He said what I expected him to say.   He said it in a straightforward, albeit loving, way. I went up to bed and laid quietly in the dark as I waited for some sort of insight outside of myself.

As I type this, you may be waiting for the conclusion I likely have come to.

I have no intelligent argument for or against this policy.  I don't have years of Church history-backed explanations or justifications of how this will somehow keep families in tact.  Also, I personally have found a life in the quintessential understanding of what family is in the church with my bishopric-member husband and 4 beautiful children who enjoy singing songs in primary about Jesus without possible exposure to doctrines that could be painful.

But I have come to a conclusion; it's the same conclusion I come to cyclically, and it never fails me.

I know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints teaches the truest principles that can be found on this earth.  I've known it since I was 14 years old.   Coming to that conclusion was a journey that had peaks and valleys, and it is a conclusion that I continue to have to come to all throughout my life; and I have every time. Even in my darkest hours and in my most "rebellious" moments, nothing has been able to shake that.  I don't know if I will ever understand the reasonings behind this approach taken by the leaders of the Church.  But I can't deny my unwavering faith in who they are.  They are JUST MEN.  But they are as close to a tangible voice from God as we have.  And they have a task before them that I don't envy.  As the world "progresses," the church will appear more and more archaic, out-of-touch, and even cruel.  God is merciful and loving... but we often forget that He is also just, because it forces us to face a frightening accountability.  I have come to understand the importance of this as a parent myself. I have mercy for my children tenfold, but it cannot overtake a need for justice in my efforts to help them grow to be GOOD PEOPLE.  And both of those things are fostered out of my love for them and who I desperately hope they will become.  The parallel with God as our Father is glaringly obvious.

I am not quite in agreement with this policy.  I may never be.  But I will pray every day for my understanding of this to be at peace with my soul, as I will also pray daily for the healing of the spirits and souls that this policy has truly pained.

But, I could never turn my back on my faith.

It's never done so to me...

A Different Kind of Celebration

JD's 1st birthday is a week from tomorrow.  A 1st birthday is a big deal when it's your 1st child.  It's a pretty big deal when it's your last child.

And it's a pretty massive deal when it marks survival.

I made it.

I'm here.

Holy crap.

I'm. Here.

Sometimes I feel like I have so many words to describe the battle of depression.  Often, though, it renders me speechless because it's everything and nothing, all at the same time.  It's everything because it takes over and incapacitates and destroys and siphons.  It's nothing because you can't see it or predict it or recognize tangible symptoms or patterns.  There are times I feel like I could give sermons and reach out to all of the people in the world who have struggled with the debilitation of it, and there are other times when I feel like I need to shut up because mine is "only temporary."

Postpartum.

It is defined as the period of time following childbirth.  But how long is that time?  And how long does that time feel? And how long is that period of time when it describes your depression?

Eternity.

Depression runs in my family, as is often the case for most things in life.  My beautiful, talented, smart, charismatic, feisty, strong-willed grandmother had it.  My beautiful, talented, smart, charismatic, loving, sensitive mother has it.  My grandmother dealt with it during a time when it wasn't spoken of.  I can't even imagine what that must've been like.  Depression tells you enough lies as it is.  To throw the idea on top of it that you, and only you, are dealing with it because you don't know what it is?  That must have been a literal living nightmare. My mom deals with it amongst peers who are finally willing to label it, but they still bury it under the stigma they believe it holds:  "You're 'less than'."  "You're weak."  Or, my personal favorite, "You can pray it away...".

*insert fits of maniacal laughter here*

But than again, I'm "lucky."  I was able to honestly say it had gone away when CC was about 6 months old.  With Daphne?  About 9 months.  This time?  I can't say.  Maybe 10-11 months?  Pretty sure it's gone.

Pretty sure.

When I was in high school, I lost my voice ALL. THE. TIME.  I was hoarse more often than I wasn't.  I was always singing or yelling... or an unfortunate combination of both.   And every time I would lose my voice, a panic would set in.  "This time is the last time," my anxiety would tell me.  "This is it.  You've done your voice in for good.  Your one gift is gone forever. You will never sing again."

That's how my postpartum depression has felt.  After dealing with it for the (officially) 3rd time (jury's still out on whether or not I had it after Malia), even though I mostly feel like I'm back, there's the quiet hum in the recesses of my soul that tells me it will never go away for good.  Not this time.  "This time is the last time," it tells me.  "This is it.  You're stuck with it for life. You will never function as 'you' again."

