Tag: author

I Lost Myself During Quarantine

On By spaige08In Advocacy, depression, humor, losing self, masters degree, mental health, mental health awareness, mental illness, Mother, postpartum, quarantine, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment

It takes me a long time to recognize things about myself. I usually fall down a rabbit hole and discover why halfway up. The first time I lost myself, I had just given birth to my daughter. I knew I was a wife and a mother. But aside from being my daughter’s everything, I had no idea who I was. The next time I lost myself was after losing my foster son back to DCF (Department of Children & Families) in 2015. This broke me so much that I am still finding shards of myself on the floor today. I could not even perceive who I had become; I couldn’t see the person that was me anymore. I was more of a puppet who was unaware of who the puppet master was. And now…

… I lost myself during quarantine.

I know, who hasn’t, right?! Looking back on the past year all I say to myself is “Fuck!”

My quarantine nightmare began on April 1st. A fitting day… April Fools Day. I found out I was laid off. The next day my uncle fell victim to Covid-19. I spent the following weeks alternating between a hazy daze and a determined being. The depression quickly veiled me, and, once again, I was wondering who I was anymore. I no longer had a purpose in life. I had lost my job. My teen daughter holed up in her room distance learning while watching movies and YouTube videos. My husband went to work. And then there was me, lonely, lowly me. I wasn’t needed, and I began to wonder why I was still here.

Losing my purpose, my career, and the dependence of my daughter suffocated me. What was worse is I didn’t even have the volunteer positions I had prior due to quarantine. Besides my career, I had become a huge advocate for the mental health of youth, teens, and adults. You can thank my own history for that. But that all was ripped apart like a sewing project you just gave up on. Therapy and psychiatrist appointments hurt me as I always had to voice that I had nothing anymore. Quarantine took everything from me, took me from me.

It was decided I would go back to school to get my Masters in Clinical Mental Health Counseling, so I did. It was always a dream of mine for the past decade but never went through with it because I was working. Here was the perfect opportunity to make it a reality. I started classes and let me tell all of you my readers, I was damn good at my classes. I got through five classes earning and A in each. Then, after nine months, I got a job.

I am not sure what I thought the new job would create. I believe it was going to aid in my definition, give me purpose once again. I decided that I would take a quarter off from school to focus on this new but similar career as before. Instead of being an architectural project manager, I am now a project manager for a construction company. I assumed I would be able to decide what to do with myself… excel at being a project manager alone or work and go to school.

And now I sit here more confused than ever at who Stephanie really is, who I really am. It is too early to say that this project manager position defines me alone. I don’t know if I will return to classes or if becoming a counselor is what I really want anymore. I miss my advocating. I miss my former coworkers. I miss having a solidified life. This loss is something we all learned the hard way. None of us knew that a plague would descend on us so rapidly and so many of us would lose family and friends to it. None of us knew that millions, including myself, would be clocking into unemployment. None of us knew that we would still be communicating through masks a year later.

I know I am not the only one who lost herself. I am just one in a sea of millions who has suffered. After a year in quarantine though, it is time I heed the voice of my therapist, and find my identity.

A Perfect 300

On By spaige08In funny, humor, poetry, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment
Photo by Sharon Ang via Pixabay.com

In college, I took a poetry class. Every week we had to write poetry based on something. I do not remember the prompt given at the time, but the poem below happened.

‘A Perfect 300’ is the highest score you can obtain in bowling. I have never gotten one, but at the time I worked in the campus bowling alley and would get pretty close. Now I bowl like I am a kid, I need bumpers to get anywhere close to 100.

Here is the poem that formed in my head 20 years ago:

A Perfect 300

S-T-R-I-K-E!

The pins fall and I am putty to this game-

When your roundness returns

I slip my fingers within your

Pefectly cut slits-

My other hand caresses you and sets you up-

This is your next attempt

At a perfect score-

My right and left feet move in rhythm-

As I glide across the waxed surface

And await your climaxing response-

S-T-R-I-K-E!

That is the lucious sound I like to hear-

When you hit the precise spot

And I smile with childlike innocence-

My content coming from you-

Again, you return-

This time I rub you against the flannel fabric

And make sure you are nice and slick

Ready for your next try

At giving me sheer elation and euphoria-

I stare at the nude color of your goal-

The pocket as to which you are to enter

“One more time, baby,” I whisper-

S-T-R-I-K-E!

