One of the things I still struggle with is having a heightened anxiety level. It doesn't take much to get me worked up. Anyhow, I'm really struggling right now. It's really nothing PTSD related - it is work related. My company is undergoing a merger / buy out. Since I am a shareholder, that means a lot of financial decisions to make in a very short period of time without enough information to make good decisions.
To top it off, no one really knows anything about the company that's buying us out. They're very large, almost 9000 employees. It's going to be weird to be just a number instead of the CEO knowing my name. In my current position, I'm 3 steps away from the CEO. Now, I'm probably 10 steps away from the CEO. I don't know if I'll be asked to move or to travel. I don't know if my duties will remain the same or change.
I also just found out that I may be invited to participate in new company's employee stock plan. They're inviting 40 employees to join, and I was invited to the preliminary meeting. I thought initial stock offerings would be in the $25,000 - $50,000 range, but they're looking at $120,000 to $250,000 range. I don't have THAT kind of cash sitting around. They're supposed to make offers by the end of the month, and I only have until June 30th to decide. At that time, I will have worked for this company for only 45 days. Do I really want to jump into bed with them?
Anyhow, all of this uncertainty has me on edge. I just want to crawl into bed, and hide under the covers. That won't be happening anytime soon, but it sure sounds appealing.
Showing posts with label choice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label choice. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Identity
I'm participating in a PTSD research study looking at the concept of self / identity as it relates to PTSD. It made me start thinking about how my sense of identity has helped or hindered my ability to learn how to cope with this disease.
In some ways, I think I was pretty lucky to have PTSD strike me during my daughter's birth. There's a huge change in identity that comes from having that squalling child placed on your belly. You're not just responsible for you anymore, you're responsible for that little person as well. For a lot of people, just that change from individual to parent can change your concept of identity. You're never quite the same person that you were. For me, those changes were just more extreme due to the PTSD.
It's also made it easier to accept that I will never be the person I was before this happened. It was easier once I realized that just by giving birth I wasn't supposed to be the same person I was before. It's much easier to accept the more extreme changes once you accept the basic ones.
In some ways, I think I was pretty lucky to have PTSD strike me during my daughter's birth. There's a huge change in identity that comes from having that squalling child placed on your belly. You're not just responsible for you anymore, you're responsible for that little person as well. For a lot of people, just that change from individual to parent can change your concept of identity. You're never quite the same person that you were. For me, those changes were just more extreme due to the PTSD.
It's also made it easier to accept that I will never be the person I was before this happened. It was easier once I realized that just by giving birth I wasn't supposed to be the same person I was before. It's much easier to accept the more extreme changes once you accept the basic ones.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Here we go again, but I see improvement
I was triggered yesterday. I have to admit that I was struggling a bit before I set foot in the door. Once I left work, and started to drive out there, I found myself having some intrusive thoughts about running into my former OB. My concern with every new doctor is which section of the clinic they work out of, I'm terrified that I may bump into my former doctor on my way to an appointment with a new doctor. Anyhow, I saw the only doctor at my clinic that does the essure procedure. (Thank God, it was a woman.) We were discussing my candidacy for the procedure, and she went back through my hospital notes in great detail. That was a sure-fire way to make me feel like a freak of nature. Then suggested having another child by c-section - since no one would blame me for making that decision after my difficult first delivery. When I turned that suggestion down, she suggested I bring my ipod along to "relax' me during the actual procedure. She had no way of knowing that my husband and nurses used my ipod as a distraction for me in the first couple of hours out of surgery, so I wouldn't ask a lot of questions about what had happened. (I had a brief flashback in the appointment over this one.) And, followed all of that up with a quick exam to analyze my anatomy for the procedure.
By the time I left, I was really struggling. I was shaking, edgy, anxious, and having intrusive thoughts. I was planning to take the rest of the afternoon off, but I made the decision to go back to work instead. Within a half hour of getting back to work, the worst of the intrusive thoughts had gone away, and the shaking had subsided. I was still a bit edgy, and anxious, but those symptoms take me longer to deal with than the others.
Overall I was better in a couple of hours because I've learned to read my body and symptoms. I've learned how to deal with them - acknowledging them, and switching them up. And, finally I've learned to cut myself a little slack when it happens. I still find an occasional new trigger, but the disease itself is becoming manageable in a way I never believed that it could be managed.
By the way, I also managed to advocate for myself during this whole encounter. I was upfront with her about my PTSD diagnosis, and I made her aware of my need for a great deal of communication to cope with medical procedures. I also made her aware that my daughter's birth caused the PTSD, so she was really trying to be sensitive of my needs. She didn't quite make it, but she definitely tried.
By the time I left, I was really struggling. I was shaking, edgy, anxious, and having intrusive thoughts. I was planning to take the rest of the afternoon off, but I made the decision to go back to work instead. Within a half hour of getting back to work, the worst of the intrusive thoughts had gone away, and the shaking had subsided. I was still a bit edgy, and anxious, but those symptoms take me longer to deal with than the others.
Overall I was better in a couple of hours because I've learned to read my body and symptoms. I've learned how to deal with them - acknowledging them, and switching them up. And, finally I've learned to cut myself a little slack when it happens. I still find an occasional new trigger, but the disease itself is becoming manageable in a way I never believed that it could be managed.
By the way, I also managed to advocate for myself during this whole encounter. I was upfront with her about my PTSD diagnosis, and I made her aware of my need for a great deal of communication to cope with medical procedures. I also made her aware that my daughter's birth caused the PTSD, so she was really trying to be sensitive of my needs. She didn't quite make it, but she definitely tried.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Humpty Dumpty
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.
I caught the last 20 minutes of Trauma last night. One character told the other that he needed to go get help. The other character responded, "what if once I let it all out I can't get it all put back in?"
That's the way I feel now about my PTSD. In the early days, I talked about my trauma. It gushed out of me on a daily basis. It was like I had to find a place for it to go that wasn't inside me, so I talked, and talked, and talked some more. I had friends tell me to let it go, and still I talked. I had people tell me it didn't matter what had happened to me, and still I talked. I thought that by talking, I could get it all out.
Now, I know that there's more to it than that. Talking about it was like opening the vent on a pressure cooker. It allowed me to open the appliance safely. However, now I worry that I might let something out that I don't want to have to put back inside me.
PTSD became the filter that my thoughts were processed through. PTSD became the glasses that I saw the world through. PTSD became my dirty little secret. It became my binky.
So, now I have to find away to allow myself to break enough that I can re-assemble myself into the person I want to be. I guess I'm ready to take that fall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.
I caught the last 20 minutes of Trauma last night. One character told the other that he needed to go get help. The other character responded, "what if once I let it all out I can't get it all put back in?"
That's the way I feel now about my PTSD. In the early days, I talked about my trauma. It gushed out of me on a daily basis. It was like I had to find a place for it to go that wasn't inside me, so I talked, and talked, and talked some more. I had friends tell me to let it go, and still I talked. I had people tell me it didn't matter what had happened to me, and still I talked. I thought that by talking, I could get it all out.
Now, I know that there's more to it than that. Talking about it was like opening the vent on a pressure cooker. It allowed me to open the appliance safely. However, now I worry that I might let something out that I don't want to have to put back inside me.
PTSD became the filter that my thoughts were processed through. PTSD became the glasses that I saw the world through. PTSD became my dirty little secret. It became my binky.
So, now I have to find away to allow myself to break enough that I can re-assemble myself into the person I want to be. I guess I'm ready to take that fall.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Facing Forward instead of Looking Back
My daughter was in her rear-facing carseat for a long time. Most kids turn around at a year, but she was so small that she didn't hit the minimum weight requirement for an additional 7 months after that milestone. We looked forward to the day that she'd be facing forward, that she could see out the car window, and that we could hand her things from the front seat. The day she turned around was a celebratory day! She was finally a big girl.
PTSD is the same way. You have to find ways to look forward instead of backward. We have to fight to live in the present, and not the past. It's hard to accomplish this, and once in a while we all fall off the wagon, but you have to get up and try again.
The month of September was hard, very, very, very, very hard. I was finding myself starting to slide back down that slippery slope of looking backwards. So, I've started trying to re-focus myself on the present and the future. I've made plans to take my daughter to the pumpkin patch this weekend. I'm trying to make plans for Halloween. I'm looking at November, and trying to see what I can line up, and I've made plans for a weekend getaway just before Christmas.
The past is gone. I cannot re-live it. I cannot change it. I must find a way to move forward into my future.
PTSD is the same way. You have to find ways to look forward instead of backward. We have to fight to live in the present, and not the past. It's hard to accomplish this, and once in a while we all fall off the wagon, but you have to get up and try again.
The month of September was hard, very, very, very, very hard. I was finding myself starting to slide back down that slippery slope of looking backwards. So, I've started trying to re-focus myself on the present and the future. I've made plans to take my daughter to the pumpkin patch this weekend. I'm trying to make plans for Halloween. I'm looking at November, and trying to see what I can line up, and I've made plans for a weekend getaway just before Christmas.
The past is gone. I cannot re-live it. I cannot change it. I must find a way to move forward into my future.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
33 weeks of memories
I had an email from my sister-in-law yesterday. She’s pregnant for the third time. In my head I know this is a good thing. They want this baby. They’ll do their best for this baby. However, it’s making me anxious, edgy, and upset. I chickened out of calling her yesterday. I sent a brief Congratulations e-mail. I didn’t put it together until this morning, but her baby is due on the same day Peanut was due.
