No, I haven’t won a fabulous trip to the Bahamas or anything. Just a good dose of…drumroll please…….

Post Partum Panic/Anxiety disorder. with a shot of post traumatic stress disorder (too many years of news reporting)

Treatment: drugs, yoga, walks, education on this “medical condition,” therapy. (note medical condition remains in quotes. i will admit this is a real, medical diagnosis when i’m ready, dammit. my new mantra is: its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a medical condition, not a weakness. its a real, medical condition, not a fake, woman problem. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. this is not my fault. i can not control this. i can not control this)

Feeling: humbled. Emotionally spent. like a burden. weak for having to go. strong for having gone. tired. Relieved. uncertain. scared. exposed. a little better. a little worse. somewhat humiliated. somewhat encouraged. hopeful.

In need of: reassurance. family time. kaiser time. reassurance. reassurance. a medical degree. a martini. reassurance. lots of books on post partum depression and panic disorder. reassurance.

**editor’s note: It landed in the severe category. we got the cheap co-pay. and that is my silver lining. i didn’t have to crazy it up or anything.

I just spent 40 minutes looking for an “I’m not crazy” top to wear.

I started with a v-neck sweater, but decided the embedded imprint of the rectangle Target “L” tag running under my left boob might not work. Coupled with the hanger mark on the right shoulder, it screamed “not together.”

Then a pink, long sleeve shirt. But upon noticing the stain hovering around the belly button I thought that might be a dead giveaway that I slacked in the laundry department for awhile.

I landed on jeans, a white t-shirt, and a sweater coat I haven’t worn in ages. Add my glasses and I now look like a clinical pyschologist. Or a professor. So I guess the doctor today will just think I’m suffering from delusions of being something I’m not instead of post partum…

Only a crazy person spends this much time trying not to look crazy.

You may have a hard time telling in that photo, but Her Royal Highness Princess Peanut is scowling at me. She’s pissed off because of the tooth that won’t cut. And, possibly, because I stuck her in this ridiculous, fuzzy, bear coat/snowsuit. Not that it snows around here, but she doesn’t know that. And it was cold (like, 50’s…shut up, that’s cold for Southern California) and we were going outside.

Her left top tooth is in. Her right top tooth, however, just seems to be waiting for the right moment (I’m guessing 2am, maybe 4am) to poke on through. This has put our little peanut in a rather foul mood for, oh, a month. Ok, maybe more like a week…but whatever.

The Highland teething tablets are not working. The infant motrin is not working. The Highland gel is not working. The only things that seemingly soothes this savage beast is my left boob. You read that right. The LEFT boob. The right one, apparently, does not rub the right spot.

So Mom’s left breast is mangled. It’s literally being gnawed on 24-7. It has scratch marks, bite marks, and even a cut. My right boob, meanwhile, is deflated from all the non-use.

HRH Princess Peanut also seems to think that randomly waking, oh, 40 times a night is the correct protocol for her current state of discomfort. And she doesn’t just fuss a little and groggily grope for boob. No, no, not our little sunshine. She prefers to go from sound asleep to ear-piercing scream in no time flat. No warning. No slight awakening movements. Just sit straight up and pulls you out of your only REM cycle of the night with, what you’re sure, is the sound of a baby being mauled by an animal.

As you can imagine, we’re all a bit warn out from the drama. If you wouldn’t mind a little blogosphere chant…say it with me now…”CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH!” Thank you.

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There is something unbelievably sad and selfish that happens to a Mom when she witnesses one of those “growing up” moments. Or two, today…in my case. All we did was play at the park and then get Count Waffles a haircut. That’s all we did. Yet somehow, everything has changed.

Count Waffles did his usual thing at the new park here in Suburbia. He ran. And ran. And ran. Then he ran up to some kids and asked, “do you want to play with me?” and promptly ran away. How he will ever make friends this way is beyond me.

The usual playgroup crew was present, plus maybe a half dozen other non-school aged kids with their nannies (we were on the other side of town today…the one where both parents work). A little baby boy, about Princess Peanut’s age came crawling over to our little girl and sat. At 9-months they really just sit. So HRH and the boy basically just drooled and stared.

Then came trouble. A friend’s 12-month old. Who thought it would be fun to use the butt-heavy babies as bowling pins and plow through the two, knocking both the weebles on their sides.

From NOWHERE, Count Waffles raced over. Scolded the 12-month old with a very, very harsh, monster voice “That’s MY sister…no hurt MY sister.” And ran away.

I stood there, stunned. Baby still rolling on her back. Wondering who the hell that protective brother might be…and how the hell I could get him to manifest this alter ego more often.