You enter smoothly where we aimed-

You barely touching the bulging white rod

Wiggling with gaiety

You swerve and make sure all ten are down-

When you return

Your holes are bare

And we are both relieved-

It is our glory that is celebrated

With you making a bond with me-

As we pack and leave

with a perfect 300-

*copyright 2000 Stephanie Paige*

So, if you read some sexual connotation in this poem, you are absolutely correct. I took bowling and used it as a metaphor for sex. Hey, I was a college student, of course sex was on my mind. I hope you found it somewhat humorous as well.

Thanks for reading!

The Lost Corn Girls

On By spaige08In crime, criminals, death, dreams, murder, True Crime Tuesdays, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment
Image by StockSnap from Pixabay 

Chapter One

*Trigger Warning: Graphic/Assault*

“Ahhhhhhh!”

The piercing scream reverberated in my head. I could see a young woman. Her wild dark hair hung across her shoulders in sweaty strands. She was attached to something. I could not quite make it out what it was, but it looked like a wooden cross. No, no, that wasn’t right. It was a post, and she the scarecrow, resided in the middle of a cornfield.

“What was she doing there?” I thought.

Then I noticed the blood. Lots and lots of dark crimson. There was blood mixed with dirt caked on her face and body. There was blood on her hands, her legs… and wait, her clothing was ripped. There were slashes down her dress. What was once a light flowy white dress had become a distressing frock. The rips in her dress gave a glimpse of her bare skin, a pale white. I could see several fresh stab wounds. Drops of scarlet gently seeping out. I noticed that one bra strap was sliced, which exposed her breast and barely covered her nipple. She grimaced, looked away, and cried. She felt violated that the top of her areola was visible for this heathen who had taken her when no one else had been given the right to see it. She was scared and disgusted at what else this man might do to her.

“What the heck was going on? Who is she?!” I mouthed to myself.

Then a figure slowly sauntered into my peripheral vision. A dark shadow among the golden flames of a campfire. The wood cackled at the disgraced being. A banshee’s vindictive laugh. The woman let out a piercing scream once again. Her body shook violently as she howled. She tried so hard to escape her new prison by writhing like a viper up and down the post. Nothing succeeded. The figure came up to her, inches from her face. She winced at the acrid smell of his breath. Tobacco, maybe? I then had noticed a shiny object in the figure’s hand. It gleamed and reflected the red and orange dancing hues of the fire. The woman whimpered. A stream of tears flowed from her face.

The figure held up this shiny object. It was a small blade, maybe a pocket knife. He forcefully drove the blade into her stomach. As the figure did so, the woman cowered over as much as she could and let out a yelp. Fresh blood streamed out from her new wound. There was a bulge protruding from his nether region. I recoiled at the sight.

I wondered how much more her body could take. How much more could her mind take? At what point do you just drop your survival instincts and let death take over welcoming it. But then, then I thought to myself, “Why the hell am I even seeing this?!“

The figure’s hand turned toward me. It reached out to me with its long tendril fingers. I stepped back in fear and quivered. Suddenly I felt my body shake and I jerked opened my eyes. I had been sleeping. If that was a dream, I wanted a redo. That was just sick.

“Evan, honey, are you okay?” my mother asked with concern.

“What? Who? Why? Um, why do you ask?” I replied. Then I realized I felt damp, Almost sticky, with the taste of bile in my mouth.

“You’re sweating profusely. Are you feeling well?” my mother questioned.

I am not sure what happened. I have never experienced a dream like this. A dream that seemed so real that I was so much a part of, a movie-goer in a new AI film. Who dreams of a woman who is being held captive, continuously injured, and most likely killed?! And the crazed figure was getting a hard-on from it?! Okay, maybe Ted Bundy, but me?! Just sick, sick and disgusting. I’m just a kid. Just a teenage boy. What the hell?!

I gulped to remove the bile from my mouth, winced as it went down my throat, and responded, “I’m fine mom. Just a bad dream.”

I noticed that my mother’s face looked leery, a tad unsure that what I had just said was true, that I really felt fine. My father glanced at me through the rear view mirror for a second. He was appeased with my response. Mom still wasn’t buying it.

“Come on Charlotte,” my father said, “we need to get back on the road.”

Poetry and Covid-19: “Droplets of Red”

On By spaige08In death, depression, mental health, mental health awareness, mental illness, poetry, self harm, suicide, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment

I tried to remain positive but, hey, all of our lives have been turned upside down and I am fully convinced we are living somewhere in a cross between Groundhog’s Day and The Twilight Zone. To say I wasn’t back to the thoughts and feelings of last year would be a complete lie. It’s as if I never left.

Because of this I have been having some thoughts, bad thoughts, ideations, things I haven’t thought about first when I was 18 and then again at 35. I’ve expressed some of this in the poem below (again, not sure where the rhyming came from):

Droplets of Red

Eyelids heavy,

eyes darting beneath,

left to right,

What else would

happen on this

wretched night?

