Personal Post: Defined by the Past
So, I've been trying to get used to the idea that I have postpartum depression. I have no problem admitting it to myself, even to the extent that I hear babies crying all the time. Even when Sephie is awake, or there is no baby around. If that's not a red flag, I'm not sure what would be.
What bothers me is admitting to other people.
There are a couple of reasons behind this.
One, there are several people in my life who are drama queens and or pathological liars and or total hypochondriacs. I've been accused of falling into all three of those categories in my life (always, humorously, by those that were arguably a better fit for the descriptor than myself) because of things that have happened to me. The end result is while I'm still open here, and always will be, it makes me very wary about sharing this information in-person or through other mediums.
Two, it gets exhausting. A few weeks ago, Sue told me, not so subtly, that she felt strongly it was time for me to start looking for a local therapist. It was an absolutely crushing blow, though I understand where she was coming from. And the fact that at four months postpartum the depression is more intense doesn't indicate I'm doing the work I really need to be doing in order for therapy to really be effective. I know that this wasn't her intention, but the more I thought about trying to do an intake with a new therapist, the more upset I got.
I'm tired of being defined by the old wounds, and telling my history gets really old really quickly. I've worked really hard to leave all of that stuff behind me, but it has a way of getting stirred back up when you share it with people, especially when you feel like the person who is supposed to be listening to you is silently passing judgment.
I was thinking about this while I was being evaluated for depression last week, and the doctor was asking me intrusive questions about my psychiatric history. Halfway through, I realized I didn't want to talk about it anymore, and I didn't want to volunteer this information to someone who didn't need to know. Of course, she ultimately concluded (in stark contrast to the other professional) that my problem wasn't due to postpartum depression, but my past catching up with me.
She might be on to something. I think about how my parents, especially my mom, were abusive.
I'm not talking about spanking us on the butt because we were misbehaving; I'm talking about my mom splitting my lip when I told her I wanted to live with Dad. I'm talking about Mom hauling off and slapping me across the face so hard, I couldn't properly close my mouth for two days. I'm talking about realizing as a young teenager that she was going to hit me on a daily basis regardless of what I did, but that if I said the right thing to provoke her into striking me, I could at least avoid giving her the satisfaction of upsetting me when she did it.
The truth is, my dad was right there with her. We made a lot of progress in our relationship after he left Mom, apologized to me, and validated the abuse. Recently, he told me he had decided he would not ever raise his hand to my younger brother and sister again, and it stirred a lot of things within me. I told him I thought it was the right decision, better made late than never, but inside I also wondered why he couldn't make the same decision for when I was a child.
He's an amazing father now, hands down, but when I was a kid? I was afraid of him.
My mother, of course, has no apologies for what she did. I don't know that I'd go so far as to believe she thinks she deserves Mother of the Year, but she defends that everything she did was right and with our best interest in mind. She will not tolerate criticism, and to the best of my knowledge, she has no ability to acknowledge that she was wrong.
How I feel now? She was abusive, but I don't know if she's certifiable.
I recently dreamed about the second-to-last time my mom went after me. I don't remember what I said, but I remember, with my brothers watching, she flew across the room and knocked me off a bar stool slapping and hitting my legs. I remember screaming at her to stop and likewise for the boys to help, and they just stood there. To this day, they defend that any time Mom struck me, I brought it on myself. But in the dream, unlike real life, I grabbed the bar stool and swung at her, defending myself, telling her it would be the last time she ever laid a hand on me.
That conversation has never happened, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, if she ever raised her hand to Sephie, I wouldn't hesitate. I wouldn't simply stand by and fail my child the way my bigger, taller, stronger brothers failed me again a crazy woman who was a good three inches taller than me. Maybe that's as close as it will ever come.
It's difficult to know which is worse. Mom's physical abuse was almost always unprovoked, but I could, at least, expect that with enough of an established frequency there wasn't any confusion. Emotionally, however? There was no telling what could set her off, or what glaring insecurity would be her target for a "joke" that day. And the "rules" that I was somehow supposed to know and understand were always changing. It might be okay to change my shirt before one volleyball practice, for example, but I'd go to do the same thing before the next and I'd be met with a barrage of verbal insults.
I know that these experiences hardened me. I have a tendency to be dismissive and flippant and want to avoid revealing my true emotional side because those things, often brought to the table to establish communication or receive compassion, were just tools to be turned against you in dealings with my mother. I have an almost compulsive need for consistency in argumentation and the avoidance of ad homs because I grew up with the exact opposite.
I guess these things are obviously on my radar to be addressed soon, but at the same time, I don't want to un-package these things. I feel like I fight so hard every day to distance myself from the legacy of my childhood, and revealing these things, processing them, somehow equals approval of the situation. I know it doesn't, and that's just my desire to keep from dealing with a painful past, but damn.
