Gross.

Sometimes I feel the blog calling to me.  "Write.  Write."  It's a little whisper carried on the wind, and buried somewhere at the bottom of a sweet potato casserole.  It's at the bottom of the laundry pile, and stuck to the inside of the blender.  I push  back, reminding myself that there are other things I want to be doing, like watching four episodes of "Hart of Dixie" before forcing myself out of bed to face the tomorrow that will inevitably come.  For the last couple of weeks, the whisper has gotten gradually louder.  "You really ought to write." Again, I pushed back. "I don't know what I would write about.  Nothing interesting is happening around here."

I swear I don't always talk to myself. 

Then the whisper hit its crescendo and it headed towards a blaring fortissimo, my husband worked late, and I knew it was time to write. I also knew exactly what I needed to talk about. You see, this has been bubbling up inside of me for years, but it's finally finding its way out. 

I am a proud member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  I love my faith, I love what it teaches me, and I love the person it is helping me become.  If you don't know that about me, you probably don't know me in real life.  But just in case you're reading this as a person who really doesn't know me in real life, I thought I'd throw that out there, because it's kind of a big deal.  Especially when it comes to what I'm about to say.

Some time ago, someone I looked up to a great deal, and who happened to be a fellow member of the Church, said something about gay people that made me cringe.

"Gross."

I didn't respond.

Not long after, I listened to lengthy discourses from others suggesting similar feelings.

Time and time again, I was silent. It wasn't affecting me. 

A few years ago, I spent a few long months working as an assistant teacher in a preschool.  Most of my time there is a vague memory of peanut butter and jelly smeared on my shirt and pieces of macaroni and cheese stuck in my eyelashes.  Did you know that crushed graham crackers on the floor can make it quite slippery? You do now.  I had several students during my short career as a teacher, but one little almost-two-year-old changed my heart forever.  His name was Isaiah.

Isaiah was painfully shy, and really struggled with being dropped off at school. I could tell he'd seen a lot of pain in his short life, but I didn't know why. His mom came to pick him up one day, and I'd never seen a woman express so much love for a child. The next day, his other mom came to pick him up. Same thing. Same love. Now, in this small and very wealthy preschool, people started to talk.  For some reason, I was unaffected by the things that were being said.  All I could see was that these two women would so obviously give anything for this sweet little boy.  After he'd been in my class a little while, I started to hear bits and pieces of Isaiah's story. The two moms who loved him so perfectly, so completely, were his foster moms. They were keeping him while his parents went through a bitter custody battle in which they were fighting over who had to keep him. Not who would be privileged enough to keep him, who HAD to keep him.

I don't know who ever ended up keeping Isaiah. All I know is that he didn't get to stay with his foster moms, and he was pulled out of our school. I'll never forget that baby boy with pain in his eyes. And I'll never forget his foster moms. Around that time, I overheard people talking about how gay couples shouldn't be allowed to adopt, because of the harm that could come to those children. That's when I KNEW. I knew something was wrong, and I knew something had to change. It's been four years since all that happened.  I've made monumental progress, didn't you know?

Oh.  Probably not.  Because the only person I've changed (as if I could change anyone at all) is myself.  And my babies, but that's a different kind of change.  But I digress.

There are some very important aspects of my faith that I feel directly impact the way I relate to the people around me.  First and foremost, though, that pesky "love thy neighbor" commandment.  It's kind of a big deal, no, more than a big deal.  A HUGE deal.  If I, as a member of my church, am repulsing people by my refusal to genuinely love them, the consequence of that repulsion is mine.  The Gospel I believe in is a gospel of compassion, love, and acceptance.  I don't recall reading anywhere in any scripture about Jesus telling people they're "gross."  Maybe that's just me?

I genuinely believe that it is our responsibility, as members of the Church, to love our neighbors regardless of their sexual orientation, their skin color, their marital status, or their personal wealth.  The Savior of the World didn't ask us to "tolerate" our neighbors or "peacefully ignore" our neighbors.  He asked us to love them.  He asked us to open our arms to people who are different from us, embrace them, and love them.  It wasn't just a suggestion, it was a commandment.

In a world that's being ripped to shreds by war, riddled with poverty, and being ravaged by disasters and disease, do we really have time to judge each other?  In the words of the Black-Eyed Peas, (I use only the most refined quotes) "where is the love?"

I'm Sorry, Sam.

Last night, Sam was having a hard time sleeping.  He's working on two teeth at the same time, and the poor little guy is miserable.  At the same time, he's learning how to stand up without holding on to anything, and starting to communicate with us.  It's no wonder he's not getting the rest he needs.