–

One body,

Two bodies,

lain on the floor

Within a

few days

are many more.

–

For them it was

the virus that

took them alive,

for me it was

the mental pain,

a plunging nosedive.

–

Ashamed

to admit this is a

selfish disease,

trying to think of

others as I ignore

my brain’s pleas.

–

Makes me

solidify my guilt for

feeling this way,

but we all have

valid feelings,

isn’t that what ‘they’ say?

–

I have felt

loss so great

in the last week or two,

my career, a loved one

and myself

to name a few.

–

I do not

deserve sympathy

for my grief,

It is so

selfish to think

that this would be brief.

–

My sanity, a

tiny grain of sand

on this lonely beach,

That blows in

the wind and

is just out of reach.

–

And now I look

down and see

crimson red,

and for the first time

in a long time thinking,

maybe, I should be dead.

–

No longer

contributing to my

family’s worth,

pondering

so much especially

my birth.

–

The bitch within

screams I am

no longer needed,

And at times

I believe

she has succeeded.

–

Living last year

severely depressed

still feeling the same,

There is no one

I more despise

than me insane.

–

I can’t explain all the

thoughts that swirl

in my head,

so I express my

internal pain with

droplets of red.

–

copyright 2020 – Stephanie Paige

*Disclaimer: I am under the watchful eye of both my psychiatrist and therapist. If you are self-harming or considering suicide, please reach out to someone. There is always help. Text CONNECT to 741741, the Crisis Text Line. Or call the Self Harm Hotline at 1-800-DONT CUT (1-800-366-8388)* or the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255

My New Family… The Barnes & Noble Book Event

On By spaige08In Advocacy, anxiety, depression, funny, hospitalization, humor, maternal mental health, medication, mental health, mental health awareness, mental illness, postpartum, postpartum anxiety, postpartum depression, PTSD, relatives, silly, stigma, suicide, Uncategorized, writing2 Comments

I can’t lie, I have fantastic parents. They have grown so much in their views on mental illness. From telling me to keep my mouth shut to being proud about how open and honest I am with my suffering. I have a great husband, whom I chose. He is truly my best friend. He has seen the worst in me and the best and has always stood by me. My daughter is amazing, an old compassionate soul. A kind loving artistic creature and a huge support for me, her mom.

With their support, there has also been some great disappointment with other family members. Since I do not want to upset anyone, I am going to leave them alone and respect them for who they are even if they aren’t very supportive.

They say blood is thicker than water, but I do not believe that. There are plenty of people I know who are adopted or have been adopted and have terrific relationships with their adoptive families. There are many I know that chose friendships over their blood because their blood is just toxic.

I am lucky because I get to have a mix of both. Something a lot of people do not have.

I first ‘adopted’ my oldest and dearest friend ‘J’ as my younger sister. We met when she was 4 and I was 6. For the next few years we had many playdates that included dolls, dollhouses and Lego. Even though there were some years where we were apart, we rekindled our strong friendship and have since been in each other’s weddings and have supported each other with our children. I consider her 3 kids like my own, even though I haven’t met her youngest yet. We try to see each other every year although sometimes it goes longer. And you know what, we pick up conversation as if time hasn’t passed.

Recently, I am choosing to ‘adopt’ more siblings into my tight-knit family.

We all first met online. I know, creepy, right?! You never know who is really behind the online person. We were joined together by who we call our Supreme Leader… CEO and founder of both Stigma Fighters and our publishing company, Eliezer Tristan Publishing. I first met the Supreme Leader through Stigma Fighters as I am a frequent contributor… usually at least twice a year. We met in person at a reading in NYC at the NYU bookstore (wow, that is a lot of letters!) a few years back. What an amazing woman!. I totally love and admire her.

Well, she created this publishing company and was seeking authors who wanted to publish their books. Um, hi, hello, me! I jumped at the opportunity. And hence Rising From the Ashes, the book, was born on October 23, 2018. It is a collection of many of my blog posts here from its birth over 4 years ago until the summer of 2018.

Because of this book, I have met some great people. These people are my family now, including our Supreme Leader.

It all started one day a few months back with a text from the Supreme Leader, “Can you do a book signing in CT on May 17th?” Well, hell yeah I can! She proceeded to tell me that a few other local ETP (Eliezer Tristan Publishing) authors would be there as well. Awesome! I’ve read quite a few of their books and was ecstatic to meet them in person. Well, it got closer to the event, like May 13th closer, when the Supreme Leader didn’t know if she could make it. Usually flying standby, there were no available standby seats.

