Leapfrog

Long before I knew firsthand the puppetry of psychotropic drugs, I knew of friends and clients that had leapfrogged from the prozac lilypad to zoloft moss and then landed with a splash on the waterlogged stump of wellbutrin.

All of us little froggies are trying to find the pad that suits us best, that doesn't sink under our weight or have any unwanted co-habitants.

My first drug was Lexapro, shiny and new (and expensive) with promises of bright, sunny days. And, except for the evening ripples that would rock my lilypad (also known as "brain shocks"), it delivered. That is, until the lilypad rent got too expensive, and I was forced to downgrade to a low-income lilypad in the form of generic Celexa, citalopram.

Time passed and I was still pretending to be living the high life on Lexapro, but it just wasn't the same. The water below my lilypad was always murky, and it felt as though the clouds never dispersed. My old depressed ways didn't return, but I felt like a zombie most days, unable to shake off the morning fuzziness. 

Nonetheless, the price was right (and my health insurance doesn't cover prescriptions), so I tried to make the best of it. Over the next year and a half, the pond scum started to accumulate, and I began to realize I needed to move. 

Here's a snippet from an email that I wrote to a close friend describing how I was feeling:  

I'm all over the place with my emotions the last few weeks. I'm tweaking my meds again (increasing them....) because I'm just not feeling motivated to do anything. The house is an absolute mess and I don't care. Its hard to find inspiration to blog on Tao of Twins anymore. My only joy is Jaeda and Tristyn. Lastnight I sat in their room after I put them to bed and told them about how Che' (my brother) and I used to do everything together when we were kids, and answered all their sweet, wide-eyed questions. I just wanted to crawl into bed with them and never leave, just hold them and kiss them forever.

I had replaced the emotional roller coaster of my initial postpartum depression with apathy.

Recently, I moved into in a middle-class Wellbutrin lilypad complex. I haven't met any of my froggie neighbors and have yet to find out if I fit in here. 

I worry that I won't ever find a lilypad that suits me. 


*Note - One day after I published this post, my family and I drove past this: 

Things Happen For A Reason

Life leads us in the direction we need to go. I've always believed that. I've let the universe lead me, listening for the whispered instruction, watching for the covert signs. As I hit 30, life was a comfortable routine. I was content in my career, enjoyed my domestic life in our cozy home and was comforted and loved in a solid marriage. We traveled, had dinner parties, attended events and enjoyed life without kids.

I had built up an airtight cocoon of friends without silly conflict or superficial drama.

But there was a gnawing sensation, an uncertain anticipation that there was more to come.

It was the calm before the storm.

I will never again underestimate the difficulty that comes from change, even the expected ones; puberty, marriage, moving, motherhood - those transitions in our lives that come easy for some, but are traumatizing for others, leaving an indelible mark on our souls.

In 2005, when my lower leg and ankle snapped in 3 places during a roller hockey game, I had never felt such pain. Nor had I ever confronted such fear before each of my 2 resulting surgeries. My frustration and helplessness during the 10 long weeks on crutches were foreign to me.

But I slowly started to see how each struggle led me to a new place. Each experience allowed me to grow in ways I otherwise wouldn't have been afforded.

During my pregnancy, restricted in activity and movement by my high risk label, I reached back into my psyche and pulled from my past experiences.

During the birth, I didn't fret about the pain because I knew I had survived pain before, and that my body would endure.

However, postpartum depression threw me for a loop. What strength to pull from?

I am nothing if not resourceful, always the person among friends to have a paperclip handy, a band aid in my purse, or an extra pair of sunglasses to lend.

Attempting to raise 2 infants through the fog of depression blurred my skills, but my instincts floated up occasionally, urging me to research methods, tricks and tips for raising twins online.

That is where I found Baby Squared and Jane Roper.

There was a similarity I couldn't quantify, a connectedness that had nothing to do with lifestyle - she's married to a musician and lives across the country in Boston. I'm a soggy Northwesterner through and through, married to a Canadian outdoorsman.

But through the weaving of her words, I found solace, comfort and companionship. The timing was impeccable - she began to open up to her readers about her history with depression at the same time I was confronting my PPD head on.

I had a recent conversation with a long time client, a soft spoken father of 6 that confirmed my belief that people come into your life for a reason; he found unexpected counsel with his dentist, of all people. While reclined in the plastic covered chair that doubled as a psychiatrist's couch, he realized they had experienced similar situations in life - and that connection is cathartic in many ways.

Looking back, I see that I was ignoring other subtle (and not-so-subtle) signs.

