What I learned from my Listen To Your Mother audition

You will try your best not to think about it so much, but in reality it's the only thing running through your mind since you sent in your email requesting an audition spot.

It will take weeks to choose a piece to read, then when you read it for your best friend, she chooses a different one for you.

When the Producer and Director say to bring 3 copies of your piece, the third one is for you. Bringing your own copy in large print made you look like an old grandmother who needs bifocals to read 12 pt font.

You'll practice your piece standing up, but when you get there the Producer and Director will be sitting on a couch since the audition is in a hotel room. There will be a chair waiting for you to sit and read. This will throw you off a little.

You'll decide five minutes after meeting them, that there is no doubt in your mind that you want to be a part of their show. It is more apparent to you now than ever.

You think you won't cry when you read. But you do. Just a little.

You'll feel confident going in but more unsure of yourself than ever as you walk out the door and get into your car to drive home. You'll wonder if they really liked you and your writing. Or were they just being polite?

The week after the audition will feel like the slowest week of your life. Especially since there is no school on Monday due to President's Day.

You will try your best to focus on the normal day-to-day tasks and activities of life after the audition, but really all you can think about is whether or not you made the cast.

Five days after the audition, when the email finally arrives in your inbox, you'll read it quickly. Because when it comes time to take the band-aid off, the faster you do it the less it will hurt.

You think you won't cry when you read the rejection email. But you do.

You'll wonder if you could have done something differently. Would it have changed their minds?

You'll long to hear "I'm so sorry, honey. I know how hard you worked on your piece and how badly you wanted this. It's okay." while he wraps his arms around you.

But instead, he'll say "It's not that big of a deal. It's just one audition. There will be other opportunities, honey." which will sting. And more tears will come.

You'll give the kids a bath and tuck them both in, reading more books than you usually do, because it's a distraction from the hurt.

You'll pull out your journal and you'll write until you feel better. Or at least until you stop crying.

You'll want to self-medicate with a big, expensive bar of dark chocolate and a glass or two of really good red wine but instead at that moment you'll realize you're the textbook definition of an emotional eater and so instead you'll choose to take a bubble bath.

In the end, you'll realize that this just may not be your time to "no longer be anonymous" and so you'll decide to keep your identity under wraps a little while longer.

You'll be flattered that both the Producer and Director email you to ask you to audition next year. And to not be a stranger.

And you'll think: maybe 2014 will be your year to share your story on stage.

You really hope so.

Congratulations to the 2013 Cast of Listen To Your Mother DC! I'm looking forward to another incredible show on April 28th. Last year I was inspired, this year I auditioned, and maybe next year will be my year.

About the show:

The mission of each LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER production is to take the audience on a well-crafted journey that celebrates and validates mothering through giving voice to motherhood–in all of its complexity, diversity, and humor.

LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER aims to support motherhood creatively through artistic expression, and also financially–through contributions to non-profit organizations supporting families in need.

One sunset memory at a time

I patted her diaper-padded bottom as we ascended up the stairs to the hall bath last night, her brother a few steps ahead of us. She playfully peered through the rungs of the banister and smiled at her reflection in the foyer mirror. I sang a song of marching up the steps to move her along. It only added to the silliness of parading into the bathroom for tub time, her feet happily marching along to the beat of the song.

I am so lucky, I was thinking to myself.

You see, each time I walk the kids up the stairs to tackle bathtime, I can't help but think back to the night I took my son up for his bath at 18 months old, his baby sister a mere poppy seed in my belly, and how I could feel that I was losing my mind. Thoughts were racing through my head, but yet at the same time, there was a calmness about it all. He was completely oblivious to the whole thing, of course. He climbed up the stairs and I paused to look out the window above our front door, the clouds swirled up in the sky a hazy magnificent sunset display, colors so vibrant they looked as if they were burning with the secret of heaven.

We sang songs in the tub filled with bubbles and toys, and as we did this, I began to feel like the world was ending. The planes soaring over our house because of our close proximity to the airport, pushed my anxiety over the edge and I started shaking a bit, the walls were beginning to cave in on me. I quickly and methodically bathed my little man and then wrapped him up and dressed him in warm jammies, smelling his freshly washed skin and hair with deep whiffs as I read him a story, sung him a song and tucked him in his crib for the night. I remember thinking I would probably come get him and bring him into our bed once my husband and I went to sleep for the night. Given it was probably our last night on Earth, I felt it was fitting we should be together as a family in a cozy bed at least.

Hard to believe I made it out of the hospital after a week's stay, and recovered from that episode within a few months under my doctor's close supervision. I thank God every day that we had a healthy baby when our little girl was born 8 months later, and it never ceases to amaze me that I was given the job of being their mom every day. I'm a good mom. It's just that I have a past that is speckled with bits of sickness and recovery, and I often am reminded of those times. For me, they are simple reminders for me to be grateful for my health and my family. These times I remember, these old dusty memories of what happened when I became manic and how I became well again, they make up my story and they inspire me to keep on writing.

One day at a time. Or, one sunset step up the stairs to the bathroom for tub time, at a time.