That’s what has me freaked out. They have the same due date. Each week I’ll be thinking about my disintegrating pregnancy and birth. There’s no reason to suspect that her pregnancy will go the same way that mine did. It’s incredibly rare for that to happen, but for the next 33 weeks I’ll have that reminder of ickiness.
I have to find away to break my association between those dates. It’s not my pregnancy. It’s not my birth. It’s not me. But it hurts. I’d love to have another child, but I know that neither my husband nor I can face another pregnancy. We’ve decided to have the big V performed this year. I know this is the best decision we can make. But I’m still sad that I will only have one child, one pregnancy, one birth.
Thirty three weeks of memories…
That’s what has me freaked out. They have the same due date. Each week I’ll be thinking about my disintegrating pregnancy and birth. There’s no reason to suspect that her pregnancy will go the same way that mine did. It’s incredibly rare for that to happen, but for the next 33 weeks I’ll have that reminder of ickiness.
I have to find away to break my association between those dates. It’s not my pregnancy. It’s not my birth. It’s not me. But it hurts. I’d love to have another child, but I know that neither my husband nor I can face another pregnancy. We’ve decided to have the big V performed this year. I know this is the best decision we can make. But I’m still sad that I will only have one child, one pregnancy, one birth.
Thirty three weeks of memories…
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Is birth women's war?
I’ve been thinking on this post for a while. I’ve started writing it, and put it away because I couldn’t find the words. However, after reading this blog post, I decided to pick it up and try again.
Is childbirth women’s war?
When I was pregnant, I asked my grandmother about my mom’s birth. At 85 years old, she could still vividly remember that day and her experience. My mom can still relate the stories of my and my sister’s births. My best friend can pull her memories of each of her children’s births at a moments notice. When you get together with a group of women at a baby shower or a wedding shower, it seems like birth stories come out of the closet.
I believe that we’re genetically programmed to remember the experience of giving birth. The combination of the hormones, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the joy, and the love imprint those memories deeply into our brains. It’s not that big a stretch to believe that those memories can sometimes be improperly stored causing PTSD.
All over the internet, on discussions of PTSD after childbirth, you’ll see an argument stating that this cannot be a mental health disorder because it’s a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. However, no one debates the validity of PTSD in soldiers returning from war. Men have been going to war for thousands of years. Why is their experience considered to be out of the norm, but a woman’s childbirth experience is dismissed or trivialized?
Men have found some interesting ways to cope with the fallout of the experiences long before the PTSD diagnosis was made during the Vietnam War. They formed and joined groups like the VFW or the American Legion. They go, and hang out with others who have had similar experiences. It’s a safe place to discuss the horrors of what they saw, the feelings they had, and they can process the events.
Yet, women don’t have these types of places to go. In today’s society, new moms are often isolated from society. We’re left to navigate this new terrain by ourselves. Our parents are working, so we frequently don’t have our moms or dads to rely on in those first few days. Our husbands go back to work typically a few days or a week after the baby is born. We struggle to establish breastfeeding, caring for the other family members, and try to get enough sleep to function. There are days when just getting a shower seems like an insurmountable task. Is it any wonder that those memories can get hung up under those conditions?
I’ve heard some people wonder if PTSD after childbirth is a rich nation’s problem, but I don’t think it is. I think no matter where women give birth, that they’re at risk of developing this condition. Women in third world countries know that childbirth isn’t safe. Their entire pregnancy is spent in an atmosphere of anxiety. Will I survive? Will my child survive? If something goes wrong can they get me to a doctor or a midwife? They live with those fears for months. Those months of anxiety set them up for developing this condition when their childbirth experiences go awry. Just because they don’t have the resources for diagnosis and treatment doesn’t mean that they don’t develop the condition.
Others have blamed the medicalization of childbirth on the development of PTSD. However, I know that medical procedures don’t cause PTSD. It took months of counseling to admit this, but my PTSD had nothing to do with the medical procedures that were performed. They were entirely the result of the way that I was treated while I was in the care of the doctors and nurses at my daughter’s birth. The PTSD was a result of a lack of communication, a lack of understanding, a lack of consent, and a hostile birth environment.
Yep, I did call it a hostile birth environment. This is something that doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, and support people can change. Medical professionals can choose to treat a birthing mom respectfully. They can choose to speak to her with honesty. They can accurately, and without coercion, discuss her options. They can choose to allow her to make a choice, so that she can own that decision. They can choose to make sure she understands the positive and negative consequences of her choice.
Is childbirth women’s war?
When I was pregnant, I asked my grandmother about my mom’s birth. At 85 years old, she could still vividly remember that day and her experience. My mom can still relate the stories of my and my sister’s births. My best friend can pull her memories of each of her children’s births at a moments notice. When you get together with a group of women at a baby shower or a wedding shower, it seems like birth stories come out of the closet.
I believe that we’re genetically programmed to remember the experience of giving birth. The combination of the hormones, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the joy, and the love imprint those memories deeply into our brains. It’s not that big a stretch to believe that those memories can sometimes be improperly stored causing PTSD.
All over the internet, on discussions of PTSD after childbirth, you’ll see an argument stating that this cannot be a mental health disorder because it’s a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. However, no one debates the validity of PTSD in soldiers returning from war. Men have been going to war for thousands of years. Why is their experience considered to be out of the norm, but a woman’s childbirth experience is dismissed or trivialized?
Men have found some interesting ways to cope with the fallout of the experiences long before the PTSD diagnosis was made during the Vietnam War. They formed and joined groups like the VFW or the American Legion. They go, and hang out with others who have had similar experiences. It’s a safe place to discuss the horrors of what they saw, the feelings they had, and they can process the events.
Yet, women don’t have these types of places to go. In today’s society, new moms are often isolated from society. We’re left to navigate this new terrain by ourselves. Our parents are working, so we frequently don’t have our moms or dads to rely on in those first few days. Our husbands go back to work typically a few days or a week after the baby is born. We struggle to establish breastfeeding, caring for the other family members, and try to get enough sleep to function. There are days when just getting a shower seems like an insurmountable task. Is it any wonder that those memories can get hung up under those conditions?
I’ve heard some people wonder if PTSD after childbirth is a rich nation’s problem, but I don’t think it is. I think no matter where women give birth, that they’re at risk of developing this condition. Women in third world countries know that childbirth isn’t safe. Their entire pregnancy is spent in an atmosphere of anxiety. Will I survive? Will my child survive? If something goes wrong can they get me to a doctor or a midwife? They live with those fears for months. Those months of anxiety set them up for developing this condition when their childbirth experiences go awry. Just because they don’t have the resources for diagnosis and treatment doesn’t mean that they don’t develop the condition.
Others have blamed the medicalization of childbirth on the development of PTSD. However, I know that medical procedures don’t cause PTSD. It took months of counseling to admit this, but my PTSD had nothing to do with the medical procedures that were performed. They were entirely the result of the way that I was treated while I was in the care of the doctors and nurses at my daughter’s birth. The PTSD was a result of a lack of communication, a lack of understanding, a lack of consent, and a hostile birth environment.
Yep, I did call it a hostile birth environment. This is something that doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, and support people can change. Medical professionals can choose to treat a birthing mom respectfully. They can choose to speak to her with honesty. They can accurately, and without coercion, discuss her options. They can choose to allow her to make a choice, so that she can own that decision. They can choose to make sure she understands the positive and negative consequences of her choice.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A Trip to the ER
So, last week I ended up in the emergency room of the hospital where Jennavive was born. I've been having problems with dizziness, and I'd seen the doctor the week before. She thought it was just vertigo - be patient, and it should go away on its own. However, I started having a lot of tingling, numbness, nerve pain in my face on my way to counseling Thursday night. I called my husband, asked him to pick up peanut, and went home. When I got home, I looked in the mirror, and my face was completely lopsided. My husband got home 1/2 hour later, and I asked him to take me to urgent care. As we started to head out of town to the clinic urgent care, I changed my mind, and asked him to head to the ER.
We stood behind a couple of other families waiting our turn to get checked in when the triage nurse came out of her room to start prioritizing patients. She spoke to the family in front of us, told them to stay in line, and came back to talk to me. I explained about my face drooping. She grabbed my arm, told my husband to check me in, and dragged me into the emergency room. I sat down on the bed, and she started strapping monitors to my chest, a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and taking a quick history. Two minutes later, the doctor was at my bedside asking questions and listening to my story. He told me that they were going to do an MRI. Another nurse came in, and started setting me up for an IV. (Doesn't anyone ask permission anymore?) I balked. I told her that I'd had a rotten birth experience, and I really didn't want the IV. I got lucky, the lab tech walked into the room to do a blood draw, so she told me that as long as the tech got a sample that they'd skip the IV.
I’ve been having problems since then. I was diagnosed with Bell’s Palsy. It’s not a big deal. It goes away on it’s own over time. It’s not pleasant, but not dangerous either.
But, it’s causing me nightmares, the feeling of being objectified, the feeling of being controlled, the feeling of being dismissed or ignored all coming raging back to me. I’m struggling to cope. My In-Laws have very graciously moved into our home for this week since I’m not allowed to drive. They’re making meals, performing projects around the house, mowing, and cleaning. It’s great that they’re willing to do this. I appreciate all of their efforts, and yet I feel like screaming – “GET OUT, I can do it MYSELF”. Except I cannot do it myself, and I know it. I know it’s the PTSD talking. It’s the dichotomy that I live with. My rational brain knows that everyone is looking out for me, everyone just wants to help me get better, but the irrational side feels like a little kid fighting off a temper tantrum. I want to fling myself on the floor, kick my legs, and scream at the top of my lungs.