Panic commenced between the rest of us. We can’t do this without her! It was as if the sky was falling and we were Henny Penny. A group chat was started between us authors to try to raise money for our Supreme Leader and her 2 children, the Little Supremes, to get her here in CT for this event. This chat started out as the “I’m confused” chat because, frankly, we were all very very confused with the situation.

With some begging, a decent donation from myself, and pure luck, we were able to fly the Supreme Leader here. Sadly, one of our fellow authors remained back in Oregon to watch the Little Supremes. This author was my cover designer as well.

Well, in the mass confusion of whether or not our Supreme Leader would make it, Sarcastic Asshole (author of 100) was in a bit of a panic on where he was going to stay the evening of the 16th. Him and the Leader were supposed to be sharing an Airbnb. He was going to back out of coming. Well, I couldn’t have that… no Supreme Leader and no Sarcastic Asshole! No way. I invited Sarcastic Asshole to stay with me.

We had never physically met before. (Insert my mother panicking right now)

So after some mass confusion of which Union Station in CT he was coming into (Yes, we have more than one) and an Uber ride, Sarcastic Asshole landed on my doorstep. Honestly, it was like we were old friends. Conversation was easy with him. We were both very sarcastic people, and some of the oldies of the group of authors. He did think I was going to kill him though as he found my list of what not to do when committing a crime (expect that follow up blog post soon, see the first one here) and quickly took a swig from his bottle of Fireball. But all was well the next morning as we continued our sarcastic banter.

It was time to pick up Young Possum at the train station. After confirming which Union Station we were going to, Sarcastic Asshole and I popped in my car for what would be a fast trip up to Hartford… hahaha. Fast trip on a Friday?! No, CT believes that rush hour starts at 3pm on that day. It took some time but we made it there just in time as Young Possum exited the train station. Now Sarcastic Asshole, of course, started to be a sarcastic asshole with Young Possum but it was all in good fun.

We arrived in West Hartford and was quickly met by Lucky Rabbit’s Foot, her husband, best friend and the cutest toddler you have ever seen. Rabbit was the editor on my book. I admire her so much. What she has gone through and she always seems to have such a cheery positive disposition. Honestly, everyone from this event has gone through so much… so much that some of them shouldn’t physically be here. But that is their stories to tell.

Soon after, Corpse Bride and her mother arrived. I could tell she would fit in perfectly on the sarcasm meter.

But where was our Supreme Leader?!

As the event commencement time was approaching, again, all of us began to panic. What the heck were we going to do without her?! Our anxieties were quelled when she literally popped up in the room.

It’s funny though. If you had attended the event, you would never know that we all had met in person that night. Conversation flowed between us. We read from our books, clapped for each other and had a great panel discussion with the representative from NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness).

I was saddened to see the night end. The drive back from West Hartford to my home was a depressed one for this depressive. I missed my new family greatly. None of us knew when another ETP event might happen. The thought of meeting these great people, brought together by mental illness, and not seeing or hearing from them for who knows how long overwhelmed me with sadness.

This sadness quickly dissipated as our private messaging has continued. I have totally ‘adopted’ all of them. They are not only friends. Each one of them… Supreme Leader, Sarcastic Asshole, Young Possum, Corpse Bride & Lucky Rabbit’s Foot, are now close family.

Totally looking forward to our next family event!

I believe it involves breaking things…

Note: I have used nicknames that we have given each other through our messaging and time together. If you would like to know, my given nickname is How To Get Away With Murder because of the above mentioned list and my true crime obsession. They can call themselves out, but I would like to keep their privacy if they do not want to.

And because I love them, I would like to promote their books (which kind of gives away their names):

100

In The Gray Area of Being Suicidal

Nobody

Stigma Fighters Anthology IV 

Untranslatable

Redeeming The Anti-Fairytale

And although my cover designer couldn’t be there, his book:

Cultural Savage: The Intersection of Christianity and Mental Illness

You will not be disappointed!

This Time is Different

On By spaige08In depression, medication, mental health, mental illness, stigma, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment

sad-505857_1280

“I feel different.”

I wake up most days and this is the first thought that pops in my head. Since my depression has returned like a cyclone attacking a house this January, I have not felt like me. Most people with depression will understand this. I mean, I’ve been through this countless times before. Why is this time different? Why am I struggling so much? Why isn’t it over yet?

The last diagnosis I was given by my therapist happened about a year ago before depression became a guest in my head once again. He had told me when I asked that he considered me as having, “Persistent depressive disorder (PDD) with episodic major depressive disorder (MDD).” At the time I agreed. Even though I was content with life, I wasn’t ever fully happy. I had immense amounts of love for my husband, daughter, family & friends, but there was always something missing… small, tiny, minuscule as it was, it was a constant reminder that depression was still lurking in the back of my mind awaiting its next visit.