My insecurities & a birthday wish for my daughter

I'm struggling lately folks. And since it's on my mind, I feel the need to write about it here. My place to type things out, to figure things out, to vent things out. I hope you don't mind that it won't be all neat and pretty. Just probably my rambling and not making much sense, but I have a feeling I'll feel a whole lot better once I get it all off my chest. A blogger I follow calls it the root of blogging: uninterrupted narcissistic rambling.

So here goes. Bear with me.

My daughter turned two yesterday. Two whole years old. My precious baby girl who just recently spent eight days in the hospital fighting pneumonia and Kawasaki disease, celebrated her second birthday with a play-date party at our house where six little friends - all boys! - and her brother, spoiled her and showered affection all over her cute little blond pigtail head. (Literally. One of the little guys just couldn't get enough of her - by the end of the morning she was practically in tears when he came near her to give kisses - it was hilarious and I have the pictures for when they're older.)

I had gingerbread sleighs for the kids to decorate with icing and candy, and wooden snowmen ornaments that they colored with crayons and markers. For lunch I made them peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, cut in a triangle to make a reindeer face (my friend's idea - I'm not that creative), complete with pretzel antlers and maraschino cherries for noses. I had hastily cut up fresh veggies that morning, which I served with Ranch dip, and I had leftover fruit salad from a brunch we had been to the day before.

Leftovers. This is where it started.

I had intended to order a pizza for us moms - the four of us could have easily polished off a medium pizza. But with all the craziness of 8 kids running around, I just didn't have the energy to deal with it. And since my husband the amateur chef had baked up to gourmet-like pizzas from scratch the night before when his parents came over to celebrate baby girl's birthday, I offered that as an alternative, not even thinking how terrible it made me look as a hostess. The salad my mother-in-law had brought over to go with the pizza had gone untouched, and so I had that to go with the pizza I served heated up from the toaster oven.

We supervised the kids eating first, then we adults took our turn. After everyone had lunch, we sang Happy Birthday to the birthday princess, and the kids ate strawberry cake that I had actually thrown in the oven an hour before when I realized I had almost forgotten to bake her cake. For us moms, there were the cupcakes my in-laws had brought over the evening before - a dozen in all - so we had six remaining and I had the moms pick one of those as dessert.

The girls all brought gifts for the birthday girl, even though I had said "please no gifts" on our casual email invitation. They are my two old roommates from college and my best friend from college who is like a sister to me. I love how our boys are such good friends and my daughter loves running around with them too. Watching our kids play brings us all such joy, I know this because we always talk about it.

I am sure that all the kids had a fantastic time and I'm sure the moms probably did too. I had a fun too. But after everyone left, and I had dropped my son off at preschool, tucked my daughter in for her nap and cleaned up after the little party, I kept thinking about my crummy hostessing skills and how I wished I had put more effort into the Mommy side of the play-date menu.

I wish I would have done a better job of de-cluttering and cleaning up in general before our guests arrived. I wish I would have made some sort of special sandwich or salad for my friends who drove a half hour or more to get to our house for the party. I wish I would have made little goodie bags for the kids. I wish I wouldn't have forgotten to offer the girls drinks during lunch.

I wish, I wish, I wish. I find myself saying those words a lot lately.

I could barely sleep last night. I know it probably sounds so ridiculous. After tossing and turning for nearly two hours I finally caved in to my sleep meds and took an Ambien so that I could get some shut-eye.

I woke up today still upset about it. Embarrassed, even. I called my mom on the drive home from dropping the kids off at daycare. I was quickly in tears and she was very sympathetic. Apparently, she said, this is something she and I both suffer from. We say or do something, or forget to do something all together that we regret very soon after, and then subsequently beat ourselves up about it for several days.

"It's a hormone thing honey," my mom explained.

Definitely a trait I wish I would not have inherited.

It's not just this incident though. Lately I've been feeling so torn. Reminded me of this post I wrote back in September about balance. I've been wondering how other moms do it all. How do they do ALL THE THINGS? And they do them SO DAMN GOOD TOO.

I just feel so inadequate sometimes.

I should be writing a post about how unreal it feels to have such a smart, beautiful, funny, independent, social, happy little girl who adores her big brother and has a passion for learning and all things art. How her perfect blond curls make me smile at the sight, especially when they're tied into those cute pigtails that fit her personality so well. She has a fierce determination to do things her way most all of the time, and does the back arching thing if you're holding her and she wants to get her way so much so that you have to put her down for fear of dropping her on her head. Her eyes are an perfect blend of blue and the lightest green. They sparkle with mischief pretty much every hour of the day. She loves bedtime the most and will never protest when we say it's time to go upstairs for bath. Strangers find it incredibly adorable that she still signs - Thank You most often, but also Milk and Please a lot - even though she is talking more and more these days. The pacifier is still one of her best buds and the dentist said it is perfectly acceptable for her to continue using it until her remaining four molars come through, since it is such a comfort to her. You hardly ever see her without her pink giraffe lovie blankie held tightly in her fist, corner knots usually being poked into her baby ears as her own soothing mechanism.