But the anxiety attacks are gone and have been for a while.  Most of my anger is triggered by something pretty much any sane person would be angry at.  I don't cry at nothing anymore. Ok, I do.  But I've always been a crier.  However, the hot tears of anguish that are accompanied with an inability to breathe or even focus on the reality of the situation are gone.  I am capable of looking forward to things.  And, most importantly, the catalyst - my son - is never the cause of my frustrations.  Oh, sure, that will change in another year when he's officially a toddler and a terror.  But right now, I look at him and am overwhelmed by the blessing he is in my life and the joy he fills my soul with, just as his sisters before him have done.  And, while I infinitely love my children from the beginning... liking them and being grateful for them is something that takes me coming out of the fog, haze, and weight of a disease.

Forgetfulness is an interesting thing, though.  I know that it wasn't that long ago that I was huddled in a corner, hyperventilating, my body wracked with inexplicable sobbing.  And yet, here I am, at the other end, telling myself of the things I've learned: more patience, more gratitude, more humility, more empathy.

Not gonna' lie.  Would like to have learned it another way.

I am not a private person, much to the chagrin of my very private husband.  I have been open about my struggles from the beginning.  It's interesting to see the faces of people when they hear me admit it; almost like they wish they could unhear it because they don't know how to handle it.   Tell someone you've battled cancer, you're a hero.  Reflect upon your struggles with diabetes, you're a saint.  Share that story about the time you ran a marathon in spite of your history with asthma, you're a warrior.  Reveal that you're fighting depression, and you're... fragile.  And that's total bullhockey (pardon my french).  Since my own personal battle with depression has begun, I've discovered that some of the coolest, most interesting, inspiring, admirable, capable, and strong people I've ever met are also battling depression.  Fragile, my tukhus! (Again, with the french.  Well, technically, yiddish).

But women have reached out to me.   I can't explain the feeling I get when someone comes to me in private and confesses their own battle, seeking guidance and refuge, and how I'm almost PROUD to say, "I know how you feel."

PROUD of the PAIN?!

Why, yes I am!  Because I'm part of a special club, now.  A club with some pretty prestigious members.  And our pain is unique.  But it's always valid.  If I could say one thing to a person fighting depression, that would be it.  "Your pain is VALID.  It's not a cancerous tumor or a broken bone or a heart attack, but it is still VALID."  That, and talk about it.  TALK, TALK, TALK.  Don't suffer alone.  And don't be ashamed.  Find someone you trust, and get it out.

Yes, in a week, I will be celebrating the 1st birthday of my last child.  But, tonight?  I will quietly celebrate my survival.

Now... who's gonna' buy me a cake?

I'm No Captain America

Whenever it's Cecily's turn to pray, she asks God to "make JD not cry at night" and to "help Mommy with her depression." For some people, it would maybe break their hearts a little to hear such a plea from their child, but for me? I appreciate all the help I can get. 

At dinner last night, I tried to guide a conversation about the true meaning of Easter. I talked about our imperfections and the need for an Atonement. I asked the girls if they thought my postpartum depression was gone, and their father responded immediately with a "no."  I have not asked him yet why he responded so quickly with that answer, but frankly? It upset me.  I thought I'd been doing so well! And, in all honesty, it's never obvious when it goes. Just, that it's gone when it's gone. And I had hoped, desperately, that it had gone...

Anyone with anxiety or depression can tell you about "triggers."  They are exactly as they sound: things that set someone off. They're like pet peeves times a million. If your thing is road rage, then imagine that, when someone cuts you off, you don't just get upset, but there is a literal reaction in every part of your being. You lose all ability to be rational, your heart rate increases, your stomach twists into infinite, gut-wrenching knots, you feel your face flush as your blood pressure increases.  You almost feel like some psychological version of an emotional/mental Incredible Hulk. 

My trigger is a when a younger baby (usually my own) will not submit to training/coercion of sleeping well. Part of this stems from a need I (apparently) have (always) had to be in control. Part of this stems from some PTSD from my 1st child's incomparably horrendous colic. Part of it comes from a somewhat genetically-predisposed chemical imbalance and the postpartum consequences. And part of it comes from being so gosh-danged sleep-deprived. 