This was PDD. The constant low-level depression that I have lived with over the last few years once my MDD episode #6 was over.

And then January occurred. My husband broke down, broke a few cups by slamming the top rack of the dishwasher and cried. He expressed his anger toward me about everything that happened with my former foster son 4 years ago. The event that sent me into MDD episode #6. I listened. I felt compassion for him, empathy. And while he was shedding tears (which he had every right to) it suddenly hit me that I wasn’t.

Damn Lexapro! A drug I have been on since January 2014. A drug that has stabilized me. A drug that kept me sane. It stole something from me that did not bug me until then. It stole my expression of emotions. I honestly have not cried in 2 years and it has slowly gotten worse to where I can’t even express my compassion and empathy. I just look cold.

While my husband felt better by the next day, I did not. I felt worse. So much worse that I took up the art of cutting. Ashamed the first few times I did it after the act, it was a way for me to feel, for me to know I wasn’t an empty void, that I was human. If I cut and bled, that meant I was human.

Each month, the cutting has been less often. I thought I was done with it. Only 4 times in April, but May has proved me wrong. Because this time is different.

This depressive episode has not been classified by my therapist as “Major”. My psychiatrist is not sure she agrees or not with my therapist’s diagnosis. I would call it moderate to major, only throwing in the word “major” because of the cutting. But it is different. Very, very different.

It has become cyclical.

One week I will be so happy, almost euphoric, and the next I am down in a shit hole. It will be days of not wanting to get out of bed, not wanting to eat, and not caring about anything. Then there will be days when I can function but that emptiness and funk is still there. Until one day, I wake up happy and elated. And the cycle repeats.

I had started to Google cyclical depression which led me to cyclothymia. I read the description and thought, “Hmm, this could be me, but maybe not.” My therapist did not agree with my self-given diagnosis because I did not show anything that was related to hypomania and I hadn’t had this cycling for over 2 years.

Yet, still, I complained about the cycling. I have no hope whatsoever that I will get better because every time I have a good week and get slightly hopeful, it is ruined by the bad week.

Through all this, I have consulted my psychiatrist. She put me on Wellbutrin along with my Lexapro to see if that would help with my emotions returning and wake me out of my intense brain fog and lack of concentration and motivation. I took it for 2 months and recently stopped with her blessing. It was not working. In fact the brain fog and concentration has gotten worse. I can’t think of the right words for objects. I switch words around when I speak sometimes. I’ve stood in front of cabinets wondering why I went over to them when I knew 2 seconds prior.

This Wednesday, I asked her, “What now?”

I had 2 options… go back on a anti-psychotic or try a mood stabilizer. After living with almost 2 years of constipation because of the anti-psychotic (Seroquel) I was on, I had no desire to relive that again. I opted for the mood stabilizer. Commonly used for those with biopolar disorder, I wondered why she suggested it. Then I asked her, “Do I have bipolar disorder?”

“No,” she said, “You have never exhibited anything related to mania or hypomania, but what you are explaining to me is cyclical, like bipolar disorder, so I think this will help to stabilize your moods.”

Last night, I took my first dosage of Lamictal (or the generic version). As with all the SSRIs I have been on (every one of them through the years) I will have to wait 4 – 8 weeks for it to fully kick in. This will be months 3 and 4 of my trial-and-error phase with medications. An issue I never had before.

All because I feel different. All because this time is different.

The Day Jim Cantore Came To Town

On By spaige08In humor, Uncategorized, weather, writingLeave a comment

jimcantore_001

I have been an avid Weather Channel watcher for decades. The storms and catastrophes that Mother Nature can produce have me in awe. I am amazed at the destruction that can be caused and, unfortunately, the many lives that are lost.

When I was in college, I had to reapply to the architecture program after 3 semesters. It was required of all of us undergrads at the time and just because you were in the program didn’t mean you were guaranteed a spot to continue after the review. I feared that review. My drawings skills were average with many others who were way better and my design concepts weren’t highly imaginative. So I sat there, in the midst of waiting for my results thinking about what major I would transfer to if I had failed to receive acceptance. Meteorology was my number one choice. Although I did wind up continuing in the architecture program, in some ways I wish I didn’t.

Weather has been an interest of mine since I was young, the desire not as strong as architecture for me. I slept through Hurricane Gloria in 1985. I was a young kid who took a nap. When I woke up and saw the chaos outside my window, I was in wonderment. A force of nature could do this?! My little 5-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend this. Once we got cable several years later, I would sit and watch the weather channel instead of cartoons after school. Hurricane after hurricane… I watched wide-eyed, mouth gaping.

