Motherhood – MEyeStories

Tira_TWD

There are a lot of memes and jokes going around in these isolating times that beg the question, “what day is it?” For me more specifically however, I find myself wondering “what minute is it?”

This emotional roller coaster that is this time in our lives is taking me on an experiential ride that is literally morphing moment to moment. In one breathe, I’m so exhausted that I am crying over the dishes that are sitting crusted and begging for a wash. In the next, I’m pondering the ominous pile of laundry that I’ve walked past for days without any will to address. There are times I’m laughing like a child about an old memory that I’d love to time warp into, and then suddenly I’m moved by the beauty of my own child and his innocence in all of this. And there is this moment I am in right as I write this, where I’m tearing up recalling all of the moments in my life that are both beautiful and tragic – stirring up both old, stuck trauma and elation and joy at the same time.

What I’m beginning to understand, is that this emoting is fluid, like the tides changing effortlessly with water temperatures that seem to always be too hot or too cold – never that bath water I long to melt in for hours. No, these waters are uncomfortable and painful, and if I bathe in them for too long, I feel like I might die.

I have what has been diagnosed as a consistently low level of serotonin in my brain. Serotonin controls the “happiness” and “uplifting” feelings. The reason I use the water analogy so frequently when discussing emotion is that often brain chemicals have been described to me as such. My therapist once said the brain is like a bathtub with a drain, filled with water. Imagine the water in the bathtub is serotonin (happy/peace). Depression occurs when the drain the in the bathtub is not operating at full function, leaking tiny bits of water all of time. It also occurs when the faucet that refills the tub though exercise, vitamin D, or anything else your body does to create serotonin, is not free-flowing. I have a leaky drain and a faucet that cannot keep up…thus my bathtub is never full. Likely, it never has been. I’ve probably been operating with low-levels of serotonin my whole life (depression) and it wasn’t until the birth of my son that I actually received this “diagnosis.” What a relief – I’m not just a miserable bitch!

Clearly, as with any personal essay, I can only speak to and hold space for the way depression has played a role in my life, and how it feels to me. If you have been diagnosed or think you may have clinical depression, I stand with you in solidarity and compassion. I know that not all experiences with mental illness can be paralleled with others. But I’d like to think that even though each experience with mental illness is as unique as the individual, we are not alone in our struggles.

So back to my own journey… I was diagnosed with clinical postpartum depression following the birth of my son. One night I was alone with him when he was only a few months old. My husband was working late and I had a day that I actually have no recollection of. I just remember putting Marcus down in the other room and sitting on the edge of my bed – some Bravo reality show on mute on the TV in front of me, my mind racing to what action I could take to hurt myself. I needed an action that would cause a lot of pain, but not kill me. I thought about the knife rack in the kitchen, and how I could cut myself in a way that wouldn’t be too bloody because I was too tired to clean that up. I was exhausted. My brain started going through the scenarios, then out of nowhere a voice in my head simply said “stop.” I awoke slowly from my hazy planning and I texted my therapist. He called me immediately and started asking me a series of questions to evaluate if I was suicidal or in any harm of hurting my baby. I passed the test, which is to say he stayed on the phone with me until my husband came home. I went to his office the following day, and we came up with a treatment plan. I was prescribed a serotonin inhibiter to fill my bathtub back up in hopes that I might begin to live a life less burdened by the “heavy.”

To be clear, I was always functioning – but the operations of life were very difficult for me. Little tasks felt insurmountable, I was endlessly tired (compounded by the exhaustion of new motherhood), and I was just surviving. With a lot of support, medication, and yoga, I found a way out from under the heaviness that seemed to be embracing me for as long as I could remember. About a year after I started my meds, I weaned off of them with the close monitoring of my therapist, armed with fresh tools and a new internal healing I had worked tirelessly for.

Today I am trapped under the “heavy “once again. What I have learned since being isolated in my home for several weeks, is that I am an extrovert. I know that’s a big “duh” for those who know me well. I’m not huge on labels, and I have never identified with much that defines my “personality.” That’s not to say I am not connected to myself. I have a deep knowing of me, and I suppose I am now getting a crash course in leveling up that understanding. So, yes – I am an extrovert and I get a lot of my energy through the exchanges I have with other humans throughout my days. I love the “how are you” with cashiers, the “what a beautiful day, right?” to the random passerby. I live for the trips I take to be with my friends and family where we laugh and exchange stories of our current lives and bask in the warmth of our sacred memories. These human connections lift me up and get me going. Since being home, I am not getting that energy. I am sad.

