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."

9/30/2014

Dear Lilibug -

It's been a while since I've written you one of these.  Over 2 years. That's really disappointing because you have changed and accomplished so very much in that amount of time.  The difference between your 6-year-old self and the almost 9-year-old before me today, is astounding. You are still beautiful, talented, and smart. I've been reading things about how you're not supposed to tell your children about their innate abilities. Apparently, you are supposed to emphasize the work it takes to achieve something. Blah, blah, blah, whatever. You are all of those things I said.  And I will try to always tell you.  A girl can never be told enough about the good in her.  The world is too busy telling her otherwise.  

In the last 2 years you have accomplished so much! You haven't physically grown much (sorry about that - that's your father's side of the family), but your spirit has taken leaps and bounds.  I can't really call you a "little girl" anymore.  You are now in 4 disciplines at your dance studio: ballet, tap, jazz, & lyrical.  You entered the GATE program in the 2nd grade, and despite some reservations on my part, have flourished and excelled. You've asked (and I've explained) about the birds and the bees. You made the choice on your own to be baptized. You are now a 3rd grader, which is crazy to me.  I still remember the adorable, button-nosed, purple-eyed, curly-haired, colicky screaming baby from years ago like it was only yesterday.

You are the quintessential big sister.  You take very seriously the inborn responsibility of bossing... I mean, taking care of... your sisters.  It is difficult for you to decipher between when I need your aide, and when you are taking it upon yourself to be in charge.  I understand this is difficult for any person.  "Do this but don't do this."  I get it.  I do.  And I try to explain to you the difference whenever I can without making you feel bad about it.  It's hard because when you do it right, you are such an amazing helper.  You were my saving grace the 1st month of your new little brother's life as you amused Daphne and stifled arguments between her & Cecily.  You kept Daphne from running into parking lots and eating things off the floor and ripping apart books while I stumbled around in an exhausted, depression-induced haze.  The new school year interrupted this.  I miss you.  I need you.  And that is too much to place on the shoulders of such a young person.  But you bear it with as much grace as you can.

Speaking of Mommy's depression - I have tried to explain to you a few times, very straightforward, exactly what that means.  You furrow your eyebrows and listen and try to comprehend.  I don't expect you to be able to, but the effort alone means more to me than you'll ever know.  If I haven't yet, or forget to do so in the future, I thank you.  Thank you for your childish innocence and lack of judgment.  Thank you for saying "Bless Mommy & her depression" every time you pray.  Thank you for not calling me a hypocrite when I lose my temper and then quickly discipline you for losing yours.  Thank you.

I sense in you an ever-growing anxiety.  I'm not sure if it's just part of your genetic makeup, if it's part of being the oldest child with a predisposition for perfectionism, or if it's my influence, especially as of late.  It makes me nervous.  Not because it makes you a bad person, but because I don't want pain for my children - and I know about the hurt of anxiety.  You are hard on yourself when you make mistakes.  You want perfect scores and nothing less in school.  Fortunately for you, those are generally not hard to come by.  You get frustrated when new steps are a challenge for you in dance class.  A lot of the girls your age are practically living at the studio these days with twice as many classes.  I want you to be able to be a child; able to play; able to attend Church functions; able to read and relax.  But this has caused you to notice they seem to be passing you up in skill.  You will likely not grow up to be a professional dancer someday.  And if it's meant to be otherwise, then it'll work out.  I try to tell you to just enjoy it.  The obedient child in you says, "Ok."  But the perfectionist in you looks conflicted.  I imagine this turmoil will only grow as you do.