And NONE of my babies - not a one - zip; zero; zilch; nada; none of them have been "naturally" good sleepers. I have had to "help" them all learn to sleep and do so, well. It's like God literally hands me my "triggers" in the form of little swaddled bundles of chaos.

A few weeks ago, I posted a facebook status about my frustration with people who try to remind me to enjoy this time.  Many agreed with me. But there were a couple (and I am in no way criticizing these people) who talked about loving this phase. I am convinced we are just wired in totally different ways.  But at the same time, hearing people mention how they cherish these early months just made me feel like a horrible person; like, somehow my wiring is just... crap. Like I'm some sort of lemon. 

In General Conference yesterday, there was a talk about those who are without guile and just innately good and how we all can work towards such characteristics. My husband and I talked a little bit about people who are just "good" and how it has got to be, in large part, inherent. They just... ARE. And the rest of us just have to work our butts off to even kind of be.

I wonder about the superiority of these people - the ones without guile. The ones who, despite averaging 2 hours of sleep at night, can still go into their baby with patience and gentility, and feed him for the 8th time that night, rocking him and cooing at him with overabundant love, even though it's the ungodly hour of 3 am.  Are they just better people than me? Do they just deserve mountains of credit for something that's not at all difficult for them? For something that just... IS?

My favorite superhero is Captain  America. I think it bugs Dave because he prefers the somewhat troubled souls of Spider-Man and Batman. But my reason for it is because of his integrity; he is just, stripped down to the core, a good person. He always does the right thing and we won't get those movie sequels about him where he travels some dark and troubled soul-searching path that's riddled with his mistakes. I admire that in him, and also in actual people.

When I was at BYU and I had just entered the MDT program, I quickly became unwilling to answer the "what's your major?" question. I discovered that MDT majors were not particularly well-liked. My roommates told me that we were easy to spot.  We were hyperactive, and a lot of us acted like we were something special. Now I, of course, loved my peers in college and know that a great number of them are phenomenal human beings with incredible talent. But the talent part was something some of them acted as if it somehow set them apart; like some sort of elitist badge. The thing is, everyone in the world is talented. Not everyone can showcase their talent on a stage. Being born inherently capable of something is one thing; but, I feel like it's when someone overcomes something they are NOT inherently good at that is a greater definition of their character. What's more impressive? The girl who can belt a high C and has been doing it since she came out of the womb? Or the monotone kid with no predisposition for music who can get up and overcome social anxiety and stage fright to sing a hymn in church simply because she was asked to?

JD is hardcore teething right now. This means that even though I have done everything I can to provide him an ideal sleep environment, allowed him to guide me according to his unique sleep needs, taught him the ability to fall asleep independently, and I never allow him to get overtired, he is STILL sleeping horribly at night. But, to be completely honest, even when he's not teething, the kid gives me rough nights. I have read every book and method out there on all ends of every spectrum, and nothing has worked. 

Last night he woke at 12:30, and I nursed him. He then spent the next 2 hours crying and/or talking to himself. 

Remember that part about my trigger? Imagine that thing I said about what happens with a trigger, but it happens at 1 am after only an hour and a 1/2 of sleep. And remember that part about me thinking some people are inherently good? I don't think I'm one of them. I have a strong DESIRE to be good, and I try to make good choices, but I am not at all naturally without guile. I'm feisty and stubborn and judgmental. And those traits, mixed in with some postpartum depression, a dash of triggers, and a pinch of sleep deprivation? I am not great in those middle of the night moments. A lot of the time, I go into his room frustrated, and just attach him to nurse, desperately hoping he dozes off as quickly as possible. A lot of the time, I go in, pick him up somewhat briskly and pat him on the back with maybe a little too much force, trying to coerce a possible burp without very much sympathy. A lot of the time, I don't go in at all as his cries escalate, and I call him not-very-nice-names under my breath. 

Last night, I found myself apologizing to God for just being an overall sucky person. I wish I loved all of this. I wish it was just part of my nature to be patient at the worst times. I wish I didn't have such an obsession with things working out in life the way they do on paper. 

I looked at the clock: 

2:47 AM

He'd been struggling on and off for over 2 hours. 

I'd gone in at least 7 or 8 times. 

