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Catholic Spirituality, PPD

Lents do it

March 5, 2014

First off, thank you for the overwhelming outpouring of support in response to yesterday’s post. I feel your prayers, and I’m so touched by and grateful for the braveness of other mamas admitting to this struggle. No shame! It’s happening to you, not because of you.

So Carnivale. Here we be. I’ve never felt so ready for lent as I do this year. Maybe it’s the combination of postpartum + chaotic schedule featuring 3 crazy babies + this half eaten (purchased yesterday) box of chocolate Joe-Joe’s (Colorado finally got a TJ’s last month. Amazing.), but I am ready and raring to go.

I was all set to launch into some kind of modern day sackcloth and ashes routine involving early rising, Scripture reading, mental prayer, junk food/social media/sugar fasting + 6 days per week of exercise but then I was like, wait a second Jenny…slow your roll. You’re kind of in the throes of a mental health crisis here. And you have a 10 week old, a toddler, and a preschooler. And sleep is already a rare commodity.  So I’ve … lowered my expectations, shall we say. Plus, I have been guilty in the past (frequently guilty) of making Lent some kind of Catholic New Year’s resolution opportunity, and I generally focus on self-improvement and discipline related penances instead of, oh, I don’t know, stuff that actually causes me to grow spiritually. No more. Not this year, at least.

As much as I desperately wanted to hop on Steph or Susan’s bandwagon and make the gym commitment, I knew it would be for me and also, all about me, so it wasn’t the best fit for where my focus needs to be. I’ll still try to get to the gym as often as possible, but it won’t be for Lent’s sake. (And don’t get me wrong, these are fantastic ways to grow physically and spiritually and I love the ideas. But for me, right now, they would be distractions, not actual opportunities for growth in holiness.)

Then I read this earlier this morning and I knew I’d found my way. This is where I’m at: taking little opportunities throughout the day to take the focus off me and instead direct it toward Him. So where does that leave us? For starters, instead of my valiant resolution to get up before the kids and pray, I’m resolving to simply … pray. To take 15 minutes each day for mental prayer (not just a rosary, though I do love me some bead time) actual, focused, intentional connection with my Creator. And not necessarily at 5:45 am when I’m dead and useless (and guaranteed to continue being that way for the duration of the day) but during some stolen chunk of time during naps or preschool mornings or while my MH is here when I’m otherwise squandering my solitude on HGTV or pinterest. Ahem.

Which leads me to my next resolve: no social media. Blogging excepted. I don’t need to be further distracted, and I should probably be reading actual books (spiritual or no) in lieu of chasing endless bunny trails down the rabbit holes of the internets. Guilty as charged.

I’m also going to commit to only fruits and vegetables as snacks between meals. I know as a nursing mom I’m off the fasting hook, but I’m super guilty of mindless handfuls of veggie straws (definitely not a veggie) and cookies or tortilla chips throughout the day. If I’m really hungry, carrots will do.

And finally, as a family we’ve committed to forgoing eating out/takeout for the month, and we’re using the typically budgeted amount to spend at the store which we’ll bring as a gift to our parish’s food pantry. We figured it would be really fun for the boys to shop for food and then bring it to give away, or at least that it would make the concept of ‘charity’ more concrete in their wee minds.

Oh, and how cute is this? Joey’s preschool will be fasting as a class from, get this… 5 minutes of recess per day, which they will spend in prayer instead. Whaaaaaaat? Have you ever heard of something so cute or so amazing? They’ve also been asked to bring in pennies and coins to drop in the classroom jar, which they will march across campus which during Holy Week to deposit in the St. Vincent de Paul box for the poor. I heart our parish, and Catholic schools 4 ever and ever.

So happy Carnivale to y’all. It’s not quite Mardi Gras in Rome up in here this year, but it’ll do.

motherhood, NFP, PPD, pregnancy, Suffering

Oops, it happened again

March 4, 2014

Well, I didn’t quite make my 7 in 7 goal…but it seems like a lot of us are in that camp.

C’est la life of a mommyblogger, eh?

Speaking of life, and of mommy blogging, how’s this for some shit?