I love that I keep this bipolar blog, and also my private family one with photos and videos, as an everlasting journal of my life, my family, and my journey living with mental illness. Because I hope one day my kids will grow up and learn that their mom is trying the best she can. And even though she may compare herself to others, and she may wish she could be the perfect mom who has it all together all the time, all she'll ever be is theirs.

This will never change. Just the same as how my love for them will always be as strong as our hearts beating life through our bodies.

Except unlike hearts which will eventually stop one day, my love for them will go on forever.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Baby Girl. Mommy loves you with all her heart.

And more.

xoxo

Living an inspiring life

Yes, that is a bowl full of pomegranate seeds. I scooped them out myself. And of course, when I finished de-seeding this lovely fruit, I took a picture. Because it took a good 20 minutes and I was proud of myself for getting every last seed out of the darn shell.

Your life is your message to the world. Make sure it's inspiring.

I believe this to be true and I so want to heed this advice.

I registered for my second writer's conference this morning - a memoir writer's retreat - in March of 2013. I want to make my dreams of sharing my story a reality and I'm taking concrete steps towards my goal of publishing my memoir. I want to be an inspiration to other young women living with bipolar disorder who are wondering if they'll ever be able to have kids. I'm living proof that it is possible.

Now, let's be real here. I'm not perfect. I most certainly have my moments. Those times when I'm overtired, stressed out from a work deadline, and the kids are arguing over a toy - those are the times when I need help. And I've learned when to ask for it and how to not feel guilty about needing a little time to myself in order to re-charge my batteries. It helps me tremendously and then when I jump back into the action I am that much more prepared to handle anything.

Just like a pomegranate is a tough fruit to de-seed, I think I'm a pretty complicated individual. And yet, I wear my emotions on my sleeve. I'm the type of person who would share my life story with someone I just met, if they wanted to listen. I love meeting new people and making connections; I feel like that is such a huge part of what life is all about. I believe everyone on this Earth has something to share. Me? I want to share my story of how mental illness crept up on me and emerged out of nowhere, shocking the living daylights out of me, my husband, my parents, our siblings and our friends. How I rode a roller coaster of emotions for a year and a half before finally becoming stable and healthy again, only to be thrown on the same haunting ride of my past, landing in the hospital twice more, yet emerging a stronger, more determined and driven version of myself than I was before.

I've decided that I'm going to start carving time out of my schedule to write. An hour a day is what I'm going to start with. Whether it be a blog post, a journal entry, a chapter of my book, or time spent reading other memoirs, I'm writing down goals so that I can measure my progress. I learned a ton in Sanibel (and met a bunch of really extraordinary people) which I want to apply to my writing in order to improve and grow as a writer. Beginning in January I am going to set new goals, specific to my book project, so that I can truly hold myself accountable and make progress every day.

I can feel my dreams moving closer within my reach. Because if I write words, they turn into sentences; if I write sentences, they turn into paragraphs; if I write paragraphs, they turn into pages; if I write pages they will eventually turn into my book. Just like it took patience and determination to empty the pomegranate of its seeds (have you ever tried to open one of those darn things?? Talk about the fruits of your labor. Sheesh.), I will eventually get all of my thoughts out on paper in a concise, engaging story which will hopefully help to end stigma and educate not only young women living with bipolar disorder, but also their families, friends, doctors, and therapists. Just because someone is living with a mental illness, it doesn't mean they cannot enjoy the good life.

I love my life. I feel incredibly blessed. So glad that Thanksgiving is right around the corner because I have so much to be thankful for.

Thoughts for a friend getting help

I "met" Kim of Make Mommy Go Something Something online in the months following the launch of my blog. She had several years of experience under her belt, so I reached out to her for help and she responded immediately. We began chatting over email and even talked via Facetime a few times. Kim, like me, also has bipolar disorder. But hers is Bipolar II while mine is Bipolar I, meaning her moods tend to swing to the lower end of the spectrum and mine are the opposite - I tend to have higher mood swings to the extent of becoming manic if I do not get enough sleep. We connected right away, both being young moms who enjoyed blogging about the struggles we faced with our condition, our kids, and our home life. Kim is such a cool person. So funny, smart and kind. I started joining in on her Secret Mommy-hood Confession Saturdays series, a fun link-up party on her blog that she created. With this part-time job (that I should be putting hours into right now, but I'm blogging instead - much more imortant right now than work, imo), I've lost touch with my friend. And I miss her.

She's going through a lot right now. I know exactly what she's going through and it's gut-wrenching.

Reading that she recently entered the hospital to get help for the deep depression, suicidal thoughts, and anxiety she's been battling of late takes me back to my last two hospitalizations. My heart breaks for her, but at the same time, I'm so incredibly proud of her for seeking the help that she knows in her own heart that she needs to get well. To be there for her husband and son. To feel human again.

I was there too. Those times were the lowest lows of my life. I missed out on almost two full week's of my son's life because I was so sick I needed medical intervention to bring me back to reality. And although I may not have wanted to go at the time, being forced into going to the hospital was just what I needed to re-start my life.