Then came the haircut. Because, you know, Mom hasn’t had enough fun for one week. It’s standard practice around here that Count Waffles just NOT get haircuts. Trust me, it’s much easier this way. There are no tears. No screaming. No globs of hair stuck to a lollipop. But the hair, officially getting caught in his eyes, finally had to be dealt with.

We entered one of those kid salons and I put on my game face. You gotta have a game face for haircuts. I told you, it’s a blood sport.

Ready to pry fingers off chairs and strap him down if need be, I announced to the lady at the desk (poor, unsuspecting woman) that Count Waffles the Terrible had arrived.

“Ok, sweetie, we’re ready for you…come on back”
Game face. Game face.
“Ok, time to get my hair cut Mom. Good Bye.”
Good bye? Uh, wait…I’m going with….uh…good bye…umm…
Count Waffles marched to the Jeep haircut chair. Sat down. Played with a basket of toys while they clipped away.
I sat in a chair.
Feeling totally obsolete.

It is really no wonder more women don’t get help when they are feeling nuts. Since my big admission yesterday I’ve dealt with several doctor’s offices and one completely retarded insurance company.

It turns out, I have incentive to head into next week’s appointment and really crazy it up. If I’m only mildly crazy, it costs more per visit. If I’m severely crazy, its cheap. Gotta love the insurance companies.

I just want to thank everyone for their words of encouragement while I do this. Even though I’m not really sure what “this” is just yet. I can’t get over how many of you are going through something similar. It really makes me wonder if we’re not nutso afterall…maybe we’re all normal and the world just wants us medicated. Or maybe this is some sort of Mommy epidemic and our drinking water is spiked.

I have to say, its surreal to get call from a complete stranger, making sure you’re not suicidal or going to drown your kids. I guess it is standard practice for the doctor to check up on you if they can’t see you right away…but geez. I felt really, really odd saying “No, I’m cool, not gunna kill anyone today…Thanks for calling.”

In the meantime I have a pile of freelance to finish and kids to feed. Rest assured I’m good. We’re good. YOU are good. We’re all good.

Kisses

There has been a lot going on around here lately. The Kaiser’s usual 9am to 9pm work routine. The Count’s never ending, vomit inducing cough. The Peanut’s two new teeth. I’ve picked up some freelance writing. Busy. Busy.

So busy we sort of didn’t really notice I’m, well, um…Possibly suffering from a post partum anxiety and/or depression.

There. I said it.

I’m getting help.

In all honesty I have very mixed feelings about what may, or may not, be going on. I’m ashamed. I’m confused. I’m not sure I even buy it. But something is wrong and it needs to be addressed.

I’ve noticed every other mother in the blogging world is drugged. All of them seem to need medication to “cope” with life. This upsets me. I thought it was a cop out, frankly. An easy way out of a big problem. Take a pill and magically your stress and fears are gone!

Those thoughts are why it took me 9 months to admit I need help.

I’m not sure where this revelation will go. Or what will happen. But for the sake of all the other women out there, I promise to blog about it…good and bad. Because I already know I’m not the only one. And I already know I was reluctant to even admit a problem because, apparently, I was feeling very Tom Cruise on the whole subject.

I only leave the house when I have too.
The kids and I only get out of our PJ’s when we have too.
I don’t clean or cook anymore. (this one has improved)
I leave soiled diapers all over the house. (this one has gotten better too)
I stay awake in bed, fantasizing how my husband will die. How my children will die. How I will die. Kidnappings. Fires. White slavery. Car accidents. Plane crashes. Playgroud accidents. The fear of the unknown consumes me.
I can’t shut off my brain.
I am very tired.
I’ve never felt sad, so to speak.
I don’t cry.
I’m convinced I will be a widow. And wait for my husband to log onto his computer at work every morning, faithfully.
Sometimes I shop to feel better.
I have panic attacks during the day when I think the Count may have escaped the house and is wandering the streets. He’s just in the playroom.
I stare at the clock, get to nursery school early, and wait in the parking lot just to make sure no one has entered the school with a gun and taken the kids hostage.
I can work myself into a vomit or a migraine just thinking about what could happen to my kids.
I am suspicious of EVERYONE.
I think I’m weak for feeling this way.
I think I just need to “suck it up” and move on with life.
I don’t think I need to be medicated.
I’m angry no one around me noticed and made me get help.

Jesus, I just went back and read those. I’m fucking crazy.

I’m going to be over here this week. I’ll be back in a few days.

Pay me, and I’ll come back sooner.