I have post partum depression. Again.

Thinking that I had sailed smoothly past the telltale signs and symptoms of this most dreadful of maternal foes, I somehow failed to connect the dots until this past weekend:

  • anger, uncontrollable at times
  • exhaustion, bone-deep, even after 8 + hours of sleep
  • shortest temper ever (think tears and wailing over spilled milk, smeared poop, burnt toast)
  • stalled weight loss/insatiable appetite (hmmm, those two might be more closely related to each other than to an outside impetus. I’ll get back to you on that one.)
  • weeping spells
  • feelings of “I can’t do this”/”This was a terrible mistake”
  • the unshakeable certainty that I was certainly the most unfit mother in all the land
  • numbness and the propensity to ‘zone out’ periodically throughout the day
etcetera, etcetera.

I thought it was worth putting it out there, embarrassing and humbling or no, simply because I’ve talked about it here before and gotten so much amazing feedback from my mom-rades in arms, and also because duh, this is a blog, and what good is a blogger without transparency?

So there it is. I have it, again. And maybe I’m the stupid one for saying “yes” to a new baby 3 times in 4 years, or maybe this is just the particular cross I’ve been handed to carry at this moment, but whatever the case may be, I don’t see any benefit to avoiding it here on the ‘ol blog. I’m not asking for commentary from the peanut gallery on how ‘stupid’ having kids is when you’re mentally ill/prone to mental illness (aren’t we all, as humans?) and believe me, I’ve had that kind of feedback in the past. But it won’t keep me from speaking out because I know there are other moms out there who are dealing with this, who have dealt with this, and who will deal with this in the future. And it sucks. And you feel totally alone and alienated from reality and out of touch with your past/present/future self…but here’s the thing: it’s not you.

I’ll never forget something Dave said to me while we were dating, and I know I’ve mentioned it here before. After I confessed to him my struggle with depression and the embarrassment and sorrow I felt over my illness he wrote me a beautiful letter – in Adoration, no less – and in it he quoted Bl. John Paul II who adjures Christians to remember that “the person is not their illness, and is never to be confused with the condition from which they suffer” … or something to that effect.

“You are not your illness, Jenny” was the specific line that stands out in my memory of that letter from him. I believed it then, and I still believe it now, and that’s why I feel confident in sharing this here. Because it’s not me. It’s something that is happening to me, yes, but it’s not the sum of who I am as a person, or as a mother. I’ve been a good mother before. And I’ll be a good mother again. And in fact, I’m a good mother even now, in the midst of the hard times, because I’m still doing it, dammit. Because adulthood. And responsibility. And faithfulness.

Anyway, I’m taking steps to get better. I had some progesterone injections today, courtesy of my fantastic Creighton-trained doctor. I’m in the process of scheduling some counseling sessions to talk it out. I’m working with my Creighton instructor (who happens to be a nurse and a nutrition junkie herself, conveniently enough) to plot a course using supplements and nutritional tweaks. I might even get rilly crazy and toy with the dose on my regular ‘ol daily antidepressant (for my regular ‘ol depression, not to be confused with PPD. Aren’t I a lot of fun?)

At any rate, we’ll see how things go. Already after just 2 progesterone shots today I feel as if there is air in the room again, if you know what I mean. Before I could breathe and breathe and still feel oxygen deprived. But now…it’s all seeming a little lighter. A little more manageable.

So that’s where I’m at. I’m not looking for sympathy here, but I am asking for empathy, because I know there are enough of us out there who have gone through this, or who know somebody who is going through this. Pray for them. Offer to watch their kids so they can get to a doctor’s/therapist’s appointment. Don’t say stupid stuff to them like “well, maybe you should stop getting pregnant if it makes you so sick.” Hi, that’s asinine, and it’s equivalent to telling cops to quit showing up for their shifts if they don’t want to keep getting shot. Occupational hazard and all. Rant over.

I hope this helps someone. Or I hope it helps you understand someone you love.

I do know one thing: she was more than worth it.

About Me, motherhood, PPD

7 Quick Takes from Under a Rock

January 4, 2014

…aka life with a newborn. Or at least the way life ought to be with a newborn.