This continued through college. Every morning I would turn on the Weather Channel and wait for the Local on the 8s to appear so I could see what the weather was like for that day. That is when I started to learn the names of the anchors. That is when I became aware of Jim Cantore. He and Stephanie Abrams would start off my morning. After graduation, when out on my own in the real world, shows started to pop up on the Weather Channel with Jim Cantore hosting. My fave was ‘It Could Happen Tomorrow‘.

As the years passed, it became apparent that when there was a massive hurricane or snowstorm hitting, the Weather Channel always sent Jim Cantore to what they deemed would be the worst hit area.

jimcantore_002

Forget Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego, now it is Where in the World is Jim Cantore!

And then the day came, the day all of us dread, the day Jim Cantore came to town!

jimcantore_003

In March of 2018, Jim Cantore came to my town. Winter Storm Quinn was approaching and predicted to drop feet of snow. There were many areas where he could of been sent, but instead he was sent to my little town. I sat at my TV watching, debating back and forth whether I should go to where he was and get a selfie with him. In some ways I idolized him. He was what I would have liked to have been had I gone into meteorology.

This storm was so unique, according to Jim, because of the thundersnow. Basically, instead of thunder during a rainstorm, there is thunder during a snowstorm. Aside from the 12+ inches of snow and the thunder, we had blizzard conditions due to the strong winds. A perfect set up for Jim Cantore. And here he was, frankly, scaring the shit out of us residents.

Through the decades, I never actually thought I would be living in an area where Jim would show up. There usually isn’t any weather that would warrant a visit from him. Sure we get snow, but we are used to it in the northeast, even a storm expected to produce more than a foot.

I decided that I should stop fan-girling him and did not go down to meet him. I had until noon that day since the snow really hadn’t started until then. With flakes falling, the wind howling and the growling thunder, I stayed in the comforts of my home watching him on the TV. The warmth of the pellet stove was more comforting then the mess going on outside.

And then it was over. And like with any other winter storm in the northeast, we cleaned up in less than a day. Jim Cantore left for his next adventure in weather. Turns out, he should have gone one town over. We only received about 18″ of snow while the next town received over 26″. All in all, it was both scary and amazing to see the legend of Jim Cantore in our town… a town that would never have been known to most had it not been for him.

 

 

The Sun Will Shine… Poetry

On By spaige08In depression, mental health, Mother, parenting, postpartum, Uncategorized, writingLeave a comment

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The Sun Will Shine

Rocking chair moves, dark room,
Blank stare, melancholy doom,
Holding babe, lanky arms,
Tear falling, first do no harm,
Rock forth, rock back,
Losing grip, feeling slack,
Beautiful girl, pudgy cheeks,
Trying to hold close, feeling so weak,
Told you’ll be okay, trying to believe,
Closing your eyes, just feeling grief,
Slipping fingers, baby girl falling,
Quickly catching her, still bawling,
Fixated spot, empty wall,
A big void, emotional overhaul,
Losing the battle, giving up,
Hating the child, yet still in love,
Months gone, still feel alone,
Trying to fane happiness, trying to feel whole,
Body raped, pill after pill,
Combinations played, climbing that hill,
Happy eyes stare, filled of ocean blue,
Trying to love, holding and hugging you,
Dormant smiles, buried deep,
Hiding my pain, inside I weep,
Hour glass runs out, flipped once again,
Feeling less zombie, gaining control of my head,
Hearing you laugh, seeing you crawl,
Suddenly amazed, Inhaling it all,
“The sun is shining,” I say holding you,
“Let’s go out and observe,” just us two,
We both stare in awe, you at the sky,
Me taking deep breaths, pushing your first year to the side,
The rocking chair still sits, alone and bare,
Room still darkens, my mind is not there,
Now cradling you, swaying side to side,
I’ll never leave you, my baby girl, my pride.
– Stephanie Paige, 2016
This poem was originally published on PostpartumProgress.com as a guest post. It can be found here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/sun-will-shine-poem-postpartum-depression
I have to say, I love to write poetry and have since I was a preteen, my daughter’s age. The odd thing about this poem is it rhymes.  I usually never rhyme in my poetry.  I also have to admit, that my best poetry occurs when I am struggling with depression. Since I am on that roller coaster ride once again, I have been writing a lot of poetry lately and expect to share more in upcoming posts.