My adoration of books won out over my exhaustion and I found Brooke Shields' book Down Came The Rain and read it with interest. Although her experiences felt extreme to me, I still felt akin to the overall theme of her story.

My sister sent me this Goop.com article where Gweneth Paltrow briefly discusses her experience with postnatal depression.

I would skim the notices posted in the ladies room at doctor visits, feeling sympathetic for women that suffer from postpartum depression, but ignoring my own symptoms. I just didn't see myself in the image of the sad woman pushing a stroller. I attributed my fatigue and my anger to the simple fact that I had twins, and not "just" a singleton to care for.

Finally, my good friend and college roommate, a new mom and mental health professional stood before me and simply told me she thought I was depressed. Everything clicked into place as I realized that I wasn't me, the easygoing, fun-loving me that I knew before my pregnancy.

I thank her every chance I get.

While writing this essay, I came across this. Naturally.

(via Little Reminders of Love)

Need to be Needed

Tonight as I put the girls to bed, I was struck by a feeling that has become familiar to me, yet still feels foreign. And, as a mother, it feels as though I'm betraying the human race.

We all need to be needed, but often I find myself needing not to be needed; feeling resentful that I'm in such high demand.

I'm sure its partially residual from their infancy; the shock of going from one extreme to another: during my pregnancy constantly being reminded to take care of myself, don't walk too far, lay down as much as possible, sleep... to suddenly being in such demand that it seemed there wasn't one second where I wasn't needed in some capacity.

When I would breastfeed, one baby happily tucked against my body, the breast pump chugging milk from the other side, and often the other baby crying impatiently in her crib, it felt like some absurd parody of motherhood.

Nowadays, I will sometimes sneak past my sweet, innocent daughters while they are engrossed in their own four year old fantasy, lest they see me and instantly decide they need something from me.

It makes me feel selfish that I want to finish whatever I'm doing, regardless of how insignificant, without being interrupted to find a stuffed animal, referee a sibling brawl or relocate a spider outdoors.

I have this urge to be free from the repetitive obligations day in and day out.

I've alluded to this before.

Don't get me wrong - I have plenty of time away from my girls. They attend "play-school" four days a week, while I commute to the office. During those long days away from them, I miss their sweet faces, and will find myself simply craving their presence, staring longingly at their photos.

Like so many other motherly difficulties, it is hard to determine whether a feeling is caused by depression or the simple stress that comes with being a mom.

The feeling is usually fleeting, but often recurrent. After years of being told that I would "make a great mother", I finally believe it. Because even through the haze of postpartum depression and anxiety and my ongoing struggle with depression, my mom instinct is stronger than any other urge or impulse.

Besides, who could resist these little nuggets of joy?

Jaeda in pink, Tristyn in blue and their cousin Gia in purple. 

Alone

I love the feel of an empty house - just me and the burbling fishtank. I can putter around aimlessly, letting mudane tasks lead me from room to room.

This past weekend my husband took the girls camping, leaving me by myself.

Saturday stretched out before me like a blank slate. The tidbits of time that I long for. Nay, that I ache for. The welcome respite from the relentless treadmill of 24/7 mom duty.

The timeline of the day isn't pre-planned or dictated by two pre-schoolers demanding my time, attention and patience.

Some might say 'just like before children'. No. Not at all the same. The spirits of two spunky four year olds resound in my mind. Their residual energy floats around each room, reminding me of their absence, and anticipated return. I step over their toys and clothes, like moments in time, discarded at each whim.

In the morning, upon first light, I instinctively listened for their chirping twin babble. I imagined noises of them playing in the hallway outside my bedroom, or bathing their dolls in their bathroom sink, only to wake and realize the house was gloriously silent.

As I lounge on the couch, I relish in the quiet - but it's not the same as when the girls are sleeping, or engaged quietly in an activity, because of the absence of the constant threat of interruption. I never know when I might be commandeered against my will to referee a fight, kiss a boo-boo or find a lost teddy bear. I'm always "on-call" in a sense.

But as any mom will admit, it didn't take long to feel that longing... their Elmo-esque voices, their wide-eyed wonder, their sweet innocence, and their utter pleasure in the simple things in life.

And, as good as it felt to be alone for two days, it felt far better to hug them when they returned home.

Rachel

If its possible to love a person you've never met, I love Rachel Turiel of 6512 and growing.

I love the pictures and antics of her children. I love that her and her husband live off the land in Durango, Colorado, and get road kill permits. That her children don't shy away from utilizing every ounce of an elk hunted by their mountain man father, Dan.