1. This is my first go-round where hideous, creeping PPD hasn’t been on the menu for the post partum period, and oh my GOD is it a game changer. (I say that prayerfully. I am so profoundly grateful for not having to shoulder that cross this time around.) I am actually experiencing those moments of joy and wonder where I’ve got nothing more pressing on my agenda than staring at my sweet baby’s fluffy duckling hair and pink cheeks. Okay, that’s a lie, I’ve had a fair share of weepy/enraged outbursts and, okay, certain members of this household have really let their personal hygiene standards sliiiiide (I’m looking at you, 21 month old who pissed on the oriental rug yesterday morning) … but for the most part, it’s like a honeymoon. If a honeymoon involved very little sleep, relaxation, or clothing that was attractive in any way, shape, or form. But still, it’s good. So good.

She looks the grumpiest, but she’s really the best.

2. I’ve been trolling everyone else’s blog and reading some of those end of the year recap posts and thinking about what I want to accomplish/shoot for this year, and to be honest, it’s not really something I generally go in for. New Year’s resolutions are somewhere between wearing green on St. Patrick’s day and eating hot dogs on the 4th of July in my hierarchy of holiday observations, but I think reading some excellent and insightful content from other peoples’ mental to-do lists has inspired a touch of aspiration in me. Just a touch. I thought about the possibility of having a word to inspire/aspire to for the new year, and I came up with ‘Focus.’ Which is really fairly ridiculous, because I now have 3 kids 3 and under, the best sleeper in the lot is 18 days old, and I’m stupid tired all the time. But I think I might be stupid tired for the next several decades, actually. So I want to sharpen my moments, if you will, into something resembling meaningful experiences, be they tedious read-alouds with the non-verbal set or cathartic late-night vacuuming sessions to soothe my tired soul. (Please tell me I’m not alone?) So, Focus. As in, wherever you are, be there. Be all in. So 2014, I’m going all in. And I’m going to start by purchasing 3 different sizes of diapers in bulk.

3. Reading actual books. I spend so much time on the internet and so much time reading 800 word snippets of news! information! breaking! relevant! now! that I’m kind of rusty in the practice of actually consuming entire volumes of thematic information. And I don’t think it speaks well for my intellect that the past 10 works of fiction I’ve dipped into would all be on the same shelf at the library, and that shelf would also include the Twilight series. Dystopian YA fiction, we’re on a break. I’ll call you when I’ve had my space. I’m loving reading her list and also hers, and then I happened upon this one last night and basically i have my work cut out for me. And speaking of libraries, I should probably start using one again because Kindle will bankrupt us on my watch if I’m not more careful.

4. Okay also this one.

Because a friend of mine wrote it. And I love this picture of Papa. I’m really hoping to work through EG as a couple this year, but daily reflections are probably more along our stupid tired speed right now.

5. My baby, that adorable squishy fluffy haired baby, hates dairy and alcohol. I’m like, seriously kid, you were friggin conceived in Italy, put your game face on… but she’s like, “No thanks mom, I’d prefer if you’d stick to seltzer water and lara bars. Okay, and scrambled eggs are fine with your black espresso.”

Little tyrant.

(Hence the above-pictured lime soda water I’m currently enjoying for my midday happy hour on the front stoop. Did I mention it’s 60 degrees in Denver today?)

6. In the spirit of being more ‘focused’ I’m going to try really hard to write at the same time each day, be that for the blog, for Catholic Exchange, for CNA, or for some other publication. What that translates to on a practical level will be a steadier stream of content, I hope, though perhaps slightly less frequent posting overall. But the fact that my nap-boycotting three year old is shrieking at me from his room right now is probably a fair indication of how this will pan out.

7. Speaking of being up to my ears in babies…does anybody out there in blogland use a mother’s helper? Where did you find such a magical creature, what do you pay them, how many hours per week do you employ them, and how do you define their roles? Ideally I’m looking for 10 hours of housework/meal prep/kid entertaining so that I can either a. nurse the baby b. hit a deadline or c. leave the house for a mental health break/a work meeting. Can a mother’s helper meet these pressing and exciting needs? Should I offer a 401k package? Do I need to clean my house frantically every day before she shows up so I won’t engage in self-shaming behavior the entire time she is here? Do tell.