Speaking of growing, you are 8-going-on-16.  You have recently developed a HUGE attitude. Unfortunately for you, you didn't realize that your mother is the master of attitude. Just ask your grandparents.  I will ask you a simple, innocent question, and I will immediately garner from you a snippy-infused reply.  There is no warning.  One minute you are willingly and cheerfully helping me out with Daphne, and the next you are blowing me away with a sassiness bigger than one would imagine your petite body could muster.  It was so much easier when you were a toddler just saying, "No!"  Now it's, "Fiiiiiiiiiiiine" with a dramatic, drawn out sigh and a stomp and a spin on your heel, whipping your hair and walking away, shoulders slumped, grunting at the ground.   I don't like her very much.  You?  I love.  Her?  I could do without.  Also? Nothing is funnier to you right now than words about bodily functions and the accompanying sounds that go with them.  I've never been the perfect example of a classy lady, so it's hard for me not to feel like my stifling you is a double standard.  

But my job is to make you better than me.

All criticism aside, however, you really are a special girl.  You've won art competitions and you've mastered math skills.  You love to write and you love to explore.  You still love fairies and the concept of flight.  You are infatuated with animals of all kinds and are relentlessly asking for a pet you can cuddle.  Right now, your goal is to be a veterinarian, a mommy, a restaurant owner, a marine biologist, and a performer.  I truly believe you CAN be all of those things.  Not because I'm your mommy, but because you're you.  You love the Gospel and plan to serve a mission someday.  You talk about marriage in the temple as if it's a no-brainer as your only option.  You remind me to pray every time I seem bothered about anything. Every. Time. Your love for your siblings is massive, and when your sisters aren't annoying you, you are so good with them.  You are enamored with JD and are constantly wanting to hold him.  You have offered, multiple times, to have him sleep in your bed with you all night so I can get some sleep.  You have no idea how badly I wish that would actually work...

..

I love you, Lilibug.  And even though I never vocally call you that anymore, you will always be her to me.  I remember feeling annoyed when my mom would make any reference to my having been her little girl.  I was so anxious to be a grown up.  You've expressed the same.  But I'm telling you to slow down...

... for both our sakes.

One Month In

I've been to therapy twice.

Has it helped? It definitely has a cleansing quality to it; being able to cry it all out to someone who, you HOPE, has been around people a lot crazier than you are. Right after each session, I feel better.  But then, when it's back to the grind...

I've been taking medication for a week and a 1/2.

Has it helped?  I don't know.  It's difficult to put a measure on it when you're still pretty sleep-deprived and you still feel like there are at least 1/2 a dozen times a day that you're going to lose it.  The permanent weight on my chest is gone.  That cloud that hovers over my chest like I'm Eeyore seems to have somewhat dissipated. Instead of a deluge, it's more like scattered thunderstorms.

Daphne has recently become more difficult. Initially, I found myself really impressed with her adjustment to the new addition. I guess, after a month, the newness has worn off and she realizes Mommy really is less accessible. She had her 1st official timeout this morning. She dropped the iPad on JD's head. It was an accident. But she refused to apologize.  So, off she went. It's a painful ritual for a mother - a child's 1st timeout - it's like they've officially been inducted into that sucky elite club of innocence lost.

CC is, well... CC. She complains about school being too long. She complains about what I put in her lunch. She complains about having to wear tights to dance class. But she's also happy at the flip of a switch.  I don't know if she's aware that our home feels different right now.  That's a blessing for her. Her cluelessness can irritate me, but maybe it's a survival instinct.

Malia is getting anxious. I can see it in her face. I hear it in her voice when she talks to her sisters. Being my helper is wearing on her. But I think that watching me suffer, as hard as I try to contain it in their presence, is really hurting her.  I don't know what to do about it. I've explained it to her - depression. I've explained that it's only seasonal in my case. But I didn't really understand it myself, even as an adult, until I had it.

I still don't understand it, to be honest.

I've always been pretty self-aware. In layman's terms, that basically means that I know when I'm being a jerk. I can control it... when I want to. But right now, it's like there's 2 of me. There's Tiffany: in control, functioning, capable, somewhat intelligent, who loves her children and has worked hard on making sure she is compassionate with them. And then there's this other chic hanging around: she's just louder than Tiffany. MUCH louder. She has a quick temper and little patience. And she's mean. It's almost like Jekyll & Hyde... No. The Hulk. Definitely the Hulk. And I hate her. And she DEFINITELY hates me.  Also, she likes to make Tiffany cry a minimum of 3-4 times a day.  For no reason.

