Revelations: Babies, Asperger's and Life in General

The past two weeks have been very emotional and difficult for me.  I'm not sure what sparked it, but it was both a good thing, as well as a not-so-good thing.  It's been a time full of revelations.  I had a huge pity party, then took a pretty sharp dive off a pretty steep cliff.  After free-falling for a while, I finally bumped back to solid ground very abruptly sometime this past week.  I scared my two best friends enough for them to worry I was going to pack up and leave (I know part of me really wanted to).  They also did "welfare checks" under the guise of bringing dinners over.  I think Shawn got quite a few texts and emails from them, too.  There are a lot of things I keep within myself as a mom and wife; I suppose it was just time to bring them to the forefront, to bring them to the attention of my family.  I didn't necessarily do all of this in the healthiest manner, but at least things are being recognized and dealt with now.

The theme of my week was "How Do People Do This?", also known as, "I Have No Idea How I'm Going to Survive My Children."  A friend of mine has a boyfriend with a child on the spectrum.  She also has two neurotypical boys of her own.  Occasionally I'll get a text from her that says, "How do you do this ALL DAY LONG, EVERY SINGLE DAY?!"  I tell her it's easy--a little rum, a little valium and a whole lot of slamming my head in a cabinet door (I'm joking, of course...  except for the cabinet door part....).  But seriously, I was beginning to wonder the same thing myself.  I felt incredibly overwhelmed with no end in sight.  I took stock of everything I'm dealing with, everything go on in my life and everything I'm doing; I just felt done.  At some point over the next several years (months?), I'm going to lose my mind for good (yes, because I do still have some semblance of sanity; very little, but it is there) if something doesn't change.  You know that old saying, something's gotta give?  I'm always afraid that something will be me.  One of my older friends with grown children and small grandchildren tells me I will miss these days someday and wonder how they went by so quickly.  There are days I wish someday would get here a little faster.  Then I feel guilty for thinking such a thing, in the wake of the tragedies several friends have suffered with their children this year.

There is a bit of guilt attached to some of my revelations, especially where motherhood is concerned.  I felt ungrateful and wondered what my children would think if they knew what was going on in my head. I felt guilty that my two best friends--who are single moms with plenty of their own stuff--were taking time out of their crazy schedules to check on us and offer to help with the boys.  I was looking at everything they handle, comparing our lives and wondering why on earth I can't handle what I have going on when I don't have a full time job to worry about on top it, and I have a husband to help with it all.  This is usually when my friends kindly point out everything I'm balancing (dropping) on my overflowing plate.  Did you know it's really not fair to compare yourself to others?  

I think one of the things I have realized after last week is that as far as children are concerned, two boys are more than enough and I cannot handle, nor do I any longer want, a third child.  There are just too many variables at play.  I love Noah dearly, but there is a reason he was not twins (that said, there are also reasons Avery wasn't either).  Most days I am barely hanging on by a thread of sanity; I can't imagine A) having a third boy and/or B) having another child on the spectrum.  I sadly realized one night, as I watched an infant when we were out, that I no longer feel that ache in my gut.  It was a sad moment for me.  I'm sure there will be a grieving process for myself and Shawn with our very final decision.  We badly wanted to try again in the hopes of having a little girl, but I just don't think it would be fair to us as a couple, as a family or as individuals.  As I looked at that baby, I didn't see a little person who will one day be an adult; I saw colic, reflux, Asperger's, ADHD, anxiety, obsessions, mountains of diapers, more years as a SAHM and everything else I'm trying to deal with or come to terms with.  And let's face it, I'm not exactly Mom-of-the-Year material with the two boys I already have.  Shawn and I struggle a lot with parenting and while we do have some terrific friends who do their best to help make our lives easier, we lack familial support.