Hopefully, acknowledging it will let it fade.
The good news is, I did advocate for myself in the ER after I got over the initial shock. I did get them to explain things to me. I did avoid an unnecessary IV. I did manage to keep myself in the present, and fight off the flashbacks. Even though my blood pressure skyrocketed to my PIH days of pregnancy, I kept my calm. I did ask a ton of questions the next day at the clinic appointment. I can hear my counselor telling me that I did a good job. My husband feels like I did a good job. The rational part of my brain knows that I handled this better than Jennavive's birth. I just wish the fall out was a little bit easier to handle.
We stood behind a couple of other families waiting our turn to get checked in when the triage nurse came out of her room to start prioritizing patients. She spoke to the family in front of us, told them to stay in line, and came back to talk to me. I explained about my face drooping. She grabbed my arm, told my husband to check me in, and dragged me into the emergency room. I sat down on the bed, and she started strapping monitors to my chest, a blood pressure cuff around my arm, and taking a quick history. Two minutes later, the doctor was at my bedside asking questions and listening to my story. He told me that they were going to do an MRI. Another nurse came in, and started setting me up for an IV. (Doesn't anyone ask permission anymore?) I balked. I told her that I'd had a rotten birth experience, and I really didn't want the IV. I got lucky, the lab tech walked into the room to do a blood draw, so she told me that as long as the tech got a sample that they'd skip the IV.
I’ve been having problems since then. I was diagnosed with Bell’s Palsy. It’s not a big deal. It goes away on it’s own over time. It’s not pleasant, but not dangerous either.
But, it’s causing me nightmares, the feeling of being objectified, the feeling of being controlled, the feeling of being dismissed or ignored all coming raging back to me. I’m struggling to cope. My In-Laws have very graciously moved into our home for this week since I’m not allowed to drive. They’re making meals, performing projects around the house, mowing, and cleaning. It’s great that they’re willing to do this. I appreciate all of their efforts, and yet I feel like screaming – “GET OUT, I can do it MYSELF”. Except I cannot do it myself, and I know it. I know it’s the PTSD talking. It’s the dichotomy that I live with. My rational brain knows that everyone is looking out for me, everyone just wants to help me get better, but the irrational side feels like a little kid fighting off a temper tantrum. I want to fling myself on the floor, kick my legs, and scream at the top of my lungs.
Hopefully, acknowledging it will let it fade.
The good news is, I did advocate for myself in the ER after I got over the initial shock. I did get them to explain things to me. I did avoid an unnecessary IV. I did manage to keep myself in the present, and fight off the flashbacks. Even though my blood pressure skyrocketed to my PIH days of pregnancy, I kept my calm. I did ask a ton of questions the next day at the clinic appointment. I can hear my counselor telling me that I did a good job. My husband feels like I did a good job. The rational part of my brain knows that I handled this better than Jennavive's birth. I just wish the fall out was a little bit easier to handle.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Rage - the Drug of Choice for PTSD
Personally, I kind of like the way that righteous, justified anger makes me feel. When I'm angry I feel powerful, not weak. When I'm angry I feel invincible, not helpless. When the anger is justified, those feelings seem even stronger because I'm "standing up for the little guy" or "showing the man".
I allow myself to fully experience it. I relish it. I wallow in it. I'm almost seduced by it. I don't let myself let go of it, because I like the powerful way it makes me feel. Justified, righteous, and powerful - it's like a drug to my brain. It feeds the PTSD. I burn with the emotions.
The problem is, when I'm angry there's no room for happiness. There's no room for remembering or appreciating my daughter's joyful laugh. I lose so much if I let it take over. I don't appreciate a bouquet of fresh flowers, a beautiful garden, or a sunny blue sky. I hate what I lose when it has me by the throat, so I'm trying to teach myself to let it go.
My boss told me once that I needed to forgive the doctor to heal. Sometimes I wonder if he's right. The anger shouldn't be a security blanket that I hold close. I should hold my family close.
I allow myself to fully experience it. I relish it. I wallow in it. I'm almost seduced by it. I don't let myself let go of it, because I like the powerful way it makes me feel. Justified, righteous, and powerful - it's like a drug to my brain. It feeds the PTSD. I burn with the emotions.
The problem is, when I'm angry there's no room for happiness. There's no room for remembering or appreciating my daughter's joyful laugh. I lose so much if I let it take over. I don't appreciate a bouquet of fresh flowers, a beautiful garden, or a sunny blue sky. I hate what I lose when it has me by the throat, so I'm trying to teach myself to let it go.
My boss told me once that I needed to forgive the doctor to heal. Sometimes I wonder if he's right. The anger shouldn't be a security blanket that I hold close. I should hold my family close.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Snapping Turtles in Truck Beds
One of my most vivid memories from the year I started first grade, is of a huge snapping turtle in the bed of a pickup truck. One of the men on the indian reservation had captured this turtle, and he'd brought it over to the church to show it off to all of the other families. He found this big stick, actually a good sized tree branch, and was poking it at this turtle. I remember watching the turtle snapping at the branch, he was angry, scared, and trapped. The turtle just kept spinning around in the bed looking for new threats.
The year I turned six was a crazy year. I lived in 4 houses and 3 states, one of those houses was on an Indian reservation. I attended three different schools, and I was physically attacked by my little sister nearly every day. My family went from being solidly middle class to living in subsidized housing because my father decided to get out of the military and go back to college. There was so much instability and upheaval in my life.
Using EMDR yesterday, I was 5 again. The fear, the anger, the hatred, the pain, and the feeling of being dismissed that I’d bottled up so many years ago, erupted from their hiding place as a result of my daughter’s birth.
I felt like that snapping turtle – everyone poking at me, no place to go, no place to hide. I was trapped, angry, fearful, hurting, and confused by all of the changes in my life. At 5 you have no control over your parent’s choices. You live where they tell you to live. You wear what they tell you to wear. You act the way you’re told to act.
I don’t want to be that scared 5 year old anymore.
I am a 38 year old woman. I am a wife and a mom. I own my own home. I have a career. I have friends. I am only trapped by my mind. I no longer live in an abusive home. I no longer have to worry about a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back.
I am not a turtle fighting to get free.
The year I turned six was a crazy year. I lived in 4 houses and 3 states, one of those houses was on an Indian reservation. I attended three different schools, and I was physically attacked by my little sister nearly every day. My family went from being solidly middle class to living in subsidized housing because my father decided to get out of the military and go back to college. There was so much instability and upheaval in my life.
Using EMDR yesterday, I was 5 again. The fear, the anger, the hatred, the pain, and the feeling of being dismissed that I’d bottled up so many years ago, erupted from their hiding place as a result of my daughter’s birth.
I felt like that snapping turtle – everyone poking at me, no place to go, no place to hide. I was trapped, angry, fearful, hurting, and confused by all of the changes in my life. At 5 you have no control over your parent’s choices. You live where they tell you to live. You wear what they tell you to wear. You act the way you’re told to act.
I don’t want to be that scared 5 year old anymore.
I am a 38 year old woman. I am a wife and a mom. I own my own home. I have a career. I have friends. I am only trapped by my mind. I no longer live in an abusive home. I no longer have to worry about a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back.
I am not a turtle fighting to get free.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Begin with the End in Mind
At work, when starting a project, my boss and I try to think about how we think an application will be used in the future. Right now we’re working on a project that will revolutionize, at least for our company, the way we collect and track subcontractor data and performance (safety, quality, and earned value). Our initial goal is very simple; however, we can both see that this has the potential to morph into something much more involved than what we’re trying to accomplish right now. We’ve been trying to make sure that this application has the flexibility to change as our company’s needs change. Every time we meet to discuss it, we’ll say “begin with the end in mind”.
So, when I read this blog post, it made me start thinking about the way I am inconsistent in applying it to my PTSD journey. When I started counseling, my counselor defined some goals to achieve – no more nightmares, being able to look at my daughter’s baby pictures, and not crying every time I talked about the experience. We accomplished all of those things, at least most of the time, but I’m still having problems. The problem is that I didn’t define me. I simply defined a change in the symptoms.
Now, I’m heading back to counseling to deal with this again. I’m trying to get all the way down to the roots, so I can free myself from this burden. I have to redefine my image of me. In some ways I’ve accomplished it. I’ve actually become more accepting of my body since my daughter was born. I now own a swimsuit, something that had been missing from my wardrobe for at least 10 years. I bought a slinky dress that had my husband salivating (according to him, I’d never looked sexier). I’ve made peace with my cantaloupe sized boobs, and will actually wear deeper v-neck and empire waist shirts than I ever did before. I’ve learned to ride a bike – I mean trike, but it’s still a big change. I love work. I’ve always felt safe there, and despite the sleepless nights, the anxiety, the edginess, my performance remains stellar. So, what’s left? I don’t know, but obviously something is still missing because I’m haunted again. I’ve had three nightmares in three nights, this isn’t normal anymore, and I don’t like it!
So, when I read this blog post, it made me start thinking about the way I am inconsistent in applying it to my PTSD journey. When I started counseling, my counselor defined some goals to achieve – no more nightmares, being able to look at my daughter’s baby pictures, and not crying every time I talked about the experience. We accomplished all of those things, at least most of the time, but I’m still having problems. The problem is that I didn’t define me. I simply defined a change in the symptoms.