I got do-overs. I learned how to take care of myself so that I hopefully won't have to go back to the hospital again. But, in the end, if I do have to go back at some point, I know from experience that it's not the end of the world. It's so that I can get well. And getting well and staying well are the most important things when you're living with a mental illness.

Kim will get there. She's getting her do-over right now. And I know in time she'll be well because she's doing what she needs to do, however hard it might be right now.

She inspires me. Not only her writing, but her personality and her sheer determination. She's a true warrior.

Get well, my friend. Miss you and thinking of you every day. Sending love and hugs via the interwebs.

xoxo

Living with bipolar disorder

I don't think a day goes by that I don't think about the fact that I am living with a mental illness. Not because I worry about what other people think of me, it's not that at all. It's because I have to constantly be taking the pulse of my mood so that I can manage my illness to the best of my ability. Over the last seven years I've gotten pretty good at it. I like to describe my experience living with bipolar disorder as a scale of one to ten. A simple ten point scale tells so much for someone like me. Think of it this way: 1 = completely depressed, can't get out of bed; 5 = in the middle, balanced (this is what I strive for every day); and 10 = completely manic, need hospital. I won't lie, I like being in the 6-7 range, but when I do have those times when I creep up to the 8's, I start to crumble. I know that when I get to 8, I need to make time for sleep or else I could tip over to 9 or 10 and that would be incredibly awful. Just because I've been there before. And now we have two kids and I would hate for them to see me in a manic state. Just as I would hate for them to see me depressed. But with my version of bipolar disorder, Bipolar I, my moods swing on the higher side of the scale versus the low side.

Nighttime is the hardest. The kids have been asleep for an hour and within that time I've cleaned up the kitchen and (of late) collapsed on the couch in front of my favorite show right now: XFactor. Some nights I am motivated enough to do a workout and then am filled with so much serotonin that it's almost impossible to turn off the endorphins enough to sleep right afterwards.

I'm trying to curb my evening leftover work/facebook surfing/twitter gazing/blog stalking to a minimum so that I can hopefully join the 10pm bedtime club.

When I do climb into bed, I get super jealous of my husband who, within exactly two minutes of us shutting off the lights, is snoring away happily. I'm a different story. My eyes close, my breathing slows down, and I shift around until I get into a comfortable position to try to nod off. Thoughts pop up and a running to-do list keeps flashing before me. I've learned coping mechanisms over the years so now I am able to turn down those things and find sweet sleep. If ever an hour goes by and I am still not asleep, I know that I must pop a sleeping pill to help me get the zzz's that I need.

I've just been thinking lately about how I live with this each and every day, and will for the rest of my life. Nothing I can't handle, just thought my readers might be interested in knowing a little bit about what it feels like.

Balance and lack there of

Wow. What a week it's been. Lately I find myself wondering: why it is so hard to balance the various curveballs and uppercuts life throws at us? Why can't I just magically make everything WORK? Speaking of work. That is something I did very little of this week. But I'll get to that.

Little man came down with a fever on Monday morning which landed us in Urgent Care that evening at 9:30pm when he could barely catch his breath. He slept okay after a nebulizer treatment and some Children's Motrin, but by the next afternoon he sounded like Darth Vader so we ran over to the pediatrician to find out he had croup, which I had suspected by that point. The doc put him on an oral steroid to keep his airway from swelling shut.

It worked really well. By Wednesday morning he was much better, but Baby girl had contracted his lovely virus. Luckily (I thought at the time) her airway sounded fine and I thought she'd escape with just a cold.

Yeah. Not so much.

She had a fever off and on all day yesterday and her breathing started sounding worse and worse. Last night I had my husband stop at Target on his way home from work to buy a new humidifier and she slept fine with it running to steam up her small room. But I knew right when I picked her up this morning that she needed that same med that the doc gave her brother. I didn't even bother to take a shower. Instead I threw on clothes, brushed my teeth and asked my husband to stay home with our son while I rushed her over to the pediatrician (so thankful to live within 3 minutes driving distance from the office and for their established patient walk-in sick hours from 7:30-8:30am).

There was a line 8 patients long by the time I arrived at the office at 7:30. A kind mother in front of us who heard my daughter's Darth Vader breathing let us go ahead of her and her son.

We didn't have to wait long at all, which was such a blessing. And all the excess activity in the waiting room actually distracted baby girl, so that was helpful.

The P.A. took a quick look at her and put her on the same med just in a liquid form. They even gave her the first dose (along with a dose of Children's Motrin) in the office to get her feeling better ASAP.

We headed home to give her breakfast. Hubby left for work. Little Man was still in jammies. At least he was eating, that was a start.

I gave her a breathing treatment after she ate while the kids watched an episode of Super Why. Then it was upstairs for mommy to have a quick shower before we rushed out the door again.

We had to drop off her prescription at the pharmacy and luckily there was a Starbucks in the strip mall because my head was about to start throbbing from my lack of my usual 2 cups. Then we hit the barber so that Little Man could get a haircut before his big first day of preschool.

After that we had plenty of time to make it to my eye doctor appointment across town. The kids were amazingly well-behaved while we waited the extra 15 minutes before the doctor was ready to see me to check if the trial lenses she had set me up with were working (they weren't). She said she'd order me a new pair to try and sent us on our way.