I. Was. Exhausted. 

I took a deep breath as I entered his room for the umpteenth time. I picked him up and walked over to my rocking chair, holding him until I knew he was asleep enough to sleep through whatever was bugging him. During that seeming eternity while holding his heavy dead weight and sitting in my rickety hard chair, there were multiple times I had to talk myself down from major PPD-induced frustration. But I did it. And it was hard. And, despite my love for him, I did not love sitting up awake in that hard chair versus sleeping snugly in my soft bed. 

But once I was back in my room, I had to ask myself (now that I was wide awake), what if being patient at those times just came naturally to me? What if I could get up every night with my child as if it were nothing, relishing in those moments? 

Would I be as proud of myself as I was at that moment, having had a blip in my timeline where I overcame something that is just not easy for me? 

I work really hard on my musical talents, but it also is something that I was somewhat born with (and into). And I am really proud of my talent. And I LOVE success and recognition when it comes to my musical talent.  But I can't take all of the credit for it.  My mom worked with her kids constantly.  That is through no credit of my own.  And God.  He has a heckuvalot to do with my specific skill set.  So, the idea of walking around campus with my head held high like I was significantly amazing made no sense to me.  Because even though I had made it into a program that took a statistically low percentage of those who auditioned, I couldn't really take all of the credit.  AND - people all over that campus were making it into programs of their own.  It's a little difficult to showcase a scientific brain.  Doesn't make it any less impressive.  Not going to lie, though.  I do love good praise.  However, when I succeed musically, how impressive is it, really?  Its not, necessarily, "hard."

But in the dark hours of the night, I had to fight an epic battle. I'm no Captain America, and the war with myself and my predispositions as well as my personal challenges and weaknesses will undoubtedly last my entire life. But, despite multiple losses throughout the battle, I still won it. And I don't know if I would have been as proud of myself if there hadn't been a battle in the first place.

But, I'm going to go sing a song now.  Because I can.

And The Role of Mama Bear Goes To...

About a month ago, I stumbled upon a notice for an audition for "Les Mis" at Musical Theatre West in Long Beach.  To be honest, I don't love that show; mainly because I've music-directed it a handful of times and just don't know if I could stand listening to any more underaged Jean ValJeans or overrated belting Eponines....

But this company actually pays their actors.  And this show is entirely sung.  And, despite calling myself a triple threat, I definitely feel like my voice is the strongest of the 3 disciplines. So, after perusing the potential rehearsal schedule over & over and discussing any and all possibilities with my husband, I decided I wanted to audition.  After all, in a previous life I had been called back for the role of Fantine for the national tour which obviously means *insert sarcasm* a small regional theatre would BEG me to do it, right?! (P.S. any of you who don't understand the theatre process, a callback really means nothing.  It means nothing).

I struggled with the decision off & on as the audition date loomed closer.  There were multiple things working against me: JD still won't take a bottle.  5 out of 7 nights, I would not be there for bedtimes, which is a huge part of my day as a mom.  I had multiple conflicts that I imagine the theatre would be none too pleased to accommodate. Not forgetting, also, that their biggest rehearsal days were Sundays.

Sundays.

For an active member of the LDS faith who's greatest passion is the theatre, it is a frustrating conflict. It's the 4th commandment of the famous 10.  Look it up.  And if you're LDS, the Sabbath Day is Sunday.  And if you're anyone else?  The best day to be entertained is Sunday. Since moving to California, theatre opportunities are just so out of grasp due to the whole Sunday conflict.

Nonetheless, I decided I would audition.  Maybe, by some miracle, JD would start taking a bottle.  Maybe, by some miracle, if I were cast, I wouldn't be required to be at all scheduled rehearsals, thus allowing more bedtime attendance.  Maybe, by some miracle, they would think I was so amazing that my conflicts would be worth it to them.  Maybe, by some miracle, I could show up late to Sunday rehearsals as long as I promised to not miss the Sunday matinees.

Two days before the audition, I changed my mind. "I'm not going," I tell my husband.  "I'm not going," I tell my sisters.  "I'm not going. But try to talk me out of it," I tell my mom.

"Why?!"

I just couldn't balance the pros (i.e. some extra income and an outlet for me) against the looming cons.  My gut was saying, "No." But at the exact moment that I resigned myself to that fact, my gut decided to pull a Brutus.  It got mad at my "No."  The twisted feelings of frustration I had felt, convincing me not to audition, actually increased once I made the decision not to go.  This has happened to me before.  It's the part of me that wants to be back on that stage so badly that it literally, physically hurts.