Now, I’m heading back to counseling to deal with this again. I’m trying to get all the way down to the roots, so I can free myself from this burden. I have to redefine my image of me. In some ways I’ve accomplished it. I’ve actually become more accepting of my body since my daughter was born. I now own a swimsuit, something that had been missing from my wardrobe for at least 10 years. I bought a slinky dress that had my husband salivating (according to him, I’d never looked sexier). I’ve made peace with my cantaloupe sized boobs, and will actually wear deeper v-neck and empire waist shirts than I ever did before. I’ve learned to ride a bike – I mean trike, but it’s still a big change. I love work. I’ve always felt safe there, and despite the sleepless nights, the anxiety, the edginess, my performance remains stellar. So, what’s left? I don’t know, but obviously something is still missing because I’m haunted again. I’ve had three nightmares in three nights, this isn’t normal anymore, and I don’t like it!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Acknowledging Irrational Thoughts
Wow!
I feel so much better. Putting a face on why I'm feeling the way I do, acknowledging my feelings instead of stuffing them makes them so much easier to deal with on a daily basis. It's completely irrational to be afraid of a billboard, a piece of mail, or a tv ad. I know that in my head. It's why I was stuffing everything down. It's too irrational to deserve being voiced. It's much easier to be angry. To blame everything except what's happening in my own head.
Denying irrational thoughts doesn't eradicate them. It reinforces them. Getting rid of them means accepting that the thought is real, and debunking it. I know this, but sometimes I get caught up in the feelings and stop listening to myself. I just feel.
Change requires constant monitoring of my thoughts. I requires that I debunk untrue thoughts and that I reinforce accurate thoughts. That's the only way to get past this.
I was never in danger driving to work, well no more danger than anyone else on the road is in on a given day. I was never in danger while watching TV or getting the mail. I must remember to reinforce those accurate thoughts to make it harder for the irrational ones to get through.
I feel so much better. Putting a face on why I'm feeling the way I do, acknowledging my feelings instead of stuffing them makes them so much easier to deal with on a daily basis. It's completely irrational to be afraid of a billboard, a piece of mail, or a tv ad. I know that in my head. It's why I was stuffing everything down. It's too irrational to deserve being voiced. It's much easier to be angry. To blame everything except what's happening in my own head.
Denying irrational thoughts doesn't eradicate them. It reinforces them. Getting rid of them means accepting that the thought is real, and debunking it. I know this, but sometimes I get caught up in the feelings and stop listening to myself. I just feel.
Change requires constant monitoring of my thoughts. I requires that I debunk untrue thoughts and that I reinforce accurate thoughts. That's the only way to get past this.
I was never in danger driving to work, well no more danger than anyone else on the road is in on a given day. I was never in danger while watching TV or getting the mail. I must remember to reinforce those accurate thoughts to make it harder for the irrational ones to get through.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Birth Rape Rears its Ugly Head Again
After two years of living with the consequences of my OB’s actions I really should know better than to Google Birth Rape. It seems like every 9 – 12 months something stirs up the discussion fires on this topic. This time, Café Mom seems to be the instigator. There’s poll, a forum, and a journal / blog post on the topic. Now, at least one L & D nurse is weighing in on the subject as well.
There seems to be some misconceptions about what women are referring to when they define their birth experience as a birth rape.
1. Just because someone, a nurse, midwife, or doctor, breaks your water doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because birth is painful doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because you have a cervical check doesn’t make it a birth rape. Most of the time, healthcare providers ask permission to do these things. If you consent, it’s NOT rape.
I had my water broken, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had an IV, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had several cervical / vaginal exams, but I consented. Those procedures were not birth rape. I was asked to lie on my side during the majority of my labor, but I consented. That was not birth rape. I had continuous fetal monitoring and EFM, but I consented. Neither of those were birth rape. I had a vacuum assisted delivery, but I consented. That was not birth rape. As long as you consent to the procedure whether it’s verbal or written it’s not rape. Just like when I consent to having sex with my husband it’s not rape.
2. Women who call it birth rape deserved what they got. After all if the baby has to come out, so whatever is done in that process is acceptable. If you go to the hospital as long as someone with an ID badge does it to you it’s okay.
Where I live, we have a Patient’s Bill of Rights. Competent patients have the right to decline any and all medical procedures. Competent patients have the right to be told what their diagnosis is, what the treatment options are, what are the risks associated with those options, and allowed to make their OWN decision. Therefore, the doctor, midwife, or nurse is not always right. They don’t have the power to force a woman to submit to procedures that she doesn’t want. They don’t have the right to coerce a woman into submitting to any procedures, and they don’t have the right to abuse their patients.
3. Women are just whining because they didn’t get the experience that they wanted to have.
What? There are a lot of things about my daughter’s birth that didn’t go the way that I wanted. I didn’t want to be induced. I wanted to go into labor on my own. However, complications prevented this from being possible. Did that traumatize me? NO! Did that result in a need for counseling? NO! It was simply a disappointment. Do I label any of those procedures that I didn’t want, but consented to, as birth rape? ABSOLUTELY NOT!
4. If it’s a rape, why don’t you report it, and have the perpetrators prosecuted?
I did report the actions of my doctor. I reported them to the State Medical Board, the hospital where he practices, and I sent him letter. However, the State Medical Board has the same attitude that a lot of women on this forum have- he’s the doctor, so he’s right. My report was denied because I didn’t have enough evidence to prove it. Doesn’t that sound like a typical rape case? It’s my word against yours. It doesn’t make what happened to be less truthful or less traumatizing. As to why I didn’t sue him, well like a lot of rape victims, I didn’t want to re-live it. I didn’t want to sit in the same room with him. I didn’t want to bare my emotions, and mental issues in front of a jury that doesn’t believe that birth rape happens.
5. You don’t develop mental issues from a bad birthing experience.
Actually, I did develop mental health issues as a result of his decision. I spent 18 months in counseling for PTSD. PTSD doesn’t go away. You learn to live with it, you learn to cope with it, but it doesn’t go away. I’ll have these scars for the rest of my life. They’ll gradually fade with time, but they will never go away. I live with nightmares, flashbacks, dissociation, and anxiety. I have panic attacks when I go to the doctor. I have had flashbacks during sex – what a mood killer. I’ve denied my husband sex because I’ve been terrified of having another child. My marriage was nearly destroyed because of the severity of my symptoms.
6. So what do I call my birth rape?
For me, birth rape refers to a specific procedure at a specific time that was performed without my consent.
My daughter was born at 11:32 pm. Approximately 15 minutes later my doctor asked the nurse to tell him when ½ hour had passed after the baby’s delivery. At that point in time, he knew that the placenta wasn’t detaching properly. Did he discuss this with me? No. He just kept biding his time waiting to see if it would change. Shortly thereafter, I notified the doctor that his ½ hour was up. Did he tell me then, that there was a problem with the placenta? No. He attempted cord traction to get the placenta to release. The umbilical cord tore off the placenta leaving the placenta attached to my uterus. Did he notify me then that there was a problem with the placenta, and offer me the opportunity to choose between treatment options of having him try to manually remove it or have it surgically removed? No. He just shoved his hand inside me, and tried to pull it out himself. Why wouldn’t I have seen this as a rape? He wasn’t saving my child. She was already born. He wasn’t saving me since at this point he didn’t see this situation being emergent. I was competent, and capable of consenting. He chose not to allow me to consent.
The pain of this procedure was extraordinary. It’s beyond the realm of anything I had ever experienced. It sent me into a place where I was incapable of providing consent for any additional procedures. Even though I didn’t consent to the D & C, even though I didn’t consent to the re-installation of my uterus, even though he spent almost an hour with his hand elbow deep in my hoo-ha trying to shove my uterus back into place, I’ve never considered those procedures to be birth rape. The situation had become emergent, I was mentally incapable of providing informed consent, and I was at the mercy of his skill, knowledge, and competency.
You see, Birth Rape is about power and consent. It’s not about sex. It has nothing to do with sex. In some ways, birth rape is worse. You’re in a place and surrounded by people who are supposed to keep you safe, but you’re not. You can’t advocate for yourself if they don’t tell you first what they’re going to do. You can’t fight for your rights when they deny them. My doctor wasn’t evil. He wasn’t trying to harm me. He got caught up in the complications, and all he saw was a problem. He forgot that I was a person, and only saw the complications.
Birth rape is real. Birth rape is evil, and eventually it will become prosecutable. Right now it’s impossible to get anyone to believe you.
There seems to be some misconceptions about what women are referring to when they define their birth experience as a birth rape.
1. Just because someone, a nurse, midwife, or doctor, breaks your water doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because birth is painful doesn’t make it a birth rape. Just because you have a cervical check doesn’t make it a birth rape. Most of the time, healthcare providers ask permission to do these things. If you consent, it’s NOT rape.
I had my water broken, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had an IV, but I consented. That procedure was not birth rape. I had several cervical / vaginal exams, but I consented. Those procedures were not birth rape. I was asked to lie on my side during the majority of my labor, but I consented. That was not birth rape. I had continuous fetal monitoring and EFM, but I consented. Neither of those were birth rape. I had a vacuum assisted delivery, but I consented. That was not birth rape. As long as you consent to the procedure whether it’s verbal or written it’s not rape. Just like when I consent to having sex with my husband it’s not rape.
2. Women who call it birth rape deserved what they got. After all if the baby has to come out, so whatever is done in that process is acceptable. If you go to the hospital as long as someone with an ID badge does it to you it’s okay.