Back home we ate lunch and got Little Man ready for school. Baby Girl was jealous of his new backpack, so I found his old butterfly backpack which satisfied her for a little while when I told her she could pick out some toys to stuff in it. We got his snack together to take to school and took some pictures (okay, a lot of pictures) at the front door before hitting the road for what felt like the tenth time today. At this point, Baby Girl is starting to tear up at the mere sight of the car.

Drop off at his new preschool went so well! The only thing that is tough about it is the timing - he starts school at 12:45, which is usually the time his sister is napping. So I'm hoping over the next couple of weeks she'll get used to napping later. For now, she fell asleep on the way to school, woke up when we had to get out and walk him to his classroom, and was up on the drive home. I prayed she would go back to sleep in her crib once we got home. Little Man was so excited and jumped right into meeting his teachers and new friends. It was really cute.

Now if I could have just let her sleep until I had to pick him up, it wouldn't have been that bad. But, of course that's not what happened today. She was asleep in her crib from 1pm while I worked, until I realized I had my psychiatrist appointment at 2pm (thankfully, she's in the same building at the pedi) so I let her sleep until the very last minute I could and we made it to the appointment on time.

All the running around today was not very conducive to Baby Girl resting to kick this damn croup.

We were back home from 2:45pm (when I gave her a dose of Children's Tylenol because she was so uncomfortable) until we had to leave to pick up her brother at 3:30. Thank heavens for carline pickup!! Seriously, it's so convenient. Five cars line up at a time, the teachers walk those 5 kids (radioed from the Directors whose parents were there to get them) to their parent's cars. Baby Girl got to snooze on. Little Man had such a fun day, but got annoyed with me that I kept asking him to tell me more. He gets such an attitude sometimes when he skips his nap, but we could only get PM preschool, so he'll have to just make up for those M/W/F naps on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I treated the kids to McDonald's strawberry milkshakes for the rough day we had.

The worst part about this crazy, hectic, so-over-my-kids-being-sick-and-cranky day? I completely forgot to call my mom and wish her a happy birthday.

I suck.

My phone rang at 6:58pm and when it was my Dad on the caller ID I didn't even think of it then. Not until I answered and heard my mom's voice instead.

"Hi honey! How was your day? Little Man feeling better?" she asked, cheerily.

"Okay. Yeah, he's better, but I was at the pedia-OH MY GOSH! HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I AM SOOOO SORRY, MOM!!!"

My heart sank. I wanted to cry, but instead spewed off all the things we did today only to feel even worse that I was making excuses for why I almost forgot.

Oh, and her card is also running a day late. Daughter-of-the-year over here.

I'm so sorry Mom. Please know that I'm still trying to figure out how to balance it all.

I know that things will never be perfectly aligned, that there will always be kids that get sick, work hours to put in, a house to clean, etc, etc. I just hope that I don't ever potentially  forget another birthday in the future. (I like to think that I would have realized my mistake tonight after the kids were in bed, so let's just give me the benefit of the doubt to make me feel a smidge better, okay?)

I love you to pieces and can't wait for our beach trip in November where you'll have a luxurious, relaxing facial at the spa to enjoy as your birthday gift from me. Thank you for being my mom. You mean the world to me.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

xoxo

An honest letter to my babies

July 12, 2012

To my dear Mister Man and Sweet Pea,

Been thinking about writing a letter like this to you two for awhile now. Given the fact that you both conked out early tonight and I got my workout finished before 9pm, now is as good a time as ever.

These past four years with the two of you in our life, have been the best (and most challenging) years your Daddy and I have ever experienced, and they have not passed without some majorly scary ups and downs. When I say "ups", I really mean manic. My "downs" were before you both were born.

You see, your mommy has Bipolar Disorder.

It's something I probably won't explain to you until you are much older. You don't see me take my medication every day, but you have been with me to see my psychiatrist. You both just love the toys she has there at her office, and now when I tell you that "Mommy has to go to the doctor," you always ask if you can play with the toys at the office. Last time I had to go "to the doctor" I was referring to my gynecologist and she only had a plastic uterus to play with which wasn't as fun, was it?

Right now my illness is mainly hidden from you, but there are times its characteristics creep out of me in the ways I sometimes respond to your behaviors. There are times when I may yell a little too loud, or in a nasty way complete with a scowl on my face. Maybe it's just part of being a little worn out from the whole Stay-At-Home-Mom thing, but I believe that my occasional outbursts have something to do with my condition. My patience is so thin you could poke a hole in it with a feather. Not all the times, but sometimes. Especially when it's the week before my period. Not fun. Not fun for anyone in this household.

Your Daddy and I have worked so hard together to manage this thing though. We're beating it, he and I. We're doing it together. He, by tolerating my moods and by hugging and holding me when I need the extra love and feeling of security only his arms can provide. And me, by taking my meds, seeing my doctor and therapist, and eating right and exercising.

Whenever I do have a moment where I lash out and am unkind to either of you, I immediately feel full of regret and wish I could go back 10 minutes in time to re-do what happened again so that I could handle the situation differently, more lovingly. But I guess that's kindof what parenting is all about; learning from our mistakes and doing things better next time.