Head over to Jen’s, the list-whisperer, for more.

motherhood, Parenting, PPD

Dating Myself (Or Blogging in a Bar)

October 10, 2012

A mom walks into a bar in sweaty workout clothes.

And orders a burger. And a beer. Neither are gluten free, both promise to be highly delicious.

When I was a starry-eyed teenager dreaming of marriage and babies, escaping once a week to run on a treadmill and then drink alone in public was not part of the script. Probably. Or maybe I’m not giving my 17-year old self enough credit.

At any rate, about 2 months ago, just as the postpartum cloud was starting to lift, Dave and I decided that we each needed a night ‘off’ during the week. I took Tuesdays, he got Thursdays. Some weeks, it’s as simple as escaping to a clean(ish) bathtub with my latest copy of Women’s World Weekly (criminally guilty pleasure); other weeks, like this one, I go big…and then I go home.

I guess I’m basically the same girl – pushing 30 – that I was when I was pushing 20. But I’m more comfortable now in my own (slightly less taut) skin. I can do things by myself, like any introvert dreams of, but perhaps feels uncomfortable doing so in an extroverted world. I’m telling you right now: moms need to be alone. Like, maybe more than anyone else on earth. Maybe more than monks and hermits and cloistered nuns combined.

I know that for me and my selfish-ish body, I am touched out by 5 pm on any given day, both physically and emotionally. I’ve wiped booties, nursed babies, picked bits of refried beans off the wall behind the high chair, and swiffered the kitchen multiple times. I’ve got to get away and not be touched for a while, not be needed for an hour or so.

I know I’ll always be needed now that my boys exist. More importantly, now that I’m married. Husbands come first…and they’re a lot cleaner, mostly. But it feels good – no, it feels necessary – to go off duty every once in a while and just be … me.

Some of the fantastic mommy dates I’ve taken myself in the past couple months include a sunset run around a newly-discovered city lake, a magazine-laden free for all at Barnes and Noble fueled by decaf Earl Gray, a guilty McDonald’s hot fudge sundae (devoured in my car in the parking lot; high shame rating for that one), a margarita and my OWN guacamole that didn’t get spoon fed into a gaping baby maw before it could hit my tortilla chips, and a jaunt through my favorite thrift store where the only rule was, I’d try anything on as long as it was 1. in my size and 2. had a Banana Republic or J. Crew label. Shallow much.

As you can see, these little dates run the gamut from free to around 20 bucks or so. Tonight’s 2-miler at the gym is being undone by a Stella and a burger, so I’ll guess the total will end up around $14.

And you know what? I’m worth it.

I’m such a better mom when I have this time away. And I’m such a better wife. And honestly, Dave’s a better dad too. Nothing makes a man like bottle-feeding an angry wolverine, you know what they say.

I’m sure somebody says that.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a beer to sip. Cheers!

Contraception, NFP, PPD, Sex, Suffering

Turn the Corner

July 24, 2012

Both my babies are asleep, and I’ve consumed the final episode of the Bachelorette, so with my priorities firmly aligned, I thought I’d put an update out there into the internets.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote about my struggle with PPD, and I have to say, it has been a crazy awesome ride.

First of all, the support I received from so many of you meant the world to me. It’s one thing to have an amazing husband saying to me ‘this isn’t you, it’s something outside of you, you’re not crazy,’ but it’s something quite different to hear that echoed again and again from friends – both in the virtual world and the real world – and from strangers that, yes, this is something real that happens to women and no, you aren’t the first and only and worst mother in the world to experience it.

Really, I can’t tell you how much that meant.

Second, I know there are people out there who don’t believe in mental illness, or who see any admission of such as a kind of scarlet letter, a stamp of failure that secures a false belief about oneself being somehow ‘defective.’

Well, it is real, and I very much doubt that diabetics or migraine sufferers waste time wringing their hands over fear of people’s perceptions or judgements of them. They seek treatment. And when they find a treatment that alleviates or corrects their condition, they rejoice … and for the love of God, they make use of it.

