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Mamaphobic: An Anal Retentive Analysis of What May Be (Is) My Very Own Dollop of Depression (Whether I Like It or Not)

"Deciding" whether or not I have some level of depression and/or anxiety has been very much like when I was trying to "decide" whether or not I was a real alcoholic. I find myself in moments of unmanageable trouble, and I want to address the issue and make things better. But in the end, instead of seeking help, I spend a lot of time denying my problems, weighing checklists, and doing bizarre calculations in my mind. Do I score enough depression "points" to warrant a call to my doctor? A visit to a psychologist? A discussion about medication? Is it situational or chemical? Is it the hormones of pregnancy, real depression (ha!), or is it just me (now that's just silly)? Have I wracked up enough depression interludes to even talk about it? Out loud? Am I truly depressed enough? Ack, forget it all, I'm sure it'll pass.

Definitions and labels like "alcoholic" and "depressive" come with so many preconceived notions from within and from other people and society in general. Defining and trying on these kinds of definitions is a battle in itself and one I've realized isn't really all that helpful or meaningful. I mean, I know something's not right. I want to get help. I do not want to spend another second of my time being ashamed or feeling weak about it. And when it comes down to it, none of the checklists or calculations matter. After all, who would want to be depressed? Who would want to take that mad downhill ride just to take it? Certainly not me. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that there is no decision to be made at all about the what ifs of my depression; I need to acknowledge my reality and in dealing with that reality, that's where the real decision making comes in. Easy, right? Um, not so much…

In my early 20s, I learned intimately about how serious depression can get when I had a long relationship with a man who was manic depressive and ultimately committed suicide. I waded into that relationship with only some of my morose high school journals and The Bell Jar under my belt and soon Darkness Visible, An Unquiet Mind, Prozac Nation, and lots of articles from new studies about depression and antidepressants on my nightstand. I wanted to understand mental illness, but more so, I just wanted to cure it in my boyfriend before he killed himself. It obviously didn't end up that way, and back then and for years after, I drank a lot and boy hopped to deal with my feelings about it. But I never, not ever, got depressed about this experience or at least that's what my denial will tell you. It didn't really matter as much back then either because I was only hurting myself. Since then, several friends and multiple family members have acknowledged their depression issues in varying capacities and tried different antidepressants with varying outcomes. Mostly because of my experiences with my old boyfriend and his negative trials with umpteen medications, I have had little interest in jumping on that bandwagon and, of course, after getting sober, I thought the bleakest days were, you know, over. But now I'm not only invested in my husband and boys, but I'm more invested in myself. Too much to let things slide very far for very long. There's far too much at stake.

I've quoted this before and I'll do it again. Heather Armstrong over at Dooce.com describes depression as, "an overshadowing emotional spiral that makes coping with anything nearly impossible," and every time I read this, I feel like someone has finally been able to sum up what's been wrong with the big picture of my entire emotional life. Of course, I think this feeling can be normal in many cases, especially when you're going through the big stuff. However, I can relate to this feeling all the way back to my childhood. It wasn't abnormal for me to have a total breakdown when my mom gave me lots of choices of things she could make me for lunch. I also remember it rearing its head in teenhood when for several weekends, I stayed home and rearranged the posters in my bedroom again rather than hanging out with my girlfriends with whom I couldn't express my sadness and my anxiety. How could I? I didn't even understand it. I couldn't make my interior life fit with my exterior life. So while off and on throughout my life, I have "dabbled," as I like to say, in depression, it doesn't usually last long and I can usually identify the trigger after a little time. I can usually lift myself out of it. I like to think I am very good at being my own doctor/healer. Sobriety and a little therapy has helped me in this a great deal as well.