I try to make up for any mean/sad/bigfatwettearsrollingdownthecheeks situations by smothering you with hugs and kisses after we've resolved whatever we were arguing about. In fact, I read an article recently online that said that kids need 12 hugs a day and I have started to work hard to exceed that with each of you. I feel so complete when I have your arms wrapped around me, and the funny thing about it is that when I ask one of you for a hug, the other usually immediately runs over and joins in and we have a group hug going on which is so special to me. Love, love, LOVE those moments. I crave more of them every day that goes by.

I love my time at home with you two and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. I'm feeling nervous about going back to work next week, even though it is from home and it's only part-time, because it's going to take away from precious hours I spend with my loves. Mister Man, I may not get to sneak into your room at the end of naptime, when I see that you're just starting to stir on the monitor, to curl up with you and snuggle and take long whiffs of your hair and neck. Sweet Pea, I may not get to sing you "Twinkle, Twinkle" before naptime, and rock you until your sleepy eyelids start to drift closed. I'm hoping that by working my part-time hours right smack in the middle of the day that the only thing I'm going to be missing is naptime, but the more I think about it, the sadder I get because even when you don't sleep, Little Man, I still enjoy the quiet time we have together while your sister is snoozing. Even if I seem frustrated that you're awake because I'm not able to get my housework done. I secretly don't mind.

There is so much more I want to say about how I'm living with this illness every day and how I'll explain it all to you in the future, but this first installment of my letters to you both is just the beginning, just what is on my mind at this moment in time. How you both have made our family so much richer even in the midst of learning to cope with something as complicated and intense and draining as a mental illness. I am so incredibly thankful that your Daddy and I took the leap we did back in the fall of 2007 to start our family. I couldn't imagine us any other way now.

I love you both to the moon and back, and am loving watching you grow up more and more every day.

Try to slow down a little because it seems like it's going by just a smidge too fast. 'Kay?

Keep loving me back, even if we may have our tough days. The days when we yell at each other. The days when there may be tears. Because the good days far, far outweigh the bad ones. And they always will.

All my love and kisses,

Mommy

xoxoxo

Where I go from here

A couple of things happened this week that have made me think about this blog. First off, my laptop died. I had put it in sleep mode before I left the house to go get my hair done on Tuesday evening, and when I got home a few hours later and went to turn it on, nothing happened. It went to sleep and just never woke up. Talk about a good way to go.

There are some things on the hard drive that I'm going to try to recover, but pretty much everything is gone. Luckily, most of our family photos are backed up on our external hard drive. But I had filled that up about 6 months ago and we have yet to buy a new one, so some pictures and videos are lost. I won't really know what all is gone until I need something and realize it was on the old laptop. Oh well, it's a tough lesson in backing up your files, I guess.

I had just begun looking into buying a new laptop when I started wondering how we'd afford a new one since it's not really in the budget for a one-family income. Then yesterday, my old boss called and asked if I'd be interested in doing some work from home. $$$ Cha-ching!!! $$$

For 6 months. $$$$$$ CHA-CHING!!! $$$$$$

Yes, please.

Now the only thing I needed to figure out was how I'd do the work with the kids around. She wanted me to think about it and get back to her tomorrow with an idea of how many hours a week I could put in, and when I'd most likely be logging those hours. I started to think about how I could find reliable, low-cost childcare so that I could put in 2-3 hours a day of work and still rake in a decent hourly rate.  I immediately thought of my friend's babysitter she uses a few hours each week and called her up to see if I could hire the highschooler too. She doesn't see why it won't work out. Their family is actually going on vacation for a few weeks so they won't be able to keep her busy all summer, so this might just be the perfect situation for everyone. I'll find out on Sunday if she's interested since she's on vacation this week with her family. If she's up for the job, it could work out perfectly since her rate is right in line with what I wanted to pay and I know she's qualified since she's done a great job watching my friend's kids who are the same ages as mine.

If the babysitter works out, this will help me with the issue of when to do the work because ideally I'd like to be able to do an activity with the kids in the morning or early evening, and get my work in around the lunch hour. That way, I'll still be able to enjoy my summer with the kids, while not feeling like I'm missing out on much with them since my daughter will nap part of the time I'm working.

It's all coming together a little too perfectly. I've got my fingers crossed that the babysitter is interested and available, and that my old boss will pay me what I'm going to ask for.

I'd like to try to keep my evenings free because that is when my husband and I have been doing P90x. We've been getting the kids to bed by 8/8:30pm and then putting in an hour {sometimes an hour & 1/2} of exercise for the past 9 days. It's an intense commitment, but we're both on board and are hoping to see some incredible results by the time we're done. Nine days down, only eighty-one to go.

With all that has been going on, I'm wondering how I am going to continue blogging as much as I used to. I also keep a family blog, which I haven't been able to update nearly as much as the grandparents would like lately. I feel like something has to give right now, and with work {hopefully} starting soon, it's going to have to be this blog.