Rachel is a home maker of the most vocerifious kind, making salsa and soups and mayonnaise and yogurt. She defines the word mother, unabashedly admitting her fears and vulnerabilities, while creating the ideal backdrop of childhood for her two muses - that of intense love, acceptance, and education of the world around them. I love her writing, and that her words transport me to another place. Her thoughts resonate with me long after the words on the screen have disappeared back into the black hole of the internet.

Her posts pull me in like a warm body in a cold bed. The combination of words that appear before me on the screen are my vision of perfect writing - images and feelings recreated through words, with such perfect description and metaphors that I try not to devour a whole post in one sitting.

Maybe its my imagined similarity to my own childhood - a simpler time with parents unencumbered by the stresses of our time.

Or maybe it's the dichotomy to my own life. She contemplates homeschooling; I shudder at the thought. She manages to accomplish projects that I only dream about.

I love that she isn't tied down to the silly stream of conciousness that the rest of us "city-folk" endure.

Most of all, I love her openness. I love that she shares with her readers, with such emotion and clarity, the commonalities that bind us all together - the fear, vulnerability and thrill that is parenting and life. Her son, Col, came into the world a 25 week, 1 pound 12 ounce preemie, which is how I found her - her story of the 101 roller coaster days spent in the NICU with him made my tears flow and my heart ache for her. He is the most beautiful kind of miracle - the little boy that beat the odds to become a vibrant, lushly intelligent boy.

And then there is Rose. She appears to bring the industrious household into balance with her simple girlishness, who supervises gardening in her nightgown, wears tutus while helping her mother in the kitchen, and layers on mismatching clothes with the flair that only a 4 year old can pull off.

Each post is a feast for the eyes, with clear, candid snapshots of her family living life.

Go visit. You'll see what I mean. 

Support

I'm not a fan of extravagant birthday parties for anyone under the age of 30, much less those in the single digits. But for my husband and me, birthdays for our twin daughters represent gratitute, and a celebration of how far we've come.

On their first birthday, we had a small gathering to celebrate the accomplishment of the first year with twins, and to thank those that helped us through the tumultuous time. The first year with new life in our home, with all the changes that come with that; the struggles and triumphs, the heartbreak and the miracles.

It was fitting that my daughters' fourth birthday snowballed from a simple get together into a full blown Princess Party BBQ, with 30 attendees.

There were a few moments during the day when I  was overwhelmed with the sight of our guests, each helping in their own way, comfortable in our house, some meeting each other for the first time, but all connected by our love for them, and vice versa.

Each person represents a different branch of the tree that is our support system. Their involvement in our lives helps me in ways they probably don't even realize. Unaware of their unique contribution, they never cease to amaze me.

I watched as my future brother-in-law carefully guided Tristyn on her new bicycle, running beside her up and down the sidewalk, his hands ready to protect her at a moments' notice. I spied my sister-in-law washing chocolate cake covered hands from one of our miniature guests. During the candle blowing, I looked up from my post behind the girls to see a dozen cameras catching the moment, cherishing these little girls that they love.

My greatest hope is that my daughters will thrive and frolic in the leaves from the tree, long after the presents and toys have been discarded. 

Riding bikes!

Passion

The further away my dark postpartum depression becomes in the rear view mirror, the more I can see how far I've come.

I feel that desire for life, the passion for things I enjoy so much more often than 4 years ago.

Life had become a Sisyphean list of chores that I didn't want to do; dishes, laundry, picking up after two babies, all while trying to squash the formidable urge to close my eyes and just sleep. Its difficult to unravel the depression from the exhaustion of twins, but it is becoming easier in retrospect.

Nowadays, I want to throw on my tennis shoes and jog through my neighborhood, feeling the fresh air on my face, my iPod blaring music in my ears. I carve out time to sit at my craft desk and create, instead of looking at the messy desk and feeling overwhelmed by it. I want to lounge in the comfort of my bed, not to sleep, but to get lost in the weaving story of a good book. I get inspired to experiment with a new recipe and "play" in my cozy kitchen.

I sing in the car.

I smile at random thoughts that occur to me.

I relish a sunset, or a patch of freshly sprouted flowers. I notice the small things that were blurred by the haze of depression.

And most important to me, I feel surges of love for those around me, whereas I took them for granted before... When the dam finally broke, when the realization took hold that I was depressed, I called my best friend and, through heaving sobs, I told her I was sorry for "faking it" for so long. For pretending that I was fine, and for not letting her (or anyone) in on my innermost mental state.

I don't have to pretend anymore, and that is more freeing than anything.

If only it were as simple as a bandaid...