One Part of Many

It was a cold, gray Midwestern February. I couldn’t decide if the frozen trees and ashen sky were expressing their indifference towards my mood or mocking it. Savannah was turning one in May and it had been a long year. I had not adjusted well to becoming a mother. Four months after she was born I had started experiencing extreme insomnia that quickly progressed to a constant state of anxiety and panic. I was afraid that I would ruin her, that I was unequipped to be her mother.

For five horrible months I walked around in silence, terrified that someone would see what I was so desperately trying to hide – that I was a shattered, beaten mess. In January, after learning that the monster had a name, I got on medication. One month later, for the first time in far too long, my brain was quiet long enough for me to hear the whispering voice.

“Write, write, write.

Thus, An Adventure Story. Not because I wanted something fun to do, not because I needed something to fill my time; this blog exists out of necessity.

Yet, as you may have noticed, I do not share my postpartum struggles on here often. Last month I wrote about musicals, busy schedules, and a toddler who thinks she’s twenty. I shared my disdain for children’s toys as well my quirky appreciation for a good cry and crinkly diapers. I referred to postpartum anxiety once, maybe twice, throughout all six posts and sometimes I worry that that sends the wrong message.

So, because I want my little corner of the Internet to do good things, I need to clear this up: I am not ashamed to be surviving postpartum anxiety. I am, in fact, exceedingly proud. I, like many of you, have come a long way from where I started … and not by chance. I worked really, really hard at reaching out, opening up, asking for help, posing questions, pushing through, and holding hope.

I did it. Me.

And I will gladly share that with anybody who asks.

But this blog – this small, humble place where my thoughts untangle and my heart connects – is not about postpartum anxiety. This blog is about me, and while PPA is a part of me, it is not the only part.

My days don’t revolve around therapy sessions and little blue pills; fear no longer monopolizes my time. Right now my two-year-old is showing me a snake made out of play-doh (I think it’s a snake … I hope it’s a snake) and I’m nodding in mock fascination; I’m being her mommy.

Tonight after the girls are in bed Geoff and I will sit out on the patio and decorate our future home, the one we’ll never be able to afford but dream about anyway; we’ll watch the sun set over Iowa cornfields and I’ll be his wife.

Tomorrow some good friends are coming over for long-overdue conversation and margaritas, and during that time I will not be “the girl with postpartum anxiety,” but Kara – their smart, silly, simple friend.

So, readers, I guess what I’m trying to say is this. I will scream “I have postpartum anxiety!” from the top of any mountain and from the depth of any blog, but I will not allow it to become my sole chant.

I have far too much else to say.

Mountain

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