Possible Facebook Statuses...

1. " Oh, New Year's was great, until an overdose happened."

2. " Nothing like an attempted suicide to kill the holiday spirit."

3. " How'd we ring in the New Year? Filling out 302 papers."

4. "Oh, everything was great, except for the accidental ingestion of pills."

5. " Hey, nothing like a good stomach pumping to ring in the New Year."


I have been trying so hard for the last few days to bring levity to a very troubling situation. I have felt fear, worry, concern and outright anger and outrage. You see, the story is a long one. Not one I will tell very well. My emotions are strong, and have surprised even me a bit.

On Monday, January 2, 2012 we decided to enjoy our last day of Christmas Break with the kiddos and go out to breakfast. We rarely go out to eat with the monsters. They are loud and get antsy as little people will do. The very smart host gave us a large corner booth, and the kids were really very good and had a good time. Joe and I talked about driving out to his parents house because we missed the holiday party because Alex had a fever of 103 for 6 straight days. I wasn't going to take my sick little boy to a party when he felt like crud and also could spread whatever germs were cultivating themselves in his snot to all those at the party. He was fever free for 2 days finally so lets go we decided. Thank GOD the phone rang before we were done breakfast.

His father was calling because, he thinks that grandma took his pills, a lot of them. She isn't waking up right. It's been 2 days.

Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME??? Two days? Well, you see, they had an argument early in the morning on new years day. So he didn't realize she was in bed all day because she was wacked out on his pills.

Go, I told my husband. Just go. Call me, let me know.

Fear. Fear. Fear. A little bit of relief when he calls and says an ambulance is on it's way. She's awake but lethargic. Ok. Just get her to the hospital.

He calls again. She is writing him off, she is writing his sister off, she is writing her husband off. WE didn't go to her party. We hate her and her family. His sister won't leave her be, won't let her just go to sleep. Excuse me? You are now casting guilt to your children? ANGER.

She won't see them. She won't talk to them. She doesn't want them near her. More ANGER.

She is going home. She still hasn't spoken to her son. She hasn't apologized, she hasn't given a reason. She needs help. Is anybody listening? She needs help.

When my husband finally got home from the hospital, I came undone. I was scared and angry at the same time. Would this happen again? What will happen next? Where the hell did this come from?

The totality of my anger has surprised me. At first I didn't understand it. But, I have finally figured out the reasons for the intensity of my anger. First and foremost, she is not allowed to put that kind of fear and responsibility on her children. By sake of being " mother " you do not have permission to destroy your children. I will not give you the permission to make my husband, your son, feel like this is his fault. Period. Harsh? A bit. Where is my understanding you ask? You see, my understanding went away when she made it well known that my need for anti-depressant medications to battle severe post-partum depression is unacceptable. She DID NOT EVER FEEL DEPRESSED WHEN SHE HAD CHILDREN. Anger. I have been on that ledge. I have looked over and thought, all I have to do is jump and there will be no more pain. It hit me nearly as hard that if I did it, my children would be torn to pieces and they did not, do not, will not ever deserve that. Period. I got help. She looked down upon me. Anger. Clearly there is something deeper going on inside of her. Get help. Please do not do this to your children. You will not put my children through this. Get help.

Then What?

The horrible thing about depression is even that I know I have suffered from depression, at times horribly, when it comes crashing back in an unexpected time or moment it blindsides me. I guess my depression is more anxiety. An overpowering, heavy brick that sits on me and won't let me come up for air. I shake and it will not stop. I get really agitated with the kids, and their normal kid stuff. The paperwork I am trying to gather in order to get insurance coverage for the kids when Joe's benefits expire on October 31 is daunting.

Trying to make phone calls to plead with utilities and other bill people is horrifying and embarassing and it doesn't fail that a child comes and starts hollering in my face while I am trying to make progress. And the pressure builds inside and I feel like I will explode. I walk away because there is no other option. I don't feel like I can properly and fairly instruct and discipline them when I am feeling so out of control with myself. How will I get this stuff done and protect my children and provide for them? I feel alone. My husband doesn't seem overly concerned. He thinks he will quickly find another job. I worry about what is going to happen after his last check comes. Then what?

Scrambled Eggs

It is thin, fragile, white, brown, shimmery, dull. Inside is mush, slippery or firm, hard, bending or a fragile form developing, precious and tiny. Outside, a strong barrier, a protective shield until dropped or kicked or banged, or nudged or tapped wrong.