Where I live, we have a Patient’s Bill of Rights. Competent patients have the right to decline any and all medical procedures. Competent patients have the right to be told what their diagnosis is, what the treatment options are, what are the risks associated with those options, and allowed to make their OWN decision. Therefore, the doctor, midwife, or nurse is not always right. They don’t have the power to force a woman to submit to procedures that she doesn’t want. They don’t have the right to coerce a woman into submitting to any procedures, and they don’t have the right to abuse their patients.
3. Women are just whining because they didn’t get the experience that they wanted to have.
What? There are a lot of things about my daughter’s birth that didn’t go the way that I wanted. I didn’t want to be induced. I wanted to go into labor on my own. However, complications prevented this from being possible. Did that traumatize me? NO! Did that result in a need for counseling? NO! It was simply a disappointment. Do I label any of those procedures that I didn’t want, but consented to, as birth rape? ABSOLUTELY NOT!
4. If it’s a rape, why don’t you report it, and have the perpetrators prosecuted?
I did report the actions of my doctor. I reported them to the State Medical Board, the hospital where he practices, and I sent him letter. However, the State Medical Board has the same attitude that a lot of women on this forum have- he’s the doctor, so he’s right. My report was denied because I didn’t have enough evidence to prove it. Doesn’t that sound like a typical rape case? It’s my word against yours. It doesn’t make what happened to be less truthful or less traumatizing. As to why I didn’t sue him, well like a lot of rape victims, I didn’t want to re-live it. I didn’t want to sit in the same room with him. I didn’t want to bare my emotions, and mental issues in front of a jury that doesn’t believe that birth rape happens.
5. You don’t develop mental issues from a bad birthing experience.
Actually, I did develop mental health issues as a result of his decision. I spent 18 months in counseling for PTSD. PTSD doesn’t go away. You learn to live with it, you learn to cope with it, but it doesn’t go away. I’ll have these scars for the rest of my life. They’ll gradually fade with time, but they will never go away. I live with nightmares, flashbacks, dissociation, and anxiety. I have panic attacks when I go to the doctor. I have had flashbacks during sex – what a mood killer. I’ve denied my husband sex because I’ve been terrified of having another child. My marriage was nearly destroyed because of the severity of my symptoms.
6. So what do I call my birth rape?
For me, birth rape refers to a specific procedure at a specific time that was performed without my consent.
My daughter was born at 11:32 pm. Approximately 15 minutes later my doctor asked the nurse to tell him when ½ hour had passed after the baby’s delivery. At that point in time, he knew that the placenta wasn’t detaching properly. Did he discuss this with me? No. He just kept biding his time waiting to see if it would change. Shortly thereafter, I notified the doctor that his ½ hour was up. Did he tell me then, that there was a problem with the placenta? No. He attempted cord traction to get the placenta to release. The umbilical cord tore off the placenta leaving the placenta attached to my uterus. Did he notify me then that there was a problem with the placenta, and offer me the opportunity to choose between treatment options of having him try to manually remove it or have it surgically removed? No. He just shoved his hand inside me, and tried to pull it out himself. Why wouldn’t I have seen this as a rape? He wasn’t saving my child. She was already born. He wasn’t saving me since at this point he didn’t see this situation being emergent. I was competent, and capable of consenting. He chose not to allow me to consent.
The pain of this procedure was extraordinary. It’s beyond the realm of anything I had ever experienced. It sent me into a place where I was incapable of providing consent for any additional procedures. Even though I didn’t consent to the D & C, even though I didn’t consent to the re-installation of my uterus, even though he spent almost an hour with his hand elbow deep in my hoo-ha trying to shove my uterus back into place, I’ve never considered those procedures to be birth rape. The situation had become emergent, I was mentally incapable of providing informed consent, and I was at the mercy of his skill, knowledge, and competency.
You see, Birth Rape is about power and consent. It’s not about sex. It has nothing to do with sex. In some ways, birth rape is worse. You’re in a place and surrounded by people who are supposed to keep you safe, but you’re not. You can’t advocate for yourself if they don’t tell you first what they’re going to do. You can’t fight for your rights when they deny them. My doctor wasn’t evil. He wasn’t trying to harm me. He got caught up in the complications, and all he saw was a problem. He forgot that I was a person, and only saw the complications.
Birth rape is real. Birth rape is evil, and eventually it will become prosecutable. Right now it’s impossible to get anyone to believe you.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
De-Briefing Tool (Part 1 Question 2)
What happened in the events leading up to the birth?
My pregnancy was never easy. It was unplanned. My husband didn't want to be a father. He sucked it up, and accepted it, but he was never supportive, excited, or happy about it. It was stressful knowing his feelings on the subject, but I just kept plodding along.
At 13 weeks, I had a scare. I had some spotting over the weekend. About the time I thought I should go get it checked out, it stopped. I went to the doctor right away on Monday morning. He did an ultrasound, figured that some blood got trapped behind the placenta, and put me back on the routine prenatal visit schedule.
At 19 weeks, I had my "big" ultrasound. They diagnosed me with partial placenta previa. Since it was still early, I knew there was a possibility that the placenta would move, but I started researching c-sections. I put off my childbirth classes until I could find out if it had moved. It seemed silly to spend all of that money only to end up with a c-section.
At 27 weeks, I went in for my partial placenta previa follow-up ultrasound and the one hour gestational diabetes screening. That night, the doctor called me at home. I had failed the one hour test, and had to schedule the three hour test. I failed that one too, so off to the dietitian I went. No candy, no cake, no ice cream, for Pete's sake I'm pregnant, but I can't eat anything but vegetables and meat. No more eating cereal for my bedtime snack. No more drinking OJ. Nothing. It sucked. The good news was that the placenta had moved, so I'm back to looking at a vaginal delivery. This is also the time when the doctor first mentioned that he "didn't think I'd make it to 40 weeks". What a crock, of course I was going to 40 weeks. I had been 3 weeks late, and I expected that peanut would be 2 weeks late as well.
Because of all of the GD issues, I started seeing the doctor weekly instead of bi-weekly. We finally got to week 33, and he told me that I could skip week 34's visit. Woohoo! I went to my family baby shower, and after I got home I noticed that I was really swollen. My legs were the size of watermelons. My husband hounded me to call the doctor, so Monday morning, I give him a call. I left a voicemail for the nurse, and not an hour later, she calls back. COME IN NOW! I'm thinking, it's just some swelling. Everybody swells up at the end of their pregnancy, what's the big freaking deal? But, as a dutiful, if resentful, patient, I trot my 34 week belly into the clinic. I walk in, and got on the scale. I gained weight. Finally, 34 weeks had gone by without me gaining any weight. I'm thinking I'm finally acting like a pregnant woman. I sit in the chair, they take my blood pressure, and it's high - too high. All of the sudden, he's telling me to go immediately to the hospital for an NST - what the heck is that? I drive up to the hospital parking lot, and call my husband in tears. I don't know what's wrong. I'm at the hospital. They're going to do some tests. I'm scared out of my mind. He tells me he's coming, and I head up to Labor and Delivery. I get to the desk. No one from the clinic has called, I'm trying to remember what the doctor said to have done. They get me into a room, hook me up to the monitors, and I just sit there alone, staring at the TV, crying, and hitting the joystick thing-a-ma-jig when peanut kicks. My husband calls, he's at the hospital, but can't find me. They didn't "admit" me as a patient, so the reception desk is useless. He finally makes it up to the floor, and into the room where I am. The doctor comes in, and says no more work, stay home, keep my feet up, no anything. Great - NOT. He says they'll induce, but they want me to make it to 37 weeks. He's kind of vague, and my husband hates him on sight. I'm frustrated because this wasn't part of my plan, but I'm a good girl, and head home.
My husband arranges for my in-laws to take the dogs for the remainder of my pregnancy. They're German short-hair pointers, so extremely energetic. There's no way for me to stay off my feet if they're at home.
I hang out at the house, watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. I'm bouncing off the walls with boredom. I feel like I have nothing to talk about. My husband keeps asking me for answers on when the baby is coming, but I don't know, and the doctor is vague. I only get out of the house twice a week. Once for the doctor appointment, and once for the NST.
A couple of weeks go by, and finally we get my induction date. My best friend comes to the house to help me with my "birth plan". What birth plan? This isn't the spontaneous experience that I wanted. I'm going to be hooked up to every monitor imaginable, there are no more choices to be made. I tell her that all I want is to walk out of the hospital as a healthy mom with a healthy baby. Whatever we have to do we'll do.
My pregnancy was never easy. It was unplanned. My husband didn't want to be a father. He sucked it up, and accepted it, but he was never supportive, excited, or happy about it. It was stressful knowing his feelings on the subject, but I just kept plodding along.
At 13 weeks, I had a scare. I had some spotting over the weekend. About the time I thought I should go get it checked out, it stopped. I went to the doctor right away on Monday morning. He did an ultrasound, figured that some blood got trapped behind the placenta, and put me back on the routine prenatal visit schedule.
At 19 weeks, I had my "big" ultrasound. They diagnosed me with partial placenta previa. Since it was still early, I knew there was a possibility that the placenta would move, but I started researching c-sections. I put off my childbirth classes until I could find out if it had moved. It seemed silly to spend all of that money only to end up with a c-section.