I’m preaching to the mirror here as much as to anyone else, because I know how difficult it can be to explain an ‘invisible’ illness to someone who is ill informed or simply ignorant. I know how hard it can be to convince yourself that this isn’t just ‘the new you’ or ‘the person you’ve always been.’

So I would say, listen to your spouse. Listen to your friends, and to your family…to people you trust. If your personality has undergone some kind of dramatic overhaul and you’re feeling miserable…that’s not normal. And it doesn’t have to be your ‘new’ normal.

Some of the best resources I’ve found are here, here and here.

The first is a fantastic website founded and curated by a woman who is herself a survivor of profound PPD. The second is a great resource for nursing moms who want to continue nursing while taking an anti-depressant. Obviously, it’s a personal choice that each woman has to make for herself, but for me it was so important to continue building that bond with my new baby, especially since I felt like we’d been cheated of quality time in the first few dark months. I also feel really strongly about the benefits of breastfeeding over formula feeding, if possible, and weighed my decision with advice from my doctors as far as which meds would transfer through my milk at the lowest rates.

Finally, (and getting even more personal, if that’s even possible) Dave and I have started learning the Creighton method of Natural Family Planning (NFP), and I can tell you it is already making a world of difference in my heart as far as freeing me from a real ‘fear of getting pregnant.’

Perhaps the most difficult part of this entire experience with PPD has been the absolute terror I felt over the prospect of having another baby in the immediate future (or some days, ever. ) Did I feel guilt over this? You bet. I’m a practicing Catholic, a firm believer in the beauty of the NFP lifestyle, and I would never consider introducing any kind of contraceptive into my sexual relationship with my husband. I love him too much, and I don’t want to do anything that contradicts either his dignity, my dignity, or the integrity of the marital act. But still…legitimately terrified of getting pregnant.

The Church, in Her wisdom, has given us amazing tools to manage our shared fertility as married couples, and to responsibly and respectfully plan our families. That doesn’t mean (contrary to popular belief) pop ’em out till you drop, but it also doesn’t mean condoms. And certainly not the Pill, which can actually exacerbate some of the suffering of PPD, in addition to causing other health problems. Oh, and it is potentially abortifacient…minor detail, right?

So where does that leave us? Well, we learned the Sympto-Thermal Method of NFP as taught by the Couple to Couple League during our engagement, but it was never really a perfect fit for us. Let’s just say neither one of us are strong in math 🙂 Plus, having now birthed two sleepless wonders of children, I was not about to have a set wake time involving temperature readings each morning. Just wasn’t happening.

So off we trotted last weekend to our intro session to Creighton, and it has already lifted such a burden from my heart. In addition to the wonderful miracle of modern medicine working its magic in my bloodstream and brain cells, Creighton is working some magic in my soul, helping to dispel much of that fear and anxiety as I begin to grasp a more complete understanding of our fertility.

I’ll leave this lengthy bulletin with a final charge to you, dear readers. If you or someone you know is suffering in this way (and I know there are a lot of ways to suffer, this is just one I’ve come face to face with), please don’t hesitate to reach out. It doesn’t have to be this way – it shouldn’t be. And I hope some of what I’ve shared can help.

I also hope Emily marries Jef. Because reality tv is obviously very serious too.

P.s. Had to re-institute the dreaded comment moderation thanks to a trolling creeper who has once again found his way to  my corner of the internets. So please forgive the inconvenience, and know that I do LOVE your sweet and helpful comments, so keep ’em coming. And pray for my troll – God knows he needs it.

PPD, Suffering

Seven Quick Takes: the refried bean edish

July 14, 2012

Joining the always lovely Jen, though I am appalled (and a little intrigued) by her latest choice in running footwear.

1. Speaking of running, I’ve been logging serious miles this past week. I ran 6 out of the last 7 days, and clocked in for a grand total of…7 miles. yes. Still very much post partum. But my weight watchers meetings have helped me to celebrate small victories…

2. like only having .6 lbs show up on the scale after a week of overindulging in everything Italian. Followed by another week of shame dieting where I counted out individual portions of tortilla chips at lunchtime. And then made multiple trips back and forth from the kitchen to acquire additional individual portions. But I digress.