And then yesterday, my selfish desires won out, and I spent the morning typing up a resume', picking out a song, showering (Yes. A shower is a significant thing), and printing head shots.  In the afternoon, I taught Malia "Castle On a Cloud."  I curled my hair.  I put on heels and red lipstick. My supportive husband came home early to watch the younger 3. And off I went, my 9-year-old in tow.

Traffic was a nightmare.  And when we got there, I was blown away by the size of the crowd.  It was 5 pm, and I was bringing Malia to the kids' audition.  6 pm was the call for non-union adults, and at 5 pm, there was already at least 200 people there, lined up.  I wasn't intimidated that I couldn't compete with 200 people.  I was intimidated by the likelihood I'd be there all night.  That's never fun.

I sent Malia in.  They wouldn't let me join her.  I stood outside with the masses in the ridiculous line for receiving paperwork... and waited.

Quick side note:  WHY are people at auditions such stuck up jerks?!  I have never been that person.  I mean, it's possible we'd be working together!  We share a common passion.  I always talk to people at auditions, and they always seem relieved and grateful. But when I look around, people look at me like I'm a freak for being friendly.  And ladies?  The sluttier the outfit does not improve the odds you'll get the part.  Statistically speaking, if the director is male, he is also likely gay.

So, I'm in the mini-skirted lion's den, and I see the kids start to come out.  I run up to Malia, and I can already see it on her face.  The thing is, Malia is a talented little girl.  I'm not just saying that as her mother.  I am saying that as objectively as I can.  BUT - she is no star.  Not in the way those child actors with the drive and ambition to do whatever it takes are.  She loves to sing and dance and perform, but she is no diva.  And I thank heaven for that.  And I did see some of the other girls who had gone inside.  Many of them carried themselves in a way that I knew they have been through multiple processes.  And many of them were older than her.  But I also know they were legitimately, likely, better than her.  I'm not delusional.  I momentarily stepped out of my place in line to give her the privacy she'd need and asked her how it went.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she shook her head.

"They already told you?"

Again, more tears, a sniffle this time, but still no words.  Just a nod of the head.

I can't exactly explain why or how things happened in my thought processes next the way that they did.  But at that moment, I handed my yet-to-be-filled-out paperwork to a still empty-handed individual further back in line, thus making their night, I'm sure, and we decided to go home.

"You're not auditioning, Mommy?"

"No.  You are sad, and you don't want to hang out here for hours waiting for Mommy, who likely wont even get in anyway.  And it's more important to me right now that we make you happy.  Besides, they have all those rehearsals on Sunday, so it's not worth it anyway, right?"

And I sincerely meant all of that.  Did I want to cry inside at yet another missed possible opportunity to finally return to my 1st love - the stage?  Absolutely.  But, even stronger in my heart, I felt a drive to comfort my daughter and not force her to sit and suffer as I pursued "me."  When I called David on the drive home, he thought I was nuts.  "She'll be fine.  You'll regret it." I couldn't put into words to explain to him exactly why I ended up making the choice I did.

I do know that, as strong a pull as "the smell of the greasepaint" is, something else will always come first. And it hurts sometimes.  PHYSICALLY, as I mentioned.  I'm not just saddened by the sacrifice of performing.  I am often sickened by it.  But, to quote my man Victor Hugo -"To love another person is to see the face of God."   And when I look into the faces of my children, I gain God's perspective.

And that's something I'll never get from the sound of applause.

The H Word

Yesterday, I had a little bit of a breakdown. At Michael's. In the glue section.  I was just kind of standing there, tears quietly rolling down my cheeks, holding Daphne's hand, JD crying in his carrier, and CC hugging my leg in an effort to comfort me. I couldn't even hold it together in the glue section.... *groan.* An old lady walked by, looked at me, saw the tears, appeared uncomfortable, said nothing, and walked away. 

Embarrassing. 

And then, 8 days before that (yes, I'm counting), on a Wednesday, I had a really bad one. It's supposedly a good sign when my big breakdowns seem to be frequenting less than before. I mean, there's usually a breakdown every day. But they aren't always huge, and they often just involve a cry in the corner for 5 minutes, and then I move on. 

The "big ones" are more intense, involve the ugly cry, last a good 20 minutes or more, contain angry one-sided prayers, and usually set my entire mood for the rest of the day, with there being little to no success in an attempt to improve my mood. 