At 27 weeks, I went in for my partial placenta previa follow-up ultrasound and the one hour gestational diabetes screening. That night, the doctor called me at home. I had failed the one hour test, and had to schedule the three hour test. I failed that one too, so off to the dietitian I went. No candy, no cake, no ice cream, for Pete's sake I'm pregnant, but I can't eat anything but vegetables and meat. No more eating cereal for my bedtime snack. No more drinking OJ. Nothing. It sucked. The good news was that the placenta had moved, so I'm back to looking at a vaginal delivery. This is also the time when the doctor first mentioned that he "didn't think I'd make it to 40 weeks". What a crock, of course I was going to 40 weeks. I had been 3 weeks late, and I expected that peanut would be 2 weeks late as well.
Because of all of the GD issues, I started seeing the doctor weekly instead of bi-weekly. We finally got to week 33, and he told me that I could skip week 34's visit. Woohoo! I went to my family baby shower, and after I got home I noticed that I was really swollen. My legs were the size of watermelons. My husband hounded me to call the doctor, so Monday morning, I give him a call. I left a voicemail for the nurse, and not an hour later, she calls back. COME IN NOW! I'm thinking, it's just some swelling. Everybody swells up at the end of their pregnancy, what's the big freaking deal? But, as a dutiful, if resentful, patient, I trot my 34 week belly into the clinic. I walk in, and got on the scale. I gained weight. Finally, 34 weeks had gone by without me gaining any weight. I'm thinking I'm finally acting like a pregnant woman. I sit in the chair, they take my blood pressure, and it's high - too high. All of the sudden, he's telling me to go immediately to the hospital for an NST - what the heck is that? I drive up to the hospital parking lot, and call my husband in tears. I don't know what's wrong. I'm at the hospital. They're going to do some tests. I'm scared out of my mind. He tells me he's coming, and I head up to Labor and Delivery. I get to the desk. No one from the clinic has called, I'm trying to remember what the doctor said to have done. They get me into a room, hook me up to the monitors, and I just sit there alone, staring at the TV, crying, and hitting the joystick thing-a-ma-jig when peanut kicks. My husband calls, he's at the hospital, but can't find me. They didn't "admit" me as a patient, so the reception desk is useless. He finally makes it up to the floor, and into the room where I am. The doctor comes in, and says no more work, stay home, keep my feet up, no anything. Great - NOT. He says they'll induce, but they want me to make it to 37 weeks. He's kind of vague, and my husband hates him on sight. I'm frustrated because this wasn't part of my plan, but I'm a good girl, and head home.
My husband arranges for my in-laws to take the dogs for the remainder of my pregnancy. They're German short-hair pointers, so extremely energetic. There's no way for me to stay off my feet if they're at home.
I hang out at the house, watching Dr. Phil and Oprah. I'm bouncing off the walls with boredom. I feel like I have nothing to talk about. My husband keeps asking me for answers on when the baby is coming, but I don't know, and the doctor is vague. I only get out of the house twice a week. Once for the doctor appointment, and once for the NST.
A couple of weeks go by, and finally we get my induction date. My best friend comes to the house to help me with my "birth plan". What birth plan? This isn't the spontaneous experience that I wanted. I'm going to be hooked up to every monitor imaginable, there are no more choices to be made. I tell her that all I want is to walk out of the hospital as a healthy mom with a healthy baby. Whatever we have to do we'll do.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Breastfeeding & PTSD after Chidlbirth
I've been struggling with this for several weeks. I haven't written about it because I'm still not sure what to say. It all started with this article. I saw it on my SOLACE support forum. I fell into the 4 1/2% of women who chose formula feeding as a result of their birth trauma / PTSD. I was okay with that decision at the time, and throughout my daughter's time on formula. Why I'm looking for answers now, I don't know.
I started haunting a breastfeeding / formula feeding debate board. I know my counselor would be crawling up my butt about this, but I think my brain is trying to process something. I don't know quite what yet, but it's definitely working on something. I felt compelled to respond to a post on there about formula feeding being selfish. I get so frustrated that no one admits that the decision to breastfeed can be just as selfish as choosing formula feeding. That article cites that the other half of women who experience PTSD / birth trauma choose to breastfeed to "make it up to their babies" or "prove that they're a real woman". Those aren't exactly selfless reasons to breastfeed. Why are formula feeders labeled as selfish, while breastfeeders are labeled as being better? Anyhow, it got a lot of people's backs up. I'm not typically a stir the pot kind of gal, but I seem to be compelled lately to behave in this atypical manner. No one seems to know how to respond to my belief that mental health issues are a valid reason for making the decision to formula feed. I seem to post, and the thread just dies.
Do women really believe that birth is this hunky dory, happy go-lucky, joyful experience all of the time? Why can't we face the reality of birth? Most of the time it is flowers, sunshine, and joy, but sometimes it's like finding yourself in the pit of hell. At least that's where I found myself. I wish I could say it was a happy time for us, but my husband and I both had issues to work through. We both struggled in those early weeks. My husband didn't hold our daughter until she was almost 8 weeks old. I had problems with nightmares, flashbacks, and being touched. Those weeks were horrible.
Anyhow, I'm still trying to figure out what I'm looking for. Maybe I'll find it, maybe not, but I have to exhaust my options.
I started haunting a breastfeeding / formula feeding debate board. I know my counselor would be crawling up my butt about this, but I think my brain is trying to process something. I don't know quite what yet, but it's definitely working on something. I felt compelled to respond to a post on there about formula feeding being selfish. I get so frustrated that no one admits that the decision to breastfeed can be just as selfish as choosing formula feeding. That article cites that the other half of women who experience PTSD / birth trauma choose to breastfeed to "make it up to their babies" or "prove that they're a real woman". Those aren't exactly selfless reasons to breastfeed. Why are formula feeders labeled as selfish, while breastfeeders are labeled as being better? Anyhow, it got a lot of people's backs up. I'm not typically a stir the pot kind of gal, but I seem to be compelled lately to behave in this atypical manner. No one seems to know how to respond to my belief that mental health issues are a valid reason for making the decision to formula feed. I seem to post, and the thread just dies.
Do women really believe that birth is this hunky dory, happy go-lucky, joyful experience all of the time? Why can't we face the reality of birth? Most of the time it is flowers, sunshine, and joy, but sometimes it's like finding yourself in the pit of hell. At least that's where I found myself. I wish I could say it was a happy time for us, but my husband and I both had issues to work through. We both struggled in those early weeks. My husband didn't hold our daughter until she was almost 8 weeks old. I had problems with nightmares, flashbacks, and being touched. Those weeks were horrible.
Anyhow, I'm still trying to figure out what I'm looking for. Maybe I'll find it, maybe not, but I have to exhaust my options.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The Power of Surrender
One of the things I’ve worked on is seeing what I perceived as my failures during my daughter’s birth as surrendering to the medical professionals. Surrendering is choice. Surrendering is recognizing that you’re in a losing situation, and making the choice to cut your losses. It doesn’t require that you like it, enjoy it, or are at peace with it. It doesn’t give the people who forced you into the position as pass or a “get out of jail free” card. However, there’s great power in making the decision to surrender.
So, when did my surrender occur? It happened when the pain consumed me. It happened when I realized that I was incapable of making decisions for myself. The initial moment of surrender came just seconds before the doctor tried to remove the placenta. It came in the moment where I told the nurse I didn’t want to hold my baby. At that point in time, I knew something was wrong, really wrong. I knew that I needed professional medical treatment. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I didn’t know the words to describe the way I was feeling. I didn’t have time to voice my concerns, but I recognized that without further intervention things were going to hell. While I recognize that I was surrendering to the medical personnel at this time, it doesn’t absolve my doctor of his decision. It doesn’t give him a pass on not communicating to me what he was going to do and why he was doing it. He still had a responsibility to communicate my diagnosis, propose a treatment option, and give me the opportunity to consent. Yes, things went to hell, but that doesn’t mean that he was free to do whatever he wanted to my body.
I also surrendered a second time. I surrendered to my fate, and that occurred when they rolled me into the operating room. I remember that moment, the feeling of giving up, of being willing to die, knowing that I’d given life to my daughter. I hate thinking back on it. It’s painful, scary, and hopeless, but it was surrendering. Even before I’d accepted this concept, I’d written about it. I wrote about the pain after my daughter’s birth just after she turned one,
The pain is all consuming. You can't think. You can't breathe. You can't hear what they're saying. You can't process what's happening. It wraps around you smothering you in a cloud of darkness and fear because you know it's not supposed to be like THIS. You can't form the words to question what's happening. You're sucked down into the black void of semi-consciousness not caring what they're doing to you because all you can focus on is the pain. It's the only thing that exists. They're pricking you with needles, people come running in and out, and someone straps a mask over your face. You feel the doctor's hand shoved all the way inside you. How the heck did it get there? The pain sucks you away. You struggle to breathe and continue to fight. Try to breathe through it, but you can't ride the waves. It's consuming your body. Don't quit. Don't abandon the baby. Keep fighting. Some comments break through. You can hear the anger and fear in the doctor's voice, and it scares you even more. But you're sucked back down into the depths of hell wondering what's happening. You feel the bed being wheeled down the hall. You sense the bright lights of the operating room beaming down on your eyelids, but the pain pulls seductively at you. Just give up. Stop fighting. Surrender to your death. Abandon your baby. Just let go. And then the anesthesia sucks all your thoughts away.
In the fourth sentence from the end, I wrote, “Surrender to your death.” Even then, I was recognizing that I had a choice to make. Even senseless, strapped to the operating room table, in agonizing pain, I had the power to surrender. It was my choice to give them, the medical personnel, the power to save me. It was my choice to submit to their will, it was my choice to accept the treatment that would ultimately save my life. Even when I was at my weakest, I had the power. When I felt like the biggest failure, I surrendered. When I believed all was lost, I submitted.