It can bear tremendous weight when distributed correctly but shatter when carelessly moved. You can not tell what it's state is using only sight or a simple touch. Deeper inspection, holding it to the light, cradling it in your hand to feel it's warmth or it's chill. What is inside and how it has been cared for. Is it spoiled, never given a chance? Is is fertile, nurtured, warmed, protected? Will it sustain others? Will it become or is it already gone?

Do not assume to know. Do not assume the outside reveals what is inside. Each is a mystery waiting to be discovered. Aren't we all just as fragile and varied? Inside we are so many things. Soft and hard, fragile, bold. Take time and care to find out what is inside before cracking the shell.

How

There is so much emotion swirling around inside my head. I don't know what to do with it, or where to put it. The scars on my arm are still visible, though barely. The scars on my heart are invisible and so heavy. She did not have kind words. She did not have a soft voice. She did not have patience. She did not show love. She was never proud of me. She did not teach me self respect, generosity, kindness or love. She taught me that I was not acceptable, unworthy, unloved. I did not start trying to hurt myself until I was about 13, maybe 14. I thought if I was bleeding, she would help, fix, care. Instead, she yelled what the hell did you do to yourself? Stop crying like a baby, it can't hurt that bad they are only scratches. I cried from pain inside my heart, not from the blood trickling down my arm. Even blood did not make her care. I slammed my hand in the door as hard as I could trying to break it, mother's are tender and make things feel better when they are broken, she said God damn it, how the hell did you do that. I'm not taking you to the hospital. She didn't offer ice or a hug. The man (yes man who was 8 years older than the teenage girl who only wanted to someone to love her and care) I started dating when I was only a teenager was mean, he pushed me around and put me down and made me think I was wrong when I didn't want to do something he wanted me to do. He said I didn't love him when I said I wasn't ready. I gave him my heart, my innocence and still felt worthless, but I held onto the hope that someone was loving me. She did not ever, not once say you are worth more than this, better than this- never once. There is still a huge hollow void where all of the love, encouragement, pride and acceptance should be. If the one who gave me life could not fill this up, I fear I never will be able to do it myself. I struggle every day to find hope and love within myself. I am so very afraid that I am not doing it right for my own children. I want them to be strong, confident, generous, kind and caring little people. I hug them and kiss them every day. I tell them every day that I love You, you are my favorite Alex, you are my favorite Caitlin, and you are my favorite Anthony. But every once in awhile the things that haunt me come through and I lash out when they are misbehaving. I have cried myself sick for slapping one of my children while holding and trying to tell my child how sorry and how wrong Mommy is. How am I ever going to do this right when NOBODY every taught me how?

They are the only hope I have of ever filling my heart with love and joy and acceptance. Please God don't let me get it wrong.

3

In my thirtieth year, I gave birth to my third child. Lots of 3's right there. And in my thirty third year, he turned -------- 3!.

My third child, my baby boy was the biggest, best, scariest surprise I ever received. Biggest, because the only bigger surprise I can think of is well, I can't. Best, because I wouldn't trade him for anything. Scariest, well, I wasn't planning on a third. His sister was only six months old. We were BROKE. Broke. I already had postpartum depression, how the hell could this be happening again??? Well, I know how it happened, but really God, do you really think this is a good idea? Me, as a mother of 2 is kind of pathetic, you are going to add a THIRD to this mix, and what? You'll hope for the best for the child, for the mother? I was so scared. I was so angry. And then scared again. I already doubted my ability to mother the children I had. I felt overwhelmed and anxious and I worried all the time. I didn't have fun with this thing called motherhood, and here we go again. That was three years ago.

I still have PPD. I still have fear. We are still broke. I still don't know how to have fun with this thing called motherhood on many days. But oh how they make me melt. Especially this third child, my baby boy who is not a baby anymore. He is 3 now. He will start preschool, and I will cry when I let him. Because he is my "last" baby. Happy Birthday Alex! You are such a funny boy. You are strong willed and you really know that people see you. You know you leave a mark! You add hilarity to everything you do even when I am restraining my self from locking you in a closet! The way you tell me " shhh mommy, you need to use nice words to me!" makes me want to laugh my ass off and swat your behind at the same time. You still LOVE your " NIE-NITE!" I do too kiddo. Love you my little man.

The last night as a 2 year old!

I'm not listening to you people sing Happy Birthday to me!

Tuckered out after a long birthday, Mommy's heart melted!