Mommy Needs Crazy/Krazy Glue

I used to cry in the shower. It wasn't hysterical crying but it was a steady stream of tears. I would get out and pretend to be making it. The tears went down the drain and with them went the evidence of my impending breakdown. I wasn't new at being a mom though Grayson was almost eight when Jake was born. I guess I was rusty at the whole mommy to a baby thing. At first, I thought I was simply sleep deprived and feeling a little unsure of my future aside from being a mom. Jake turned one and little did I know that I was already sinking but not realizing it. I went day to day and did what was needed and asked of me. I found joy when I got to sleep with only two interruptions instead of four and I found bliss when I got to shop at Target, Gap or the array of online stores that are a click away. It was sad. I then threw myself into the Holidays which meant shopping and decorating. December 25th came and went and my life became anxiety's chew toy. Panic attack after panic attack pounded me as though I was the shore to its ocean. The crying stopped and nervousness began. Nothing made me happy and I couldn't even find peace in my dreams because I was still getting up several times a night. Jake was doing better but still not sleeping through the night. I loved my kids and that was never a question but I began to think "what if". What if I lose touch with reality. What if I become like the woman in the short story, The Yellow Wallpaper. What if nobody understands. What if I never get back the person I once was. What if I always think like this? What if, what if, what if... People didn't know. Those closest to me really didn't know. To look at me, one would have no idea what chaos was brewing in my head. Sometimes, I believed my brain might just jump from my skull and run away. Just run away and never return. I had to get control but wasn't sure how. I didn't think it could be postpartum depression because Jake was almost one and a half. I began working on my novel, what I went to college to do. I had come up with the concept a year before but found it to be too daunting to work on. I dove into the writing and I believe the anxiety loosened it fangs. Then I found a friend who stayed home and had a baby. We began walking three times a week. She understood. She didn't flinch when I told her that I was concerned about literally going mad. I truly thought I might become one of Poe's characters. It was that bad. I'm thinking House of Usher, people. I also started a daily regimen of taking B vitamins. B-12 and B-6 were supposed to help with moods and nervousness. I also cut out all caffeine. Six months later I found myself free of the attacks and with fewer unrealistic thoughts. We were walking five days a week and my novel was flowing. I could look at my kids and smile again. I mean really smile. A smile that didn't have worries attached. A year has passed. My novel is done. The thoughts have no place in my head anymore. Looking back, I think it was postpartum depression. It was something unhealthy and capable of ruining my existance along with shattering my family. I was lucky and didn't need prescription drugs but that's not always the case. I'm not jumping on a couch, calling people glib, and bashing Brook Shields. Every person is different as is every "demon". My little naughty demon is under lock and key. I'm sure he's still there but he's not getting out on my watch. So, I end this rant or divulgence with this: I think you have to know when to help yourself because no matter how much people love you, only you know what's in your head. There are those that fall apart and those that have heard of krazy glue.