3. Tortilla chips, you might ask? Why yes, they are a daily staple in our household. I purchase 1-2 bags a week, and they are basically our family’s (okay, mine) equivalent of bread. I don’t really eat bread, and I don’t really eat pasta…I just am not crazy about either carb. But tortilla chips…be still my white mexican heart. Also, refried beans. The fat-free kind, but still…on an almost daily basis. Disturbed yet? Joey loves them too…they were basically his first food. At 6 months, where, pictured below, he weighed less than his brother does at 9 weeks.

I’m sorry, do I not look Mexican to you?

4. I have discovered my new go-to summer drink which was born of a desperate Thursday, culminating in an SOS flare sent in Dave’s direction on his drive home to ‘bring vodka. nothing cheaper than skyy. Abosolut will do if Grey Goose is too spendy.’ End text. He didn’t fail to deliver a bottle of organic Minnesota clear stuff (um, okay), which I promptly combined with muddled limes, rocks, club soda and a couple of my failed homemade strawberry ‘toddler pops’ from my freezer section. The result? Delish. With a side of meltingpopsicleinmyvodka. I call it Mommy’s strawberry limeaid. Which sounds completely legit to bring to the pool/park/splashground.

great label design, right?

5. Having 2 kids is like, really hard. Having 2 kids and post partum depression is like shoving a hot safety pin into your eye after having gone 28 hours without sleep and 2 days without a shower. That being said, the outpouring of support, comraderie and empathy last week’s post generated blew mah mind. In a good way. If I didn’t respond to you personally, it’s only because I’m still kind of in survival mode, but I so appreciated your words. And for all of you who admitted your own struggles with this nasty beast and asked for prayers, know that you’ve been remembered during those times when I most need to stop thinking about MY problems and MY crazy life and offer.it.up.

6. But in addition to prayer, I’ve also had the good fortune of seeing a handful of moderately skilled mental health professionals and one great psychiatrist (thanks, managed healthcare…so very efficient), who has proscribed some extra ‘help’ in the form of a new anti-depressant. And honestly? I’m fine with that. Tom Cruise’s disapproval notwithstanding, I don’t see anything wrong with mixing in a little good ‘ol western medicine with all the other efforts I’m making (with my wonderful husband’s help) to get through this. I’ve had countless conversations with girlfriends who are wary of taking psychiatric meds but who probably wouldn’t bat an eye over pills to treat other serious ailments. I think it’s a cultural stigma that refuses to see mental illness as ‘real,’ or else it’s just the relative ‘newness’ of having these kinds of medication at our disposal.

7. The Bachelorette. My secret, shameful addiction during this babymoon period (with Joey it was the Hills, which I am faaaaaar more ashamed to admit.) But, um, seriously…SPOILER ALERT…you sent Sean home? And kept fruity Aerie? Arie? Isn’t that the name of a line of teen lingerie from American Eagle? Whatever his name’s spelling is, the important thing for Emily to remember is that he WILL run his long, feminine fingers along your neck while kissing you and stroking your cranium like some kind of creepy indy-car racing vampire. Ew. And I just know she’s going to pick him over sweet, skinny-jean clad Jef. C’est la vie, reality tv style, I suppose.

motherhood, PPD, Suffering

La Dolce Vita

July 7, 2012

So I spent the last week in Rome, (rough, I know) and having now sufficiently recovered from post partum jet lag (which sounds exactly as terrible as it is), I thought I’d share a little of the wonders of our surprise pilgrimage with you.

It was kind of like this: ‘surprise, you thought you were going on vacay, but you’re on a pilgrimage.’

And we were all, ‘oh, um…cool. Thanks, God.‘

But in reality it was more like, ‘whhhhhhhhhhhy is this soooooo hard?’ whine whine wine wine whine…and the baby cried, too.