Losing Your Identity: Postpartum

On By spaige08In Advocacy, anxiety, depression, mental health, Mother, parenting, postpartum, self care, Uncategorized, writing1 Comment

I have always been a strong and independent person. I am a real go-getter, sometimes an overachiever, always pushing my limits. I am an alpha personality that likes to be in control and has a hard time handling abrupt changes in my day-to-day schedule. I can be rather stubborn (ask my parents or my husband) and sometimes emotional (okay, very emotional). I knew who I was and who I wanted to be when I became a mother. I didn’t think I would change.

When I gave birth to my daughter, I had grandeur plans of being able to maintain a household, care for this boob-sucking, dependent 7lbs being, and of course, be able to work & keep up a social life. Boy, was I wrong. I didn’t realize how much a newborn changes you. I didn’t realize how invisible you become.

The second Sophia was born (4:46am on 10/16), I was no longer me. I was Sophia’s mother, her primary caregiver. My husband would be helping but since I had planned on breastfeeding, her care mainly fell to me. My world revolved only around her. I fed her, changed her majority of the time, and woke up in the wee hours of the morning with her since my husband went to work while I was off on maternity leave. I became a slave to her cries. And it hurt.

People came to visit and although they would kindly ask, “How are you?”, they really were only interested in the Sophia. Everyone wants to see cute babies, no one wants to see their disheveled mother. No one noticed what was happening to me. Even my husband doesn’t remember and he was living in the house with me. I was falling apart. Every bit of energy I had I used on my daughter. My schedule depended on her schedule. I was depleted and left with nothing. Eventually, I had nothing left to give.

After a few weeks, maybe 3 weeks postpartum, my mother became concerned. She began to see what was happening to me. Someone was finally recognizing me. I succumbed to postpartum anxiety first and rapidly fell victim to postpartum depression. After many psychiatrist and therapist appointments, the inpatient psych ward became my home for 12 days.

But it didn’t end there. What I did learn within the walls of the psych ward is that I was no longer myself. I could not do it all! I was not Wonder Woman or those super moms on TV. I didn’t know who I was anymore with exception to being Sophia’s mom.

I lost myself. I lost my identity.

Although highly medicated and still in therapy, I was miserable. Photos of the first 11 months show me with crooked half smiles, trying to be happy, trying to enjoy this new life I had. I loved my daughter deeply, but could not stand everything she meant. She was the reason I lost my sense of self.

I had to know who I was, who this person who stared back at me in the mirror was. I couldn’t recognize her anymore. Every morning there were tears shed when I looked at my reflection. How would I fix this?

I continued to do the things I had to do… mother my child, go to work, cook dinner occasionally. I carried on robotically for several months trying to get a glimmer of something that gave me a sign as to who the new me was. My husband carried on being his same quiet, geeky self. There were never any changes for him. Why was it only me, the mom, who had to change? Why was my identity lost but not his?

Years would pass before I became ‘whole’ again. I dabbled with possible career changes. I hung out with different groups of friends. I tried multiple forms of exercise. All this to see who I really was, to learn what my personality had become.

It took my daughter’s birth and my loss of self to realize I loved to be outside. I found a rebirth when hiking or snowshoeing. I became aware of life around me. Reading and writing were reintroduced into my life and then my love for true crime blossomed. I forced myself to take ‘me’ time because I was important. I was a human. I was not created in a chop shop from discarded mechanical parts. I was Stephanie.

I am a mother to one child, but experienced this again a few years ago. When we were fostering to adopt our former foster son, this loss of identity took over. I couldn’t stop the fact that I was being pulled in so many directions and because of it, I, once again, became a robot. My body was no longer connected to my brain. My brain only functioned to send signals to move my body parts but my sense of self was gone. And like my postpartum, it took years to get it back.

So, who is to blame for mothers losing their identity? Do we blame society? Husbands? Other mothers? Random people on the street? Maybe it is the media for portraying moms to be perfect, a Stepford Wife. Should we turn the blame inward to ourselves for letting it happen? Should we blame doctors for not caring enough to check in on mothers?

And, most importantly, how do we make it stop?

I admit, things have changed over the years since I gave birth to Sophia. Twelve years has made somewhat of a difference on this topic. We have peer led support groups for new mothers. We have organizations pushing for more screening in both the antenatal and perinatal periods. There are people speaking up. Women are beginning to declare that yes, motherhood does suck sometimes and you shouldn’t feel ashamed by admitting that. We can talk with other mothers and realize we are not alone. We all lose our identity to some extent and I think by identifying this, it is the first step to finding out who we are now.

 

When You Dream About Tornadoes…

On By spaige08In anxiety, dreams, Uncategorized, writing1 Comment

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The F3 tornado that hit the University of Maryland College Park Campus, September 2001.