I've decided I'm going to stop doing link-ups for the time being, as much as I love them and it makes me sad to drop them right now, solely because they take me so much longer than jumping into my dashboard and writing a stream of consciousness. Instead, I'm going to use this space to journal what has been going on with my health and my life and my feelings because that is what's going to work right now.

I created this blog as a place for me to write about my feelings, struggles, and triumphs as a wife and mom raising two small kids. A wife and mother who just happens to be Bipolar Type I. This blog was also developed to serve as a springboard to hopefully publish my memoir someday. I still want to accomplish that goal. I am a young woman living with a mental illness, but I do not feel limited by my diagnosis. I lead a very full, happy, creative, successful life and I want my story to be out there to give hope to other young women who have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

I believe I'm here for a reason. I hope my readers will continue to follow and check in on my blog here because I will continue to be a positive voice in the face of such a misunderstood and stigmatized condition.

Because my diagnosis doesn't define me. It's just a part of me that I have learned to live with.

The people and experiences of my life are what make me who I am.

And the journey will go on.

Brilliantly. Because that's how I roll.

Bad day

You stand in the line just to hit a new lowYou're faking a smile with the coffee to go They tell me your life's been way off line You're falling to pieces every time And I don't need no carryin' on

~ Daniel Powter, lyrics to Bad Day {2005}

This song conjures up all kinds of emotions for me. It debuted in the US in early 2006, right around the time when I had returned to work after my first two hospitalizations. I was fragile. I was sick. The level of anxiety which pulsed through my blood was so high I could barely keep my hands from shaking at times. I had been having many bad days, not just "a" bad day. And this song would come on over the radio on my commute home from the office almost every evening.

The tears would start to flow and it was so hard to get them to stop.

I knew what I had to do, although it broke me to pieces to have to do it.

Resigning from a career I had worked so hard for, I had poured so many hours of my life into, was one of the most difficult {and yet, at the same time, simple} turning points in my life. Only I didn't know it was a turning point at the time.

It felt like I was digging myself a grave to crawl into. Like I would never be ever to build myself up to the high point I had reached in my industry.

I had lost every ounce of confidence that used to flow so easily from my voice, my mannerisms, my personality. Much of 2006 was consumed with crying spells, crippling anxiety, and self-doubt that I would ever be able to return to my former identity.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH476CxJxfg?rel=0]

When that song comes on the radio these days, I think back on the low moments of my past when I was first diagnosed and realize that I've come a long way.

Man, have I come a long way.

I've learned that there are times in our lives which are going to be uncomfortable, dismal, and scary. We just need to stay positive as much as possible, lean on friends and family for support, and know that there is sunshine after the storm.

Dear New Mama ~ don't ignore PPP symptoms. Please.

Dear New Mama, My son was four weeks old and I was manic out of my mind in October of 2008. I was somehow able to hide it so well from everyone close to me, my parents, my best friend, my therapist, even my husband. No one knew but me. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t go on like this, and I knew it. The week after he was born I had broken down crying to my mom, handing her my cell phone pleading with her to call my OB to ask her what I could take to help me sleep. I had been off all medication (except pain meds from the C-section) since October of 2007. A full year with no medication at all: a recipe for disaster for anyone diagnosed as having bipolar disorder two years prior. But I was doing it for the baby. My husband and I both wanted a medication-free pregnancy, and then I wanted to breastfeed and did not want to expose the baby to medications that would come through in the breastmilk.

The first month, I had slept maybe 2-4 hours a night and it was catching up with me fast. I'd take two Tylenol PM and would get a few hours of sleep, but woke up, as I usually did since the baby was born, in a sweaty panic – I just knew he needed to be fed even though he was usually sound asleep at the time. I was trying desperately to make breastfeeding work, but we were struggling. He had lost weight since we left the hospital and the pediatrician forced us to supplement with formula but I was determined. I was so afraid of failing. My best friend was my cheerleader, urging me to keep going, visiting when she could to offer helpful tips and encouragement. My husband was also supportive and we knew it was risky being off medication in order to breastfeed, but we had decided to try it. My parents had arrived two days after the baby was born and were planning on staying a week before heading back down to Florida. When they realized how little sleep I was getting, they were worried and my mom pushed out her return trip by five days. After nearly two weeks of help from my parents, my husband’s parents, friends cooking dinners for us, and my husband being off from work, I had to learn to do it on my own. It is so foggy, those first four weeks, but we took pictures so I could remember. I did it on my own for two weeks, three days. Then the shit hit the fan.

The statistic was 1 out of 1,000. I never thought I'd be that one person who was dealt the postpartum psychosis card. I mean, what are the chances, right? But I guess I really should have seen it coming, having been diagnosed with bipolar disorder only two years earlier.

So, you may be wondering, how did I know that I was experiencing postpartum psychosis? Well, at the moment I didn't. I just knew that how I was feeling couldn't be right.