I think I am also still grieving the "what might have been's" when it comes to Noah.  There are things our family won't be able to do, moments I won't have as a mom, moments Shawn won't have as a dad, Noah won't have as a child and Avery won't have as a brother.  Some things will be more difficult for our family.  We will all have to work harder to make sure Avery and Noah have the brotherly bond we want for them that Shawn and I don't have with our own siblings.  We need to learn to concentrate more on the tidbits of normal, as well as the blessings we do have because of Noah, rather than the things we won't experience.  It's a difficult moment for me when I walk through the grocery store with my children and I realize I'M now the mom I used to look at and think, "Oh, my kids will never act like that!"  Our family is one of the examples of what can go "wrong," the family no one else wants to be like.  Sometimes I want to snap at the staring people, "My kid has Asperger's, what the hell is wrong with yours?  Watch it, or I'll let mine breathe on yours."  Other times I just want to pin a sign on my chest that says, "I have a college education from a very good school, really I do."  I believe we are pretty well in the clear with Avery, but I don't think I'll be able to breathe a full sigh of relief until after his third birthday.  While he does not have AS, there is always the chance he could slip into full autism.

Along with Noah's diagnosis, I am also still grieving the many deaths and other losses our family has been through this year.  Some of them have hit me rather hard and it's not one of those things you just get over.  It's a daily struggle and sometimes grief just hits you out of the blue.

Then there are my health issues rearing their ugly heads again.  I'm quite certain it has to do with my stress level. It's difficult to come to terms with not being able to lift my toddler in and out of his crib or a grocery cart.  There are days I feel so lame that I worry I'll need my cane again to walk any further.  Then I realize I haven't been able to get through the day without a pain pill in months.  I don't want to be that person again.

If things don't change with Noah, myself and a few other things, Noah will have to return to public school next year.  The thought scares the daylights out of me, quite honestly.  This week I had an email from friends of ours with a son on the spectrum; while they never openly said anything against homeschooling, I could tell they didn't think very much of our decision.  Recently, they've decided to pull their son as well and begin homeschooling.  So, what is wrong with me that I can't handle this?  That it feels as though every other parent is pulling their child when I'm considering putting mine back into public school?  The public school decision is one that needs to be carefully thought out and planned.  First, I will need to make sure Noah would get the resources and help he'll need to adjust and be successful.

Some of the necessary change in behavior and thought patterns are up to me to make.

The long and short of it is that I can't keep going on like this.  I need more support and Noah and I both need a break from each other.  Shawn is great and does his best to help when he's at home, but he doesn't get home most evenings until close to the boys' bedtimes.  That means that I am the teacher, the primary caregiver, the chauffeur, the chef, the disciplinarian, the laundress, the maid and everything else all rolled into one not-so-neat little package.  That also means that I'm in charge of all the extra-curricular things Shawn thinks Noah should be doing.  It means I don't get a break.  Most days I'm too tired to eat, much less think at the end of the day.  Some nights I go to bed in tears, other nights I'm too tired to even cry.  I keep telling myself I should be able to do this--I'm a mom, after all.  I'm dealing with less than other people deal with.  So, why can't I get it together?  There are times I feel totally taken for granted (who doesn't), as though no one notices how much I do until I don't do it.  Like any human, I need to be acknowledged for everything I do within the home--and everything I give up to be here.  I just want to know I'm appreciated and that I'm more than just the chores I perform daily.

I need to make sure that I make time for myself and then force the issue with Shawn when/if it looks as though it may not happen.  I need to find something that I enjoy doing that will give me fulfillment and purpose outside of the home.  I need to find a way to do things that I enjoy, something that makes me Amy.  I need to have goals I can easily achieve as a SAHM.  Whether that means going back to work part-time, going back to school or just finding a hobby or two that I can do without the children, I don't know yet.  I can't allow things to get to the point they got to last week again.  It wasn't healthy for any of us, especially Noah and Avery.

At the end of the day, I'm still grateful for the grace, mercy, forgiveness and understanding my family and friends choose to grant me.  I'm also grateful for the same things God grants me.  Even when I don't deserve it.  

