The last month has been difficult, trying, and chaotic. I have Bell's Palsy, my husband has a cracked tooth with an abscess, my daughter switched daycare centers, one of my dogs has an ear infection, the other dog has a nose infection, my grandmother passed away, and my water heater fan needed to be replaced. We have been flying by the seats of our pants for the last month. As a result, I'm edgy, anxious, and irritable. I've been triggered by my health issues. I feel like everything's out of control. However, October is a new month, and we're hoping to get back into the swing of things.
I've found that having a flexible routine is key to my ability to cope with the PTSD. There's something comforting about knowing, in general, what's going to happen next. I don't feel the need to plan every minute of the day. I don't obsess over eating dinner at 6:30 pm instead of eating at 5:30 pm, but I've found that following my routine makes it easier to stay on track. It keeps me in the present and looking forward. It reduces my anxiety levels which I desperately need after the last month. Reducing anxiety means less irritability which makes life better for my entire family.
I can't wait to get back to my routine. Get up, get dressed, get peanut to daycare, go to work, pick up peanut from daycare, cook and eat supper, play with peanut, have an hour or so with my husband, and go to bed.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
How Family Members Cope
In the last few weeks, my husband has been talking more and more about Jennavive's birth. Even though 2 1/2 years have passed, it's like it's suddenly become burdensome to him. The first year, he refused to talk about it unless it was with someone extremely close to him. The second year, he became a bit more open, but still didn't really discuss it. Now, it seems like every week he's coming home and telling me about discussing it with a co-worker, a casual friend, or a distant relative.
I know that I've been struggling a bit lately simply because I'm getting asked A LOT about future children. (What is it with the two to three year spacing?) Anyhow, I'm sure my husband is getting some of those same questions, but it bothers me that it's bothering him so much now.
I know that I've been struggling a bit lately simply because I'm getting asked A LOT about future children. (What is it with the two to three year spacing?) Anyhow, I'm sure my husband is getting some of those same questions, but it bothers me that it's bothering him so much now.
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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
I had a dream
I had a PTSD dream last night. It was odd for several reasons:
1. I was a man.
2. I had conquered PTSD.
In the dream, I was a motivational speaker. I went around speaking to other people about what it’s like to live with PTSD, how to work with PTSD, how to be more than you were because of PTSD. It was amazing to see myself as healed, as more, as open as I was in the dream. I viewed PTSD as a mountain to be climbed, a wall to be scaled, a battle to be fought, or a war to be won. It was a part of me, and yet not THE defining part of me. It was simply a fact like having brown hair. In the dream, I considered myself stronger, wiser, and more powerful than I was before the trauma.
I hope I’m on my way to that being my reality.
1. I was a man.
2. I had conquered PTSD.
In the dream, I was a motivational speaker. I went around speaking to other people about what it’s like to live with PTSD, how to work with PTSD, how to be more than you were because of PTSD. It was amazing to see myself as healed, as more, as open as I was in the dream. I viewed PTSD as a mountain to be climbed, a wall to be scaled, a battle to be fought, or a war to be won. It was a part of me, and yet not THE defining part of me. It was simply a fact like having brown hair. In the dream, I considered myself stronger, wiser, and more powerful than I was before the trauma.
I hope I’m on my way to that being my reality.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)