There’s nothing more powerful than making that decision. I surrendered to live. I surrendered to support other new moms. I surrendered to fight for patient-centered maternity care. I surrendered to share my story with others, so that we can all learn from the mistakes of the past. I surrendered to care for my newborn daughter. I surrendered to raise her, God willing, into adulthood. It was always my choice.
So, when did my surrender occur? It happened when the pain consumed me. It happened when I realized that I was incapable of making decisions for myself. The initial moment of surrender came just seconds before the doctor tried to remove the placenta. It came in the moment where I told the nurse I didn’t want to hold my baby. At that point in time, I knew something was wrong, really wrong. I knew that I needed professional medical treatment. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I didn’t know the words to describe the way I was feeling. I didn’t have time to voice my concerns, but I recognized that without further intervention things were going to hell. While I recognize that I was surrendering to the medical personnel at this time, it doesn’t absolve my doctor of his decision. It doesn’t give him a pass on not communicating to me what he was going to do and why he was doing it. He still had a responsibility to communicate my diagnosis, propose a treatment option, and give me the opportunity to consent. Yes, things went to hell, but that doesn’t mean that he was free to do whatever he wanted to my body.
I also surrendered a second time. I surrendered to my fate, and that occurred when they rolled me into the operating room. I remember that moment, the feeling of giving up, of being willing to die, knowing that I’d given life to my daughter. I hate thinking back on it. It’s painful, scary, and hopeless, but it was surrendering. Even before I’d accepted this concept, I’d written about it. I wrote about the pain after my daughter’s birth just after she turned one,
The pain is all consuming. You can't think. You can't breathe. You can't hear what they're saying. You can't process what's happening. It wraps around you smothering you in a cloud of darkness and fear because you know it's not supposed to be like THIS. You can't form the words to question what's happening. You're sucked down into the black void of semi-consciousness not caring what they're doing to you because all you can focus on is the pain. It's the only thing that exists. They're pricking you with needles, people come running in and out, and someone straps a mask over your face. You feel the doctor's hand shoved all the way inside you. How the heck did it get there? The pain sucks you away. You struggle to breathe and continue to fight. Try to breathe through it, but you can't ride the waves. It's consuming your body. Don't quit. Don't abandon the baby. Keep fighting. Some comments break through. You can hear the anger and fear in the doctor's voice, and it scares you even more. But you're sucked back down into the depths of hell wondering what's happening. You feel the bed being wheeled down the hall. You sense the bright lights of the operating room beaming down on your eyelids, but the pain pulls seductively at you. Just give up. Stop fighting. Surrender to your death. Abandon your baby. Just let go. And then the anesthesia sucks all your thoughts away.
In the fourth sentence from the end, I wrote, “Surrender to your death.” Even then, I was recognizing that I had a choice to make. Even senseless, strapped to the operating room table, in agonizing pain, I had the power to surrender. It was my choice to give them, the medical personnel, the power to save me. It was my choice to submit to their will, it was my choice to accept the treatment that would ultimately save my life. Even when I was at my weakest, I had the power. When I felt like the biggest failure, I surrendered. When I believed all was lost, I submitted.
There’s nothing more powerful than making that decision. I surrendered to live. I surrendered to support other new moms. I surrendered to fight for patient-centered maternity care. I surrendered to share my story with others, so that we can all learn from the mistakes of the past. I surrendered to care for my newborn daughter. I surrendered to raise her, God willing, into adulthood. It was always my choice.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Giving up my Power?
I was reading a Birth Trauma forum the other day, and the question posed to their site was, “When did you give up your power?” There were some interesting answers. Some women said they gave it up in their childhood. Some said the medical establishment slowly eroded it. Some women blamed their spouses for not agreeing with or supporting their vision of their birth.
Personally, I’m struggling with the question. I think there’s a bit of shame associated with it. It blames the woman by assuming that “she gave up her power”, like it’s always in our ability to have a great birth experience. That no one else or nothing else can violate us if “we just don’t give up our power”. I don’t see choosing to see an OB or choosing to see a midwife is “giving up our power”. I don’t see choosing a hospital or choosing a homebirth is “giving up our power”. You don’t automatically lose your power by making a choice.
I don’t think that’s the way they mean the question. I think they’re assuming that the women responding had typical, uncomplicated pregnancies. They’re assuming that there are no complications that can or should be taken into consideration when making the decision.
However, complications, while sometimes over-diagnosed, can be real. There are times, not all the time, when having your child in the hospital is the safest place for mom to be. There are times when having a birth attendant is the safest situation to be in for both mom and baby.
I have to say the question’s been bugging me. You see, I don’t think I gave up my power by choosing an OB. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to listen to him when complications arose. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to have my baby in a hospital. I didn’t give up my power by choosing an epidural. Let’s face it, I argued myself into an epidural despite the anesthesiologist’s objections to providing it. The doctor stole my power when he chose to perform a procedure without my consent. I didn’t give it up, it was STOLEN.
There’s a huge difference between those two concepts. I have to admit that I didn’t fight to get it back during the remainder of my stay, but that was my choice. I chose to focus on healing. I chose to focus on getting out of that hospital as soon as I could. I chose to focus on me. I didn’t want anything to get in my way, but there again; I guess that is taking back my power. It was my choice; therefore, the power was mine. I didn’t fight for answers; I chose to save my energy to fight for healing.
Maybe having a choice is having the power. Except for the procedures after my daughter was born, I made the choices. They might not popular in the home birthing community, but they were my choices.
Personally, I’m struggling with the question. I think there’s a bit of shame associated with it. It blames the woman by assuming that “she gave up her power”, like it’s always in our ability to have a great birth experience. That no one else or nothing else can violate us if “we just don’t give up our power”. I don’t see choosing to see an OB or choosing to see a midwife is “giving up our power”. I don’t see choosing a hospital or choosing a homebirth is “giving up our power”. You don’t automatically lose your power by making a choice.
I don’t think that’s the way they mean the question. I think they’re assuming that the women responding had typical, uncomplicated pregnancies. They’re assuming that there are no complications that can or should be taken into consideration when making the decision.
However, complications, while sometimes over-diagnosed, can be real. There are times, not all the time, when having your child in the hospital is the safest place for mom to be. There are times when having a birth attendant is the safest situation to be in for both mom and baby.
I have to say the question’s been bugging me. You see, I don’t think I gave up my power by choosing an OB. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to listen to him when complications arose. I didn’t give up my power by choosing to have my baby in a hospital. I didn’t give up my power by choosing an epidural. Let’s face it, I argued myself into an epidural despite the anesthesiologist’s objections to providing it. The doctor stole my power when he chose to perform a procedure without my consent. I didn’t give it up, it was STOLEN.
There’s a huge difference between those two concepts. I have to admit that I didn’t fight to get it back during the remainder of my stay, but that was my choice. I chose to focus on healing. I chose to focus on getting out of that hospital as soon as I could. I chose to focus on me. I didn’t want anything to get in my way, but there again; I guess that is taking back my power. It was my choice; therefore, the power was mine. I didn’t fight for answers; I chose to save my energy to fight for healing.
Maybe having a choice is having the power. Except for the procedures after my daughter was born, I made the choices. They might not popular in the home birthing community, but they were my choices.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Am I an advocate or a wimp?
So, I feel like I wimped out by choosing to not speak to the doctors tomorrow. I know that it's not so much a matter of wimping out, so much as it's a matter of choosing to focus on fixing myself. However, I tend to use negative phrases or comments to describe myself instead of positive ones, so it's easier for me to say I wimped out.
My counselor told me that I'm becoming an advocate because I chose to provide my doctor with my writings instead of just cancelling. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to be an activist. I just don't want anyone else to feel the way that I do right now. I don't want another woman to feel like she's powerless. I don't want another woman to feel like she's been coerced into procedures that she doesn't want. I don't want another woman to feel as isolated as I do. I don't want another woman to feel like she has no one to talk to, or no one who understands her. I don't want another woman to feel like the nurses are re-traumatizing her by their dismissive attitude. I don't want another woman to believe that she's worthless, like she's a vessel, like she's nothing. It's a horrible feeling to know that no one believes you count for anything.
I'm tempted to show up at the hospital tomorrow even though they're not expecting me. I'm tempted to see if I can make it through the discussion without breaking down. I don't know. I know that it would be incredibly hard for me to be strong enough in my beliefs that I don't feel like I'm being judged as worthless, ignorant, or unreasonable in my expectations.
In 37 years, I've learned that problems don't go away by themselves. Ignoring a problem won't make it go away. Not talking about a problem doesn't get it resolved. There's a problem in our maternity system. When 10% of women test positive for PTSD after their children's birth there's a systemic problem with the maternity care in the US.
I don't know how we fix it. If there's anyone that understands that complications can be real, that some women need more care or interventions than others, it's me. I know that homebirths aren't the answer to the problem. I know turning care over to midwives isn't the answer to the problem. I know that birth abuse can happen at home, in the hospital, or in a freestanding birth center. I know that midwives, doulas, and doctors can all be perpetrators. I guess that's why I cringe at being called an activist / advocate. Too many people see the solution as being so simple as making homebirths the norm, or midwives the norm.