I was dead-set on breastfeeding, and therefore, was the sole source of milk for the baby so I had to be up every two to three hours. The process of changing his diaper, changing his outfit if he had leaked, swaddling him back up, feeding him on the boob, burping him, and settling him back down took me about forty-five minutes each time. Therefore, I had an hour or so to try to sleep before he would wake again, but instead of sleeping, despite what should have been my intense exhaustion, I would rush around the house doing laundry or dishes or I'd pump to try to get my body to produce more milk so that I could store it. It was as if my body had surpassed the exhaustion phase, and I was now invincible. I was starting to believe that I didn't even need sleep. I also felt super smart - like my brain was functioning at a superior level. Having never been a stellar student in any stage of my schooling, it was weird, to say the least.

During the fourth week, before I was eventually hospitalized, I started experiencing hallucinations. Mostly things are fuzzy, but one I can actually remember is from the morning that my husband finally realized he needed to commit me. I had woken up several times during the night but just stayed in bed listening to the sounds of trucks driving along the highway not too far from our house, hoping to fall back asleep. When the dawn broke and light started filtering in through the mini blinds, the alien spaceship that was hanging from the center of our bedroom (aka: the ceiling fan) began to spin, illuminate, and hover towards me. I shook with fear. But kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want my husband sending me to the hospital. I had to keep feeding my baby. We had just started to “get it” and he was doing well. I was actually enjoying the bonding time it created between me and the baby.

THANK GOD my husband got help. He had to call 911 because he wasn't able to get me to agree to go in the car to the hospital, let alone take medication. I was so lucky, because he knew the signs to look for from my two previous manic episodes, and he wasn't afraid (or too proud) to admit that I needed medical attention. Specifically, anti-psychotics. Stat. And although I never had thoughts of wanting to harm my baby, who knows if those could have been the next thoughts to enter my mind had we waited any longer to get help.

What I want you to know, mama, is that if you ever experience symptoms similar to mine after the birth of your baby, please don't feel ashamed about it. Don't ignore the signs. Have your husband or partner read about them too, so they can be as prepared as you are. Knowing what you know now about postpartum psychosis is half the battle. The other half is being open to accepting the help you need to get better for you so that you can be there for your baby. I did, and I'm so thankful because it was the best decision my husband and I did for our family, and continue to do, each and every day.

The medication I take keeps me "in the middle", as we in my family like to refer to it. I ended up taking it, under the close supervision of both my psychiatrist, OB-GYN, and high-risk OB-GYN, during my second pregnancy and we were blessed with a precious baby girl who has completed our family. I continue to take my medication, see my psychiatrist and therapist regularly, and lean on the support of my husband, parents, and close friends in order to keep my mental health in check.

I wish you all the happiness in the world as you meet your new little bundle of joy. I know that you'll turn out to be one incredible mama. Just like I did.

Much love,

Jennifer aka BipolarMomLife

The 4th Annual Mother’s Day Rally for Moms’ Mental Health is presented by Postpartum Progress, a national nonprofit 501c3 that raises awareness & advocates for more and better services for women who have postpartum depression and all other mental illnesses related to pregnancy and childbirth. Please consider making a donation today, on Mother’s Day, to help us continue to spread the word and support the mental health of new mothers.

A promise

There have been many ups and downs in my life since being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder six years ago. Thankfully, the past few years have included significantly more highs than lows, mainly because I've been stable and have made a commitment to myself and my family:

I promise to always take my medication, see my doctor and therapist, and get good sleep.

This promise stemmed from the fact that, at 5 weeks pregnant with my daughter, I spent almost a week in a psych ward to bring me down from the most extreme psychosis of my life. It came about because I was so incredibly happy - over the moon, really - that we were pregnant after trying month after month for almost a year that I didn't make sure I was getting enough sleep. I remember the nights leading up to the hospitalization where I would just lie in bed wide awake, my mind racing with baby names while my husband was sleeping soundly beside me. You see, when I knew I was ready for another baby, I wanted it like, that second. To have to live my life in two week increments for so long, and to have waited almost a year to see those two pink lines, both of those realities had driven me mad. Quite literally.

I count my lucky stars that I was able to get help. I took the medication I needed with my doctor's close supervision, in order to make it through the pregnancy. And my wonderful husband took over many a night feeding during the first month or two so that I could get the sleep I needed at night and the naps needed to catch up during the day.

In the waiting room before my trial to be released from the hospital {yes, there was a trial due to the fact I was involuntarily committed}, my husband and my dad sat with me. I was in handcuffs. Don't ask - we have no idea why they would cuff an almost 6-week pregnant woman who wouldn't hurt a fly - but we think it was because they had to treat all the patients the same. My hair was a disaster, I had on mismatched sweats and the sticky-bottom hospital socks and I was just dying to get out of there. I can't remember why I didn't have shoes on.

This is where the promise occurred. My dad took a picture on his phone of me sitting on the small sofa in that tiny room. With cuffs on.

So I would always make good on my promise to keep taking my medication.

That was two years ago. And I have no intention of ever breaking that promise.

My family means too much to me to ever put them through that again.

Thank you to my dad, for thinking to take that picture. Now, Dad, it may be on your old iphone which has a shattered screen, but maybe you could find a way to email it to me so that I can crop it and Instagram-it so that I could add it to this post?

{Don't hold your breath since he's not that great with computers and he's presently on a golf trip in South Carolina. But I'll try to add it. For posterity.}