I do have a husband and child I live with. We aren’t really “shooting the shit” over daily musings (one of my favorite things to do). Rather, we’re having transactions about sustaining and operating our lives on the inside. My husband is an angel, but he works harder than anyone I know, and he can’t give me a deep level of connection right now. A note to you married people – be mindful of your energetic needs and how your partner’s needs may vary with lower bandwidths right now. It’s so hard to be everything to everyone…ever. I have so much compassion for how my partner has to manage is own life and work all at the same time. I also have to accept that he is an introvert!

So…I am lonely. I am sitting alone, moment to moment, feeling “all the feels”, and my work is to ride the waves and not let the emotions marinate in my own fibers – or worse, drown me. Emotions are seasons, not micro-climates. They are meant to enter into our bodies to awaken us to different aspects of our lives and beings. Then ideally, we release them and have gratitude for their teachings.

Right now, I am having a hard time moving the emotions in, around, and out of me. They are lingering, sitting heavy on my heart and in my brain, and making me tired. My drain is leaking, my faucet is not running, and my bathtub is only half-full of ice-cold water.

I am in FaceTime therapy every week; my therapist and I talk about what I am going through and she helps me to stay present and remain kind to myself. She urges me to stay present in my sadness even when it’s painful, breathe through it, and thank if for waking up that part of me. She reminds me to honor the feeling – cry, rest, stomp my feet, rest, take warm baths, rest, hug my son. She lets me know that I am not alone and that my self-dialogue must remain in a voice of kindness and compassion so as to not judge my experience. Rather, simply let it be so that they can do their service and move on. “Take care of yourself first, Tira.” I need that reminder.

I love to help and be of service to the people I love, but sometimes the scales tip too far away from me and I find myself depleted and unsupported. Supporting myself is my biggest lesson when managing my depression…especially during these times.

I am currently seeking guidance to go back on medication. I am no hero and I have no ego regarding taking help. The thing that’s tricky for me is asking for help. So, if you take anything from this, it’s to ask for the help and support you need. Is it a hug? Do you need help putting the kids to bed? An open ear, or maybe just a space to be vulnerable and authentic with the people you love and trust most? Whatever you need, ask for it. And please, from me to you, take care of yourself.

I’m an “Only (child),” raising an “Only,” in a time where, it feels like woman are having 3-4 children with the greatest of ease. I’m writing this as a way to process my persistent feelings about mothering an only child, especially now, as his 4-year-old curiosity has begun to demand answers regarding his obscure, “no-sibling” status. I must also begin with this caveat, I have been very judgmental in the past, of people procreating several children. To be fair, my judgement of others creating larger families, comes from a place inside of me that sometimes wishes my immediate family population was slightly larger. So, I’m sorry for that. I realize fate, finances and different beliefs result in diverse family sizes and dynamics and quite frankly, that it’s none of my fucking business.

To be totally honest, I never thought too deeply about the number of children I would or thought I should have, prior to becoming a mother. Maybe because I am an only child whose mother made a very responsible decision by settling on just me as her primary dependent. My mom raised me alone for three years prior to meeting my father, who was 21-years her senior. So, for very logical reasons, I never ended up gaining that older brother I frequently invented in my mind. And, I got it (my only status). I didn’t run around feeling jilted of some imaginary life where my brother would step in and protect me from bullies and give me feedback on how to act around my crushes…or maybe I did?

I struggle, like most mothers do, ripe with constant guilt, about how to do and be better for my child. I struggle most with this thought; have I deprived my son of a life better lived with a sibling companion? Is he destined to live an isolated experience of imaginary friends and lonely Sundays with just my husband and me? And then I reconnect deeply, and know that he is loved madly and supported fully.