Maybe it's a simple as making sure that doctors, nurses, midwives, and doulas are making the decision to provide patient centered care. Maybe if we had a more open dialogue between caregivers and their patients on their childbirth philosophies we'd have better outcomes. Maybe if caregivers were more open about how they really practice their craft patients would be able to find a caregiver that provides them with the type of care they desire. Instead we get blind-sided. The on-call caregiver delivers your baby instead of the person you've developed a relationship with. We get stuck with a nurse who's having a bad night, and doesn't want to be at work, so she takes it out on her patient.
It's so hard to make the right choices. No matter what we choose, someone says we're being too inflexible. We're taking risks by having the baby at home. We're taking risks by having the baby in a hospital. We're taking risks by breastfeeding, or we're taking risks by formula feeding. It's enough to make your head spin. Why don't we support each other instead of questioning each other? Why don't we bond together as a team instead of looking for the saboteur?
Advocate or wimp? I don't know. I know I won't let this drop.
My counselor told me that I'm becoming an advocate because I chose to provide my doctor with my writings instead of just cancelling. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I don't want to be an advocate. I don't want to be an activist. I just don't want anyone else to feel the way that I do right now. I don't want another woman to feel like she's powerless. I don't want another woman to feel like she's been coerced into procedures that she doesn't want. I don't want another woman to feel as isolated as I do. I don't want another woman to feel like she has no one to talk to, or no one who understands her. I don't want another woman to feel like the nurses are re-traumatizing her by their dismissive attitude. I don't want another woman to believe that she's worthless, like she's a vessel, like she's nothing. It's a horrible feeling to know that no one believes you count for anything.
I'm tempted to show up at the hospital tomorrow even though they're not expecting me. I'm tempted to see if I can make it through the discussion without breaking down. I don't know. I know that it would be incredibly hard for me to be strong enough in my beliefs that I don't feel like I'm being judged as worthless, ignorant, or unreasonable in my expectations.
In 37 years, I've learned that problems don't go away by themselves. Ignoring a problem won't make it go away. Not talking about a problem doesn't get it resolved. There's a problem in our maternity system. When 10% of women test positive for PTSD after their children's birth there's a systemic problem with the maternity care in the US.
I don't know how we fix it. If there's anyone that understands that complications can be real, that some women need more care or interventions than others, it's me. I know that homebirths aren't the answer to the problem. I know turning care over to midwives isn't the answer to the problem. I know that birth abuse can happen at home, in the hospital, or in a freestanding birth center. I know that midwives, doulas, and doctors can all be perpetrators. I guess that's why I cringe at being called an activist / advocate. Too many people see the solution as being so simple as making homebirths the norm, or midwives the norm.
Maybe it's a simple as making sure that doctors, nurses, midwives, and doulas are making the decision to provide patient centered care. Maybe if we had a more open dialogue between caregivers and their patients on their childbirth philosophies we'd have better outcomes. Maybe if caregivers were more open about how they really practice their craft patients would be able to find a caregiver that provides them with the type of care they desire. Instead we get blind-sided. The on-call caregiver delivers your baby instead of the person you've developed a relationship with. We get stuck with a nurse who's having a bad night, and doesn't want to be at work, so she takes it out on her patient.
It's so hard to make the right choices. No matter what we choose, someone says we're being too inflexible. We're taking risks by having the baby at home. We're taking risks by having the baby in a hospital. We're taking risks by breastfeeding, or we're taking risks by formula feeding. It's enough to make your head spin. Why don't we support each other instead of questioning each other? Why don't we bond together as a team instead of looking for the saboteur?
Advocate or wimp? I don't know. I know I won't let this drop.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I'm Thankful for:
I thought I should try to write something a little bit more upbeat, and with Thanksgiving last week, I thought I could write about the things that I’m thankful for from the night of my daughter’s birth.
- My doctor was well-trained, competent, and he kept it together until help arrived.
- My daughter is healthy.
- I still have all of my parts.
- The nurses let me stay in bed until I was ready to get up.
- Someone took the time to donate blood, and it was available for me when I needed it.
- I could focus on healing myself because no one expected me to room in with my daughter, and the nursery staff was great.
- My husband took the first week off work, and he drove me around town whenever I wanted to go out which was heavenly after being on bedrest for 4 weeks.
- My best friend was there to give my daughter all of the love and affection she deserved while my husband and I were tied up with my complications.
- My husband's best friend for coming to the hospital in the middle of the night to help my husband make decisions, and let him go home to get some sleep.
- My health insurance that pays for the counseling sessions that have helped me learn to live with the resulting PTSD.
Wow, that was more than I expected, and easier that I thought it would be. I guess there were some good things that happened that day, it’s just hard to remember them.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Birth Rape?
Birth Rape
Isn’t that an ugly term? The first time I heard it, I thought a bunch of radical feminists were making a big deal out of nothing. How can those two words possibly be spoken together? Birth is about innocence. Is there anyone more innocent than a newborn baby? Rape is so ugly, so violent, so brutal. It offended me at the core of my being. However, I think there may be something to it.
Some people believe that birth rape can only occur if a woman has been previously assaulted. They believe that the birth itself isn’t a rape, but that the woman is experiencing a flashback to a prior criminal act. This flashback is so real, that they transfer their feelings about the original assault to the act of giving birth.
This experience impacted me the night my daughter was born:
I’d met this guy six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed while we were talking. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Doesn’t this sound like a date rape experience? I trusted this person. I invited them into my personal space. I didn’t give permission for this to happen. I tried to get away. I was violated. I must have had a flashback to this prior crime during my birth if I think birth rape is a valid term.
Now, let me change six words:
I’d met this doctor six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed while we were talking after my daughter’s birth. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Does that change you opinion of my experience? Do you believe this behavior is suddenly acceptable? Why is it that behavior that is unacceptable every where else in society suddenly becomes acceptable in a delivery room? Before my daughter was born, I’d never been the victim of a violent crime. I’d always been treated respectfully by the men in my life. No one had ever touched me in an inappropriate manner. This wasn’t a flashback. It’s my reality.
Birth is an incredibly intimate act. It requires you opening parts of yourself that you keep hidden from the world in order for it to happen. It’s deserving of the same respect that women expect when giving themselves to their lover. It’s something to be treasured. If consent is so essential to a healthy sexual experience, consent is also necessary to healthy birthing experience.
It took several months before I admitted that my daughter’s birth had resulted in my birth rape. I didn’t want to admit it had happened. I tried hiding from it. I tried ignoring it. I didn’t report it. I blamed myself for it. But I’ve learned that this doesn’t help, so now I’m talking about it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll discuss this when I meet with the doctors at the hospital, but I’m thinking about it. I know they don’t want to admit that this happens. I know they want to bury their heads in the sand, but someone has to speak out. There was a time when people didn’t believe that one spouse could rape the other, but now we recognize this as a truth. In this time we live in, people believe that a woman in labor cannot be raped, but a time will come when we will believe in this truth also.
Isn’t that an ugly term? The first time I heard it, I thought a bunch of radical feminists were making a big deal out of nothing. How can those two words possibly be spoken together? Birth is about innocence. Is there anyone more innocent than a newborn baby? Rape is so ugly, so violent, so brutal. It offended me at the core of my being. However, I think there may be something to it.
Some people believe that birth rape can only occur if a woman has been previously assaulted. They believe that the birth itself isn’t a rape, but that the woman is experiencing a flashback to a prior criminal act. This flashback is so real, that they transfer their feelings about the original assault to the act of giving birth.
This experience impacted me the night my daughter was born:
I’d met this guy six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed while we were talking. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Doesn’t this sound like a date rape experience? I trusted this person. I invited them into my personal space. I didn’t give permission for this to happen. I tried to get away. I was violated. I must have had a flashback to this prior crime during my birth if I think birth rape is a valid term.
Now, let me change six words:
I’d met this doctor six months before that night. At first, I saw him only occasionally, but over time I’d started seeing him once a week. I invited him into my room. After 6 months, I trusted him enough to let him come inside. I was sitting on the bed, and he was sitting in a chair at the foot of the hospital bed while we were talking after my daughter’s birth. All of the sudden, he shoved his hand inside me. I tried to push him away with my legs, but I couldn’t move them. I tried clawing at the sheets to drag my body away from him, but he wouldn’t get his hand out. I was in massive amounts of pain… This couldn’t be happening to me.
Does that change you opinion of my experience? Do you believe this behavior is suddenly acceptable? Why is it that behavior that is unacceptable every where else in society suddenly becomes acceptable in a delivery room? Before my daughter was born, I’d never been the victim of a violent crime. I’d always been treated respectfully by the men in my life. No one had ever touched me in an inappropriate manner. This wasn’t a flashback. It’s my reality.
Birth is an incredibly intimate act. It requires you opening parts of yourself that you keep hidden from the world in order for it to happen. It’s deserving of the same respect that women expect when giving themselves to their lover. It’s something to be treasured. If consent is so essential to a healthy sexual experience, consent is also necessary to healthy birthing experience.
It took several months before I admitted that my daughter’s birth had resulted in my birth rape. I didn’t want to admit it had happened. I tried hiding from it. I tried ignoring it. I didn’t report it. I blamed myself for it. But I’ve learned that this doesn’t help, so now I’m talking about it. I’m not sure yet if I’ll discuss this when I meet with the doctors at the hospital, but I’m thinking about it. I know they don’t want to admit that this happens. I know they want to bury their heads in the sand, but someone has to speak out. There was a time when people didn’t believe that one spouse could rape the other, but now we recognize this as a truth. In this time we live in, people believe that a woman in labor cannot be raped, but a time will come when we will believe in this truth also.
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