I know, I know… I’m a terrible ingrate for saying so, but I have to be honest…it was probably one of the most difficult weeks of my life. And it’s probably not a great stretch to say it was one of Dave’s, too, thanks in large part to my utter emotional instability and both my and the baby’s severe aversion to heat and humidity (Which, in a 2,000+ year old city of 5 million people with little to no AC and endless journeys via public transportation, is a gawdawful exercise in sweat and tears.)

I debated whether or not to fess up about how difficult this trip was for me, because A. I realize how insanely blessed and fortunate we are to be able to go not once but twice in two years to the most spectacularly beautiful and religiously significant city on earth with each of our babies, to hang out very near the Holy Father and pray with some of our most beloved and admired saints. Admittedly: awesome. and B. nobody likes a whiny blogger.

But I would be lying if I said it wasn’t very, very hard. And that the hardness blindsided me. And it made me realize some hard, hard things about myself and about this time of life. And it scared me.

I don’t regret going, not for a second. We had some truly amazing opportunities, thanks largely to Dave’s job and our very cool boss, and we did everything from a cocktail party at the villa of the U.S. ambassador to the Holy See to a black tie dinner honoring all of the newly-installed American bishops, including our beloved former Archbishop Chaput and our newly-beloved Archbishop Aquila. And I changed JP’s diaper on the floor of St. Paul outside the wall, which will surely factor significantly into his future vocation.

Oh, and this.

Hands-down the highlight. And worth every moment of suffering and inconvenience to get there.

Having just concluded Sunday mass over the tomb of Bl. John Paul II in St. Peter’s basilica (and celebrated in polish by a priest from Warsaw, no less) I hustled my arrogant American self up into restricted territory and my boy met his namesake. Touched his tomb with a tiny fist. All before the Vatican guards could shoo us away. (And that ain’t no photo retouching you’re seeing there. I suspect it’s the blinding glare of the Holy Spirit, personally.)

But still…it was so hard.

And here’s the thing; it would have been hard under the best of circumstances, I think, because of me. Or more specifically, because of something that afflicts me — Dave is so good at correcting me when I misspeak, reminding me that I am ‘not my illness.’

The embarrassing, inconvenient and inescapable truth is, I suffer from clinical depression. And while it’s usually pretty well controlled by drugs and gritting of teeth and tugging of bootstraps, this pregnancy and post-partum period had been hell.on.earth.

It’s hard to admit this to a room full of my closest friends, let alone to put it out there on the internets, but I figured if any other mamas out there are going through it, I owed it to them to be honest. Because there’s depression, which I’ve had all of my adult life…and then there’s post partum depression.

And honestly, it’s harder than hell.

I really thought that a week away in a gorgeous foreign city with my husband and sweet newborn would be just what the doctor ordered, but it turned out I couldn’t outrun it. Which makes sense, complete and total sense, because it isn’t a matter of ‘shaking it off’ or ‘snapping out of it;’ it’s real, and it’s bigger than I can handle by myself and, quite frankly, it’s terrifying.

It’s scary to be exactly where I always wanted to be, vocationally speaking, and to still feel so bad.

That has been the greatest suffering of these past few months I think, knowing that finally I have everything I’ve ever wanted and am living the life of my dreams…and it’s still not ‘enough’ in the sense that it hasn’t cured me of depression.

If anything, it has heightened the emotional aches and pains by adding physical sufferings like sleeplessness, short tempers, and a saggy, floppy mommy body to the mix.

There’s something very raw and real and frightening about being ‘at the top,’ so to speak, and coming to the sickening realization that it’s still here, this shadow from hell, and no amount of brilliant sunlight has managed to dispel it.

I love being a mom. I love being married. Most days I love what I do for work…but despite it all, I still feel so terrible right now, and it’s so, so scary to think that this might just be how life is going to feel from here on out.

I hesitate to hit ‘publish’ on this one for a couple reasons, primarily my own pride which is screaming at me not to do this, not to publicly air this bit of soiled laundry, to keep pretending that everything is fine and good and, while difficult, nonetheless manageable.

But it isn’t fine. And it isn’t even manageable any longer. Rome showed me that I have, indeed, a breaking point of my very own and