Maybe she thinks it's funny.

I'm trying to take it a day at a time. But feeling like you're wearing the skin of someone else gets really tedious. My conversations with God are brief in the gratitude department. The ones where I'm mad? Yeah... those are dissertations.  He & I have been here twice before. Three times if you count the angry prayers from when Malia was a baby. But that was colic. Not depression.

And poor Dave. As much as I want to write about how hard depression can be on a marriage, I respect the sanctity of our relationship too much to put that here. But let me just be clear: if anyone tries to tell you that depression doesn't negatively impact a marriage, they're lying.  You can take it and grow from it, sure. But it is a very HOT refiner's fire.

I have a lot of thoughts in my head these days.  But JD just filled his pants big time and it's spilling out of his diaper. I can see the bright orange stain forming on the back of his onesie.

Like I said. Back to the grind...

Here We Go...

WARNING: I will be using this (as of late, untouched) blog to air a lot of my postpartum depression grievances, hoping it will help. Whether or not you continue to read is now up to you.

Wow. I got here FAST this time. I think after CC was born, the ugly monster with a capital D didn't really show up for at least 6 weeks or so.  And with Daphne, there was a lot of apprehension... but I don't think it really hit until about 5 weeks.

JD isn't even 3 weeks old until Tuesday.

But this morning, while my entire family attended church, I relaxed on the couch with a sleeping baby boy, laying sedentary on my chest. He had recently puked all of the contents of his breakfast all over me, yet, miraculously, had slept through both the vomiting and the cleaning. Then not even an hour later, without warning, he woke, suddenly, with a scream.

Usually I can get him right back to sleep, but that wasn't going to happen this morning for some reason. He just fought me, fought the pacifier, kicking me right where my fresh incision is still tender.

And instead of being the mother I know I CAN be; instead of being the loving, patient mother I work daily at being with my older, more "controllable" children - I just lost it. I put him in his swing, which he protested, and I yelled at him. I yelled at a helpless, newborn, dependent-upon-me-for-survival-and-love, tiny baby. I yelled at him to "deal for 5 minutes so I can take  a bloody shower since I smell like a sour dairy farm!"

I cried in the shower. HARD. I literally sat on the floor of my shower, water pouring all over me like some sort of campy after-school special, and sobbed. They were angry tears, and sad tears, and tears of self-pity & self-loathing. Oh, and you can trust that there was some definite yelling at God, as there is every time I go through this. I'm sure He can take it... not sure He deserves it.  But He's plenty used to it, undoubtedly.

I got out of the shower, nearly hyperventilating, and wondering what good my drama was doing me if no one was even around to witness the spectacle. I could hear JD, strapped safely in his swing, screaming like he was being tortured. So dramatic. Like his father.

Obviously.

I quickly got dressed and ran down to him just in time to catch him mid-red-faced, breathless silence. I picked him up just as the tension officially broke and the piercing cry nearly deafened me. I felt bad.

I guess.

I love him. I do. I really do love him, as I love all of my children. But I don't like him yet, and that sickens me, literally, physically to my core. It takes longer each time for me to actually "like" my babies.  It took 6 months with Malia, 8 with CC, and almost 10 with Daphne.

I have my 1st appointment on Wednesday with a therapist. I didn't go to therapy after Daphne. I definitely should have.  I went after CC and it worked wonders. I also have a prescription for something called "Wellbutrin" pinned up in my kitchen. The nurse gave it to me last week after dubbing me a little "more weepy" than her average postpartum patients. I didn't want Prozac.  It did weird things to me. It took away my sad, but it also took my happy.

Looks like I may need to visit the pharmacy today.

This is going to be a long year.....