Notes on Anxiety, Lactation, Disappointment, Perseverence
Yes, this is my third post in one day. I'm also writing in my regular journal. This recent bout of anxiety has me scrambling for purchase on anything that feels remotely productive and creates something different than the four walls around me and the 6 streets I walk from the house to the store to the park and back again.
My anxiety was triggered by a lactation medication I didn't taper off of properly. I should have known better but these pills, which I'd been on for months, had made me so goddamn fat and I got so goddamn sick of being fat. For a long while it had been worth it - we were able to breastfeed for 5 months, and then pump for 2 more. I'm delighted I got to do that. I didn't realize it would be as important to me as it was and, given the challenges we encountered, I think we had great success.
But pumping is not breastfeeding. It's much more laborous, and there is zero glamour. I was pumping up to 10 times a day. I would sit on the couch while Kal, stuck in his exosaucer, reached his arms out to me and I'd have to ignore him because I was pumping. I pumped in the car. At night I'd be just drifting off to sleep and I'd remember I hadn't pumped, so I had to rouse myself, sit up and pump for 15 minutes. When all you want to do is sleep, repeatedly squeezing one hand on a pump, massaging your breast with the other while staring into space and watching the minutes tick by is a lesson in madness.
No matter where I was I'd feel my boobs start to swell after an hour or two and knew I'd need to get home or find privacy so I could pump. Because I had such low supply, any missed pumping session felt like a big deal. Every single one made me feel like I was failing. I felt like the only thing I should be doing was pumping. I was missing out on those spare minutes while the baby napped, before he woke up, when he was playing quietly or while Joël watched him in between working. I could have been writing, or walking, or exercising, or plucking my eyebrows, or calling someone or ANYTHING.
At the same time, I felt successful. After a hell of a lot of work, dedication and research I was producing 1/3 of what Kal was eating. It made me feel maternal. It made me feel like I was doing right by my son (whether or not that's backed by any research). It made me feel like I was refusing to let my body fail. But after two months of exclusively pumping my hands ached and my mind was completely consumed with how many ounces I was producing. I decided to stop. Just stop. All done. I thought things would get better. I thought I'd have more time, and lose weight and...I don't know. I wouldn't have to pump anymore and that would be enough.
But it all went to shit. Almost immediately I started having panics attacks, bad enough to send me to the doctor. I've dealt with unmanaged anxiety before and have no interest in doing that again. That shit will fuck you up.
The Doctor put me back on the godforsaken pills in order to relieve my body's reaction to the withdrawl. We're tapering off them properly this time. But in the meantime it causes my breasts hurt and leak. I pump very occasionally to ease the discomfort but because I do actually want to stop pumping for good I'm not doing it enough to actually produce anything for him and so don't even get that satisfaction.
While the intial onset of anxiety was caused by the medication withdrawl, it seems to have triggered an episode in my underlying anxiety disorder. This whole ridiculous escapade has completely halted everything else I was doing well. Where I had energy I'm now depressed. Depression makes my body ache, which makes the walks I was taking with my son feel like a slog. I was meeting people, but now I feel self conscious. I was working, motivated to find more contracts, and applying for jobs. I would find time to do that at 5 am when the baby went back to sleep after his first wakeup but now it's all I can do to not fall asleep with him on the couch before even putting him back in his crib. I had quit smoking, and stopped drinking and eating meat. The mental energy needed for that kind of discipline is buried in fog.
I'm extremely disapointed that this happened. It doesn't seem fair that after all this work, one little misstep has caused everything to come crashing down. None of what I was accomplishing was easy to do in the first place. But most importantly it was FUN. I was having fun. And now everything is hard and tiring and boring.
I know it's temporary. It has to be. I'm starting an anti-depressant next week, for which I have high hopes. My depression overall is fairly low, all things considered. I've dealt with this brand of anxiety for years so I'm practiced at dealing with and overcoming it. It will get better. It always does. It's just a pain that I have to work at it again, when I had been sailing fairly effortlessly.