Conquering Depression

I've been inspired to share my battle with depression with you; a friend recently covered the subject in her blog and it was helpful to me.  I've tossed the idea around in my head before, but always put it off.  Why?  Is it because the topic is taboo?  Because we aren't supposed to admit in polite company when we have faults or weaknesses?  Because I'm embarrassed?  I wish I knew.  

I have to tell you, I feel very naked and vulnerable in writing this, but I'm hoping that maybe it will help someone; whether it's someone who struggles with depression, or someone who watches their loved one struggle, that's all up to God.


At any rate, here goes nothing.

Depression is a pit.  That's all there is to it: It's a deep, dark, bottomless hole.  There are days a person who has depression can't claw his/her way out no matter how much they want to.  And believe me, most of us do want to.  Being depressed is not fun.  We miss out on a lot and there are many things we no longer enjoy.  You can't tell a person to "just snap out of it," nor can you judge a person until you've walked in his/her shoes.  We can't get out of bed, don't enjoy life, can't get into a groove.  We muddle through and that's the best we can do most days.  What that person feels is legitimate and REAL.  A person with depression also feels a lot of guilt because we know our struggle is difficult for our family. They have to watch and wait until we are ready to admit our problems and ask for help, then follow through with it.  Unfortunately, sometimes the medications and side effects can make things worse.

I was first treated for depression back in high school, but I'm certain I struggled with it much longer than that before it was identified.  I've pretty much always had self-esteem issues, negative self-thinking and other such cycles.  I've always worn my heart on my sleeve and have been overly sensitive to criticism.  I remember temper tantrums over grades (which were almost always A's and B's--why weren't they all A's?), complete meltdowns over the smallest things, my inability to do things "perfectly" and routinely setting myself up for disaster and failure.  I put a lot of pressure on myself to succeed, to be better than I already was, to live up to some unrealistic standard I set for myself, then I routinely hit a wall and burned out. "See?  I told you I couldn't do it" and "Why can't I do anything right?" were my two favorite things to say.

Things got worse in college; I started seeing a different psychiatrist who spoke of hospitalization and ECT when nothing else seemed to work.  I would hide out in my apartment, seldom appearing in class and eventually quitting my job.   I engaged in some risky behaviors and unhealthy relationships.  I had started cutting in high school, but it got worse in college; I started burning myself as well (both of those behaviors continued well into the first years of marriage).  I created my own miserable little world and as much as I hated depression, I was almost content to be there.  In a way, it was safe because it was what I knew best. Eventually, I was hospitalized after making suicidal threats.  I seemed to get a little better after a week of hospitalization (sans ECT) and was able to move on a little bit.

I moved back home, starting teaching, Shawn and I got married and had Noah.  If we thought I was bad with "regular depression"--we hadn't seen anything until we saw me with post-partum depression.  I was so afraid to tell anyone how bad it was; I was determined to nurse and I was so afraid someone would take my baby away.  I remember at my follow-up with my OBGYN after Noah's birth, I just sat there staring at him in his little carrier, sobbing.  My doctor checked me out and sent me on my way, never asking why I was crying.  Somehow we survived, although I'm still not sure how.

It was around this same time I was also tagged with two more diagnoses and became even sicker.  I'd struggled with migraines the majority of the time I'd struggled with depression and I often wonder if the two were linked, or if the medications for one were exacerbating the other.  For me, my emotional, spiritual and physical problems were a vicious cycle, like a merry-go-round that was going too fast and I couldn't get off. Everything spiraled out of control.  After my two new diagnoses, my doctors started me on many other medications, informing me that between the meds and diseases, it was unlikely I'd ever be able to get pregnant or carry to term again.  At the time, I knew it was for the best.  I was in no shape to have another baby and I often wondered about my ability to even raise Noah.  I lost my teaching job because I just couldn't function.  I began seeing another psychiatrist who thought maybe because of my history of not responding well to anti-depressants and some seemingly manic episodes, that I was more Bipolar than Major Depressive.  I was so angry at God, so bitter--how could He do this to me?  To my family?  What did I do that they had to punished so badly?  Over the next several years, I became so bogged down by prescription drugs, physical and emotional pain and doctors, that I was lucky if I could tell you what day of the week it was.  Again, I had created my own little world and was content to live there.  Only this time I wasn't hurting just myself, I was hurting Noah and Shawn.  The scariest part was that I didn't care.