Normally, nobody wants to be the one to go in and try to convince a baby to sleep at midnight, but last night, I wanted more than anything to hold that sweet, hurting little boy in my arms and comfort him.  I rocked him for a little while, and he was fast asleep.  When I stood up, I couldn't bring myself to put him down.  As I looked down at his peaceful sleeping face, I was overcome with emotion.  My heart welled up with compassion and love and sorrow like never before.  I realized that my tiny baby was turning into a little boy, and that I'd missed most of his first year.  I just couldn't convince myself to put him in his crib, when it felt like the only place he should be was with me.

I peeked out the bedroom door, and motioned to Christopher to come in and see.  "Look at him," I said. "He's a little boy, not a baby.  When did this happen?"

"It happens fast," he replied.  "Come back to bed, I want to show you something."

He went back into our bedroom, and I spent a few more minutes with my little Sam.  "I'm sorry," I told him, "I'm so sorry."  A tear slid down my cheek and landed on his lion pajamas.

From his deep sleep, he lifted up his little hand, and put it over my heart, and then he let out a little sigh.  In that moment, I felt like I heard his little voice saying, "It's ok, Mom."

I went back to my bedroom to get some sleep, and Christopher was there waiting for me with videos of me playing with the boys over the last year.  He reassured me that I'd been there, even though I don't feel like I was, and I hardly remember being there.  I think maybe, just maybe, we're going to make it.

My Postpartum Journey

This afternoon, I'm sitting on the couch in my living room, looking out the window, and it's raining.  Sometimes, it's hard to remember the endless string of days that all felt this gloomy despite the sun shining mockingly in the sky.

In six short weeks, my littlest guy will be one year old.  One year.  I can hardly believe it, especially because it seems like I wasn't even here for most of it.  If I close my eyes, I can still recall restless nights filled with sobbing and yelling, and days spent staring catatonically at my children trying to figure out how I got there.  Weeks without getting dressed and refusing to spend time with anyone became my norm.  Almost daily, I'd go to the kitchen to prepare dinner only to discover that I'd completely forgotten how to cook.  Then I'd call my husband and ask him to bring home a frozen pizza.  I'd realize I was missing my kids' lives and get out my camera to take pictures, then find myself fumbling with the buttons and knobs frustratedly before putting it away.

I think there's a permanent crease in my forehead between my eyebrows.  I'm 25.

One night, my sweetheart and I were watching TV, and a commercial for the drug Abilify came on, you probably know which one I'm talking about--the one with the woman whose bathrobe follows her around everywhere.  I started crying, turned to him and said, "I need help.  I feel that way all the time." He held me for a little while, and promised he'd help me get the assistance I needed.  We scheduled an appointment with our bishop right away.  When we met with him, he gave us the name of a counselor that I could go talk to.  The first appointment with her was okay.  Not good, not bad.  The second appointment was terrible.  I remember very little about what we talked about, except that she wanted tips from me on how to lose weight, and she told me that I was a "difficult child."  I couldn't go back there.  She just wasn't the right fit.  And besides, she looked a little bit like a frog.

The second therapist was a little bit better.  At the end of our first appointment, he handed me the name and number of a psychiatrist.  I was to meet with her, get diagnosed, and start taking medication immediately.  It didn't dawn on me that he shouldn't have already had her contact information written down.  He shouldn't have prepared to send me to a psychiatrist until he had a basic understanding of what was wrong with me.  Things progressed, and I thought that I just needed to tough it out, that I would get better with this course of action, until the day he told me that the things I'd done (and the way I'd been) these first years of my boys' lives were going to screw them up on such a deep level that it would be impossible to fix them without therapy.  Lovely.  I looked past that, thinking, "Surely I'm just taking things the wrong way.  I'm not breaking up with another therapist."  I went to one more appointment, and at the beginning, he exclaimed, "Do you realize we've been working together for seven sessions now?  This is going very well."  After I left his office, I did some soul searching.  Seven sessions.  And nothing was better?  Nothing at all?

Meanwhile, I'd met with the psychiatrist.  She was fabulous!  Well, fabulous if you call sitting down with me for an hour and diagnosing me without asking about things that were going on in my life fabulous.  She never once asked about my children.  One of the main points in her diagnosis (bipolar II, by the way) was that I wasn't sleeping.  I had two babies at home, of course I wasn't sleeping.  Nevertheless, I felt relieved to have a diagnosis, and I blindly trusted the psychiatrist.  I started taking a medication called lamotrigine.  It's generic for Lamictal, a mood stabilizer.  The first day on Lamictal was good.  I felt my mood lifting, and I felt some of the fog clear.  Everything was wonderful until we realized a month had passed and I couldn't remember anything that had happened.  We took a family vacation to Washington, DC, and without the pictures, I could hardly tell you that I'd been there.  There were still nights of crying and yelling, and even worse, my husband couldn't see any lights on when he looked into my eyes.  They were some of the scariest days of my life.