When I was 6, my parents took me to Disneyland for the first time. I remember it being my first out-of-state travel, first time on an airplane…and most importantly, the first mouse-ear head-band acquisition, in a collection of many. I particularly remember how important I felt; the pilot on the airplane made a huge deal out of me and my first-time-flyer status and my parents bestowed me the window seat and endless Sprite refills. When we checked in to the Anaheim Motel (the kind where the pool is surrounded by the parking lot), the check-in lady practically threw me a parade to celebrate my inaugural palm tree sighting. In my memory, my first California adventure is what I assume being crowned Miss America is like; endless parades, fun outfits, and it was ALL for me. Would I have felt this same excitement had I needed to share it with my imaginary older brother, “Tyler”? Would said older brother have demanded my windowseat and hogged my glory? I’m not trying to assassinate Tyler’s character, he would have probably been a great brother, but the memories of my childhood do not completely wreak of solitude, on the contrary, my experiences were special and connected.

When I moved to New York City at the age of 20, a lot of people who would meet me for the first time, would awe in wonder upon hearing that I am an only child. Often, I would hear, “you don’t seem like an only child!” And initially, I took that as a compliment. I’m not even sure why? Eventually, upon further inquisition by me, I’d find out that the mass assumption about single children raised in middle-class communities, is that we are spoiled, socially awkward brats…

And here I am, a well-adjusted, socially fabulous, adult woman, with a healthy sense of self-awareness, worried about what? That my “only” is going to turn into a spoiled, socially awkward brat? Or that his imaginary little sister he often requests, will haunt him throughout his life? What exactly am I feeling guilty about? I wonder even in this moment as I write this.

Or is it me that I am worried about? Maybe I’m feeling a yearning for that love a new baby brings…Or that abundant affection you eventually bask in at those big family holidays; when you are sitting around a fire with several children/grandchildren who are regaling you with stories about their lives, lives that somehow you gifted to them. And is that desire for more love what fuels so many of us to want more? The feeling that one isn’t enough for the parents or the original kid? One person can provide the universe with infinite love! So why is one not enough? I’m not sure it’s as simple as family planning from a place of scarcity. Which, I’m not implying anyone with more than one kid does, I’m just exploring my own ruminations regarding my baby-making decision. Side note, I know plenty of people who do not have “ideal” sibling comradery.

For my husband and I, having one child was a calculated decision made over the course of years and ever-shifting life happenings. For starters, I became a mother a bit later in life (34), which as I’ve read is very on-trend for my generation. I struggled deeply with post-partum depression, never truly relishing in that new-baby bliss everyone speaks of. My husband works long and hard to provide a life where I’m able to make my “job” Motherhood. He’s also no spring chicken, while where on the topic of age. And when we finally came to place in parenting where we had the bandwidth to decide if we wanted to have more children, we ultimately chose to move on to the next step of all of our lives in lieu of creating a new one. All of these points could be argued, and I’ve had others try to poke holes in my reasoning. “But the second is so much easier!” “Aw, Marcus needs a buddy, you can handle it!” “The love you experience will outweigh the work!” “Just do it and don’t look back, you’ll never regret bringing more life into the world!” All, potentially true but just not for us.

But I find myself wavering every time I’m met with someone new and have to explain, “Oh, we’re only having one.” And somehow, because of my own insecurities, my ego feels weak every time I say it. I hear a voice in my head say “I guess I’m the one who couldn’t handle more than one, I suppose I just don’t have the work ethic, maybe I’m not strong enough…” My soul knows better, I feel brave and connected that I could make the decision and know myself, my limitations and mostly, my not-yet-realized dreams.

I make it a habit in every second I can remember, to be grateful. I operate from abundance and have been blessed with an abundant life filled with love, support and the exceptional souls that surround me. When I practice this gratitude, I know that the life and the family we’ve created is bursting at the seams with love and hard work too. Today, after a lot of feeling my feelings and analyzing societal expectations, I feel settled in our decision to create this powerful and dynamic family of 3. Which by the way, can sometimes feel like a community of 10 (we’re not wallflowers)!

Parenting, family-planning and EVERY decision a human makes, is completely unique to their life experience. We should all aim to be mindful and not compare or judge our circumstances with those of others. When I truly learned that lesson, is when I found peace. It’s my goal to teach my son about mindfulness and appreciation, so that when he’s at the park feeling sad that he doesn’t have a little sister to boss around, he can also be grateful that every window-seat on every airplane, will always be his (as long as he’s traveling with his pushover Mama and Papa).

Category: Motherhood

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My One and Only