It was on my drive home from one such frustrating doctor's appointment that I was intent on killing myself when I got home.  I had everything all planned out: I had all my prescriptions and was just going to take all of them.  Then I'd be free, right?  This is how people who are suicidal think:  It's all about "me," it's not about what we'll be leaving behind for our loved ones to pick up after.  We convince ourselves suicide is the only way we'll ever feel better, that the struggle is no longer worth it and our loved ones will be better off without us.  WRONG.  That's not how it plays out.  If you've ever spoken to a survivor of suicide, you know they blame themselves.  They want to know why they didn't stop the person, why they didn't see the signs and pay more attention.  They will tell you they should've been there, there had to have been more they could've done.  Hindsight is always 20/20.  Often times, more suicides follow in the wake of the first one, especially among teens and younger family members.

I'm one of the fortunate ones.  Even though I'd given up on myself and God, even though I'd stopped crying out to Him, He never stopped crying out to me.  For that matter, He never stopped crying for me.  I didn't go home and try to kill myself that day.  Instead, I had this phone number stuck in my head and I had to write it down.  I know where the phone number came from and He saved my life--and my family--with it.  It took me a week to call that number.  It took me another week after that to visit the place I'd called.  There, I found love and acceptance.  I did not find judgement or presumptions.  I found God again in these wonderful people.  And now I work there too, so I can give back everything that has been given to me.

I'm no longer angry at God.  I know that He didn't do this to me or my family; He wasn't punishing us for something I did.  I know that I was the one who left Him--He was either by my side or carrying me the entire time.   I know that He got all of us through everything and is always right here with His hand on my shoulder.  He saved me--and my family--from myself.  He was our Protector, and still is.  I do still have some moments of anger and bitterness; there are things I haven't dealt with fully that have nothing to do with depression.  My struggle may have been difficult for me, but I think it was most difficult for my family.  I still have a lot of guilt from those years.  Shawn had to watch me lose myself, wonder every day when he went to work what he would come home to, if it was safe to leave me with Noah.  It was horrible for them.  I was horrible for them.

Am I cured?  I honestly don't think so; I think depression is something I will struggle with the rest of my life, unfortunately.  It might be on varying levels, but I think it will always be there.  I do know I'm healed, and for me, being cured and being healed are two different things. The past few months, I've struggled with it so much that I realized I really needed to go back on medication.  Because of all the "misadventures" I've had with medications before, I was truly scared to head down that path again.  However, I was more scared to head back into the pit of depression.  I'm grateful that I have experienced almost no side effects this time around and the first one at the lowest dose I tried work right off the bat.  It is such an amazing relief to be able to on an anti-depressant and still be able to function.

In a very odd way, my struggles with depression and physical health have been huge blessings.  I used to concentrate on what I lost because of my illnesses, but now I'm able to see that what I've gained is more than I could have ever dreamed of.  I have so much to live for and I concentrate on those good things in my life (even when my Starbucks cup is half empty....).  What is sad to me is that I had all of this to live for before, but I was too self-absorbed to see it; I missed out on a lot.  I smile more and laugh more.  I've built a good support system for myself and I have people who aren't afraid to tell me when things might be getting bad and I need to do something about it.  I'm not afraid of the stigma anymore, so I talk about it if things get bad.  I have a better understanding of life and a closer walk with God.  I've since been able to use all of this as a learning experience and a chance to grow closer to my family and God.  I've also frequently been given the chance to use my struggles as a teaching experience for others who want to help people like me, as well as others who also struggle and their families who struggle with them.

Depression is part of my life journey.  It's part of what makes me Amy.  From there, it's up to me to either allow it to be a stumbling block or use it as a blessing.