I hate those days. 

But back to that awful Wednesday. JD, in typical JD fashion, was protesting any possibility of a decent nap. And it was his morning nap, which is usually the only real decent one he'll take. And I generally try to use that free time to remind Daphne that I know she still exists. He'd been fed, played with, changed, burped, swaddled, and sung to. He knows how to fall asleep independently. But he often just... doesn't. Anyone who knows me at all knows that my brain and life are jam-packed with infant sleep knowledge and experience. This is why a poor sleeper is such a trigger for my anxiety. If you don't know what a "trigger" is, look it up.  They suck. With an already biological contributor (hormone imbalance) to my depression, a trigger is that extra thorn in my side. 

So, he's crying. And because that's my trigger, any and all potential for productivity shuts down. I end up sticking Daphne in front of the TV for TWO HOURS! Thankfully, she'll actually watch that much TV. Not thankfully, she'll actually watch that much TV. I was allowing JD a modified cry-it-out: let him cry 5 minutes, comfort him. 10 minutes, comfort him. 15, etc. But it seemed that every time I went in, it only made things worse (that's how Daphne was as an infant). So, I eventually just stopped going in. Instead, I got on my knees outside his bedroom door, and began to pray. All I could muster in my anxiety, however, were the words "Please comfort him."  I said this over and over and over (and over) as I hugged myself, crying, on my knees, rocking back and forth like Rainman. And the more I prayed, the harder he cried on the other side of that door. 

I've concluded I need thicker doors.

In my desperation to actually be heard, I quit praying and I started texting my husband.  I know I can't call him. He's working. But I needed validation that someone could hear me. He tries to respond when I start sending him the panic attack texts. But - he's working. 

I absolutely hate how high maintenance post-partum depression makes me.

Again. Embarrassing. 

My husband means well, but he needs to work, and so he is desperate to find ANYONE for me to reach out to when I fall apart while he's busy. So, whenever I have an episode, people "coincidentally" start contacting me, reminding me that they would like to help me wherever I need it.

Help. 

Nothing simultaneously warms my heart and makes me feel horrible quite like someone's offer to help me. I am the 4th of 5 children. And the smallest gap of years between kids just so happens to be after me, before my baby sister. I don't blame my parents at all, but I definitely learned about independence early on. I rarely got aide with homework. I didn't seek it out, nor was it really ever offered. I would read a lot. By myself. I amused myself. The only times I ever remember really being acknowledged was when I'd get in arguments with my siblings. And I think I was only acknowledged at those times because I was usually the loudest. Again - I did things on my own. I DO things on my own. I don't really know how to receive help without it giving me a mild identity crisis. And anyone who's ever had depression can tell you, the worst thing about it can be that permanent state of not feeling like yourself. So... lose-lose.

But the reality of it is this: the moments I could probably use the most help are the moments I'm at the lowest of my lows. Now, I'm not one of those people who cares immensely about what people think of me, unless I've offended them. But if they just think I'm strange, I couldn't care less. 

But strange and crazy are two very different things. Those moments where I'm so lost in turmoil that I start bugging David are bad moments. Imagine yourself at your worst, when absolutely nothing can bring you around to logic or calm or a stable state of mind. If you can't imagine it, then count your blessings. But I am an ugly person in those moments. I am sobbing beyond consolation. I usually lash out.  I am either rocking myself in the fetal position or pacing frantically. Yes - those are your two choices. And there is no reasoning with me. Because, after all, I'm not me.

Have I mentioned it's embarrassing?

I am a full grown, educated, talented, capable mother of 4 little people. But in those moments, I'm like a frightened chihuahua - shaking and afraid and barking like a maniac. THAT is why I don't want your help. Not because I couldn't use it. Not because I don't think you have anything to offer. Not because I don't appreciate you and the extension. 

But because it's humiliating. 

And if you haven't been here, it's true you don't understand. I don't mean that to be condescending in any way. I mean, you CAN'T understand. I know this because there are people I love dearly who have depression, and I just didn't "get it" until I got it. 

So, please. If you offer me your help, and I don't take it, it's not because I'm not grateful, or that I don't need it, or that your offer's not good enough. It really is just far more complicated than that. 

And even though I got it, even I sometimes, still, don't "get it."