Can't I just be a mom having a hard time adjusting to, well, mommyhood? Why does all of the other stuff even have to be part of it?
What bothers me is admitting to other people.
There are a couple of reasons behind this.
One, there are several people in my life who are drama queens and or pathological liars and or total hypochondriacs. I've been accused of falling into all three of those categories in my life (always, humorously, by those that were arguably a better fit for the descriptor than myself) because of things that have happened to me. The end result is while I'm still open here, and always will be, it makes me very wary about sharing this information in-person or through other mediums.
Two, it gets exhausting. A few weeks ago, Sue told me, not so subtly, that she felt strongly it was time for me to start looking for a local therapist. It was an absolutely crushing blow, though I understand where she was coming from. And the fact that at four months postpartum the depression is more intense doesn't indicate I'm doing the work I really need to be doing in order for therapy to really be effective. I know that this wasn't her intention, but the more I thought about trying to do an intake with a new therapist, the more upset I got.
I'm tired of being defined by the old wounds, and telling my history gets really old really quickly. I've worked really hard to leave all of that stuff behind me, but it has a way of getting stirred back up when you share it with people, especially when you feel like the person who is supposed to be listening to you is silently passing judgment.
I was thinking about this while I was being evaluated for depression last week, and the doctor was asking me intrusive questions about my psychiatric history. Halfway through, I realized I didn't want to talk about it anymore, and I didn't want to volunteer this information to someone who didn't need to know. Of course, she ultimately concluded (in stark contrast to the other professional) that my problem wasn't due to postpartum depression, but my past catching up with me.
She might be on to something. I think about how my parents, especially my mom, were abusive.
I'm not talking about spanking us on the butt because we were misbehaving; I'm talking about my mom splitting my lip when I told her I wanted to live with Dad. I'm talking about Mom hauling off and slapping me across the face so hard, I couldn't properly close my mouth for two days. I'm talking about realizing as a young teenager that she was going to hit me on a daily basis regardless of what I did, but that if I said the right thing to provoke her into striking me, I could at least avoid giving her the satisfaction of upsetting me when she did it.
The truth is, my dad was right there with her. We made a lot of progress in our relationship after he left Mom, apologized to me, and validated the abuse. Recently, he told me he had decided he would not ever raise his hand to my younger brother and sister again, and it stirred a lot of things within me. I told him I thought it was the right decision, better made late than never, but inside I also wondered why he couldn't make the same decision for when I was a child.
He's an amazing father now, hands down, but when I was a kid? I was afraid of him.
My mother, of course, has no apologies for what she did. I don't know that I'd go so far as to believe she thinks she deserves Mother of the Year, but she defends that everything she did was right and with our best interest in mind. She will not tolerate criticism, and to the best of my knowledge, she has no ability to acknowledge that she was wrong.
How I feel now? She was abusive, but I don't know if she's certifiable.
I recently dreamed about the second-to-last time my mom went after me. I don't remember what I said, but I remember, with my brothers watching, she flew across the room and knocked me off a bar stool slapping and hitting my legs. I remember screaming at her to stop and likewise for the boys to help, and they just stood there. To this day, they defend that any time Mom struck me, I brought it on myself. But in the dream, unlike real life, I grabbed the bar stool and swung at her, defending myself, telling her it would be the last time she ever laid a hand on me.
That conversation has never happened, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, if she ever raised her hand to Sephie, I wouldn't hesitate. I wouldn't simply stand by and fail my child the way my bigger, taller, stronger brothers failed me again a crazy woman who was a good three inches taller than me. Maybe that's as close as it will ever come.
It's difficult to know which is worse. Mom's physical abuse was almost always unprovoked, but I could, at least, expect that with enough of an established frequency there wasn't any confusion. Emotionally, however? There was no telling what could set her off, or what glaring insecurity would be her target for a "joke" that day. And the "rules" that I was somehow supposed to know and understand were always changing. It might be okay to change my shirt before one volleyball practice, for example, but I'd go to do the same thing before the next and I'd be met with a barrage of verbal insults.
I know that these experiences hardened me. I have a tendency to be dismissive and flippant and want to avoid revealing my true emotional side because those things, often brought to the table to establish communication or receive compassion, were just tools to be turned against you in dealings with my mother. I have an almost compulsive need for consistency in argumentation and the avoidance of ad homs because I grew up with the exact opposite.
I guess these things are obviously on my radar to be addressed soon, but at the same time, I don't want to un-package these things. I feel like I fight so hard every day to distance myself from the legacy of my childhood, and revealing these things, processing them, somehow equals approval of the situation. I know it doesn't, and that's just my desire to keep from dealing with a painful past, but damn.
Can't I just be a mom having a hard time adjusting to, well, mommyhood? Why does all of the other stuff even have to be part of it?