Then the headaches started.  The lamotrigine/Lamictal headache is easily the most painful experience I have ever had.  It feels like a bolt of lightning has permanently affixed itself between your temples, and randomly shoots hot daggers into the backs of your eyes.  You should try it sometime, what a rush.

At my second appointment with the psychiatrist (a 15 minute med-check) I looked her in the eye and said, "Are you SURE this is bipolar?  I was surprised with the diagnosis, I came expecting to be diagnosed with postpartum depression."  She shook her head sadly, as if to say, "You sad little patient," and then said with a stony look in her eye, "No.  You're bipolar.  You have always been this way, and you will always be this way."

Please.  Put a dagger in my heart.  "You will always be this way."  Something was seriously wrong with that statement.  I hadn't always been this way!  I knew there had to be a way out of the place I was in, and I knew that seeing this uninterested psychiatrist and borderline creepy therapist wasn't going to be it.  I spent two weeks digging through DSM-IV (the diagnostic manual for mental disorders) and taking tests online that are supposed to be administered by medical professionals.  I asked my husband about a trillion times if he agreed with me, and every time the answer was the same.

According to every piece of medical literature we could find, I was not bipolar.  I only fit one set of symptoms, and bipolar has two.  I was depressed, not manic.  How could she have not seen it?  I wanted my money back, but instead canceled my next appointment and did something you're never supposed to do.

I stopped taking my Lamictal.  Cold-turkey.  Have you ever had a headache that made you feel like you wanted to die?  I have.  For three days.  But then something magnificent happened.  I started to wake up.

I will never forget the morning I came out of our bedroom into the living room holding my head and squinting my eyes.  I looked at Christopher with a look of alarm and said, "Why is everything so LOUD?"  Slowly a grin spread across his face, and he started to laugh.  "Adrienne.  You're hung over." The hangover lasted about a day, and suddenly I was alive again.  I thought everything was going to be okay.

A few weeks passed, and I started to recognize the nagging depression (and occasional rage) were still pulling me down.  I realized that it was finally time to take matters into my own hands.  I knew, without question, that I was dealing with postpartum depression.  We searched to find an OB I could see to get some help.  Appointments were available in August and October--it was June.  I finally broke down and e-mailed a random woman from a random website about postpartum depression.  She sent me the name of a psychiatric nurse practitioner who was specially trained in postpartum mood disorders.

The first time we sat down with Sheila, I didn't know what was about to happen.  She reminded me of a grandma.  Not the kind of grandma who bakes cookies and knits sweaters, the kind of grandma who narrows her eyes and tells you sternly that you need to shape up.  So really not a grandma at all, more like the lady who runs detention.  Yeah, that's who I'm thinking of.  She looked like a grandma anyway.  It took about 10 minutes of meeting with this woman to realize that something was different about her.  She wasn't like the big frog who told me how terrible I must have been as a child.  She didn't remind me of Creed from "The Office." Sheila just "got" me.  For the first time since I started feeling down, there was someone who seemed to understand what was going on with me.  I didn't know what to do with myself.  Relief poured over me.  My eyes stung with tears of hope for the first time in nearly 8 months.

During the appointment, she had Christopher step into the hall for a few minutes so she could make sure he wasn't abusing me.  I confidently told her that he would never in a million years hurt me.  She responded, "I know.  I could feel his love for you pouring through the phone when he called me.  And you can't feel that, can you?"  Tears filled my eyes as someone finally brought to light the darkest part of my depression.  I was free.  At last!  Someone knew what was happening inside my head, and wasn't going to judge me for it.  She was going to help me.

She prescribed a "pediatric dose" of a medication called desipramine, vitamin D, fish oil, 3-6 days of exercise/week, and ordered me to never say no to a social gathering of any kind.  After months of isolation, it was time for me to build my own safety net of support people.

So here we are.  Lots of pills every day.  I still gag a little bit every time I remember I'm swallowing a pill of fish oil.  Um, ew.  That's disgusting.  But things are getting better. Slowly.  It's painstakingly slow.  Some days, I still stay in my pajamas.  Some nights I still sob and cry.  Sometimes it really hurts that I missed almost an entire year.  But I don't want to die anymore. In fact, I want to live.