I have lived through 1 tornado in my life and frankly, it was 1 too many. It was senior year of college, September 2001, and I was sitting in class during Architectural Studio, when all I heard was continuous thunder. The booming never stopped. Crack, boom, rumble. Then the papers started flying off the walls. We couldn’t see a thing due to the room only having these slit windows in alcoves, but we were aware of how dark it got outside. Eventually, a professor ran into our room and said we couldn’t go anywhere, there was a tornado. We all just stared at her in shock.

A tornado hitting Maryland?! Kind of bizarre. You would think Kansas or another of the plains states, but Maryland?! This University of Maryland tornado (story here) registered as an F3, with winds as high as 206mph, and killed 2 sisters traveling home. It flipped their car over one of the high-rise dorm buildings. One sister was set to graduate in January, the other was a sophomore. While I, fortunately, was unscathed, many others weren’t. My husband (fiancee at the time) was displaced from his apartment and had to live in a hotel for awhile. Many were injured. Buildings were destroyed and the landscape unrecognizable.

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The aftermath. I lived in that high-rise dorm in the back for my first 2 years at college.

But we persevered.

Now, it was no tornado like that in the Wizard of Oz. It didn’t lift up the building and drop us in a fantasy world filled with flying monkeys, witches, and little people. But, it did scare us all. Not long after…

… the dreams started.

When they first began, they were terrifying. Similar to the double cyclone scene in the 1996 movie Twister starring Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton. They occurred a couple times a week. I was always caught in them, trying to hold on for dear life. Some of the dreams had up to 6 tornadoes spinning in my vision at one time. I screamed, I cried. It was horrible.

After a few years, they diminished in occurrence. The dreams became a bi-yearly event and then one day they were gone. Afterall, the Maryland tornado happened over 17 years ago. I thought I was free of them, that my PTSD-inducing dreams were gone.

Sadly, I was wrong.

A few weeks ago, I had a dream. My husband, daughter and I were on vacation in North Carolina. We were staying at a hotel. We checked in, received our room keys and ventured to our room. I should have known something was amiss when upon entering our room there was no ceiling over the beds, just open sky. It was actually beautiful in the beginning, laying in the beds at night and staring up at the stars. One day it changed though. Thunderstorms began to roll in. Oddly enough, there was no rain, but hey, it is a dream. I suddenly recognized that never ending roar.

I panicked and ran to the front desk and cried that there was a tornado coming. The people behind the desk laughed, “Silly woman, it’s just one of our typical North Carolina storms.” I sprinted back to our room and eyed 2 funnel clouds in the distance… typical storm my ass, I thought. We were totally fucked. As I entered our room I could see the clouds swirling overhead because remember, there was no ceiling. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was palpitating. This was it, this was how my triangle family was going to die. I could see the headlines now:
“Vacationing Family Gets Swept Up by Mammoth Cyclone and Perishes”

What were we going to do?! I wasn’t ready to die and definitely not by a tornado! In the distance I could hear my daughter crying and rightly catastrophizing the situation. My husband was pulling her into the bathroom. He then grabbed my arm and…

My alarm clock went off.

Shit, another terrifying tornado dream.

Of course since I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder, I began to get a bit anxious about what this all meant. Was this foreshadowing another tornado in my life? Was it a metaphor for something else? Googling the word ‘tornado’ within the dream realm, I found out the following:

  • Tornadoes: symbolize a destructive situation in your life. It could be loss of control over your life or your behavior becoming destructive. In addition, tornadoes mean that you may feel overwhelmed and disappointed. (Dreamingandsleeping.com)
  • Multiple Tornadoes: Indicates a strong change in life. (Dreamatico.com)
  • Surviving a Tornado: You’re going to have an advancement in your life. (Dreamatico.com)
  • Chasing a Tornado: someone in your life is displaying power over you. (Dreamatico.com)
  • Being Caught in a Tornado: someone is controlling you and you’re letting that happen. (Dreamatico.com)

This latest dream had me seeing multiple tornadoes and being caught in them. I wasn’t exactly swirling within them but I was stuck with no where to go. I have no idea if I survived because I woke up. If I analyze it then there is something or someone affecting my life in a bad way and I am letting it happen. Hmmm… can’t really think of anything or anyone that falls into that category. Oh, and I am overwhelmed (uh, duh!).

Dreams are bizarre though. There are those reoccurring ones, such as the dream about missing a college class all year and freaking out when you realize it is time for the final. There are random ones that you can distinctly know the meaning of because it related to something you did the day before. Then there are the instinctive ones that let us know what may happen in the future. What these tornado ones mean for me, who knows!

What do you dream about?