However, this pregnancy and the near miss and the miscarriages that preceded it all have left me touching down into dark moods more frequently than is feasible or manageable. In fact, I had several big snaps when, after two early miscarriages, I thought I had lost this current baby. I remember calling Ed at work at least once and telling him he had to come home because I couldn't deal with Clyde, life, myself—something that still makes me wince with embarrassment and shame. Of course, then I found out the baby was fine, was healthy, was happening, and still I couldn't shake the darkness, the moods, the crying that came and went, the anxiety, and the terror. I should feel grateful and happy, right? I shouldn't complain. But something hurts and overwhelms me inside and doesn't click with my way of being me. And some of these feeling aren't new. I loathe the sheer state of pregnancy, just as I did the first time, and no matter how many times I disclaim this truth, it doesn't go away. Depression? Maybe. Ungrateful bitch? What can I say to this? All I know is I can't live my life fully from a depressed state, so how can I be a wife and mother and friend? I've been to the head-in-the-oven state of mind in my life, although it's rare and short-lived, and I certainly can't live my life from there.

Of course, as I try to write this out, try to explain it to myself (and to lucky little ol' you), I am feeling good and fine, which thrills me on the one hand and complicates matters on the other. That's the sneaky way of moods. Coming and going like they do, making the problem of asking for help two-fold really. See? When I'm in it, I just want someone to scrape me up off the ground (or out from under the covers) and help me. I want help. Or someone to inject me with the magic happy pill. Whatever. However, from that dark viewpoint, the idea of going out and getting help and working it all out is enough to send me in deeper. The work of getting well seems daunting and impossible. On the opposite of that is that when I'm not depressed and when I'm able to cope with life's everyday dealings, which is the majority of my life right now, I don't think there's anything to worry about. The problem is gone. It will never return. Like today. Right now. I'm wondering what the hell am I even writing this for?

So, of course, I bootstrap and micromanage my interiors. Buck up, I tell myself. Just be grateful. Pray. Think about something else. Eat something good. Get over it. Don't worry people with your silly problems. This too will pass, as they say. Be strong. Learn to cope. Fake it 'til you make it. Hmmm, none of this has been really working for me lately. Then mostly I analyze. And over-analyze. Try to "take care" of my own issues. Go it alone. For instance, I now know that several of my recent mood spirals stem from my inability to set my own limits, especially when my limits don't seem to match up to other people's or my perception of other people's or my perception of other people's expectations of me. However, knowing this doesn't really make it go away, right? It doesn't solve the very real problem that the desperate sadness lurks. After all, are my limits set by my depression or vice versa? I'm sure there's a little of both going on, and again, it doesn't really matter if I can't get around it.

So after a few days last week in which I experienced some very irrational and long cryfests (the way I remember it: over work projects, over cleaning, and ultimately a revisit to my childhood favorite of not being able to decide what to eat one night because nothing would be the perfect thing) along with the urgings of my husband and my own worry about this developing into PPD once the baby arrives, I have taken some steps. I have talked to a few friends, taken this outside our house in order to deflate its intensity. I mean, I know this isn't the end of the world, but when all these thoughts stir around in my head and my house, they become nuclear. I also sent an email to my OB/GYN who set me up to speak with a psychologist who specializes in mood disorders and PPD. My OB/GYN is also prepared to talk to me about a low-level dose of medication next time we meet. And I have agreed to listen even if right now that's the last thing I want to do or plan to do during my pregnancy. It's just like writing this. Even though it feels awkward, I am doing it to help myself feel normal, brave, and honest—for myself.

When I decided to quit drinking and call myself an alky over five years ago, I thought my world would end. What would people think? How would people see me? Who would be disappointed? Now I could care less about these aspects of the experience. After all, I deal with the problem by not drinking, it works, and my life is better for it. It doesn't matter if other people can see it or not. No one else has to live in this body. So now, or at least in this very moment, the plan is to address this recent revelation with some determination and with the sincerity that it deserves. I am an alky. I also get an occasional migraine or toe cramp, I see floaters in my vision, and I have craved rubberbands throughout my pregnancy. I also probably suffer from some low-level depression. Like everyone I know, I'm full of oddball surprises. This is me. And in the end, all I want is to be happy and for my life to be manageable because I'm also full of truth telling and love and the need to find the words to express all of these parts of me too.


column added on 2006-09-04 :: ::

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