It's been a long time.

And hey, now I remember how to bake cookies.

Welcome home!

Things have been a little crazy around here lately, but we're still alive!

Last Friday (July 20), we traded in our way-too-small condo for a much bigger house!  We're homeowners!

Here it is!  This is (obviously) the front of the house and front yard.  

The living room

Dining room (eventually will be opened up into the kitchen)

The kitchen opens up into the back family room:

Back family room/playroom

Master Bedroom

half-bath

James's bedroom

Sam's room

Hall bathroom

Basement

Back yard

We love it here!  It's got plenty of space for our little family, and we finally have some room to play in the back yard.  And we have plenty of room for visitors-come on by!

Who knew? I did.

Looks like my diagnosis of bipolar II has been removed and in place we have a diagnosis of postpartum depression.  Treatment seems to be helping (little by little) and there are more and more breaks in the clouds as the days go by.

I heard once that there are people who don't "believe in" postpartum depression.  To those people I will only say that I sincerely hope you never experience something like this.  It's devastating.  Sometimes I read people's blog posts and facebook statuses about how wonderful and perfect their lives are as new moms.  I've never felt that way, and that makes me feel guilty and sad.

So can we talk about what's real for a minute?   Can I stop talking about how wonderful and perfect my life is long enough to say that this is hard?  Because it is.  I knew it was going to be hard, but there was no way to grasp how things were really going to be. I knew there was a chance I'd have postpartum depression.

But I didn't know it would feel like this.  I didn't know I would look at my kids and wish I could feel something.  Some days I wish so hard it hurts.  I didn't know my children's cries would make me feel like I'm losing my mind.  I didn't know how hard it would be to force myself out of the house.  I didn't know that I'd lose the desire to cook, to take pictures, to talk to friends...all the things I love to do.


So in the mean time, I'll look forward to the small moments when the sun peeks through the clouds, and hope that we can all forget the hard times and remember the good ones. Here's that hoping that in the picture of forever, this time won't feel so long or challenging.

Freeze!

Sometimes I wish more than anything that I could freeze a moment in time.  The munchkins are growing too fast.  There are so many moments that I'd give anything to capture, because I hate that in a few months, let alone years, I'm going to forget how amusing it is that James leads with his head when he runs.  That Sam picks up his bottle with his feet when he drops it.  The slow sweet smile that spreads across Sam's face when we wake him up and he opens his eyes to see one of us right in front of him.  The way James's excitement fills the room when I ask him if he wants to play with the Play-Doh.  The moments a camera can't capture.  The sparkle in James's eyes when he hears Daddy's key in the lock.  The way Sam sighs and turns his head toward his blanket when it's time for a nap.

The way it feels to hear James say, "Mommy snuggle."

The way sometimes Sam just wants to be held.

While I fight through the I'm-not-bipolar-maybe-this-is-postpartum-depression battle and sometimes I feel like I can't even see anyone around me, I'm thankful for the little beacons of light in my little boys.  I'm a very blessed mommy

Do you believe in magic?

Just three years ago, my sweet husband and I had the most magical experience in our lives up to that point.  We were married for time and all eternity in the Louisville, KY LDS temple.

We'd come a long way from our first New Year's eve, and even further from the two weird high school students vandalizing a band room. Sure hope that electrical wiring wasn't hard to fix!

As I reflect on our third anniversary, I'd like to share some of the most magical times we've experienced since May 29, 2009.

In January 2010, we went on our first great big vacation.  The most magical part was seeing a place neither of us had ever been together.  We spent a long weekend in New York City.  And seriously, this frozen hot chocolate was delightful.

In October 2010, we had the magical experience of meeting our first little boy, James.

In October 2011, we again had the magical experience of meeting a little one, this time, Sam. 

In May 2012, we got to take our first family vacation.  We went to Washington DC, and were able to visit the DC temple where my parents were married 20 years prior.  It was a fun way to commemorate that day. 

And here we are-May 2012, celebrating our third anniversary.  We got a babysitter, went to a fantastic restaurant, and then sat and talked in a gazebo at the park.  It was quiet and peaceful, magical even.

It seems like just yesterday we were sitting in the celestial room at the temple waiting to join hands and be sealed for eternity, and yet so much has changed.  There's no better feeling in the world than knowing you're married to a person who is perfect for you.  You see, with this incredible man, every day is magical in some way or another.  I'm pretty much the luckiest girl in the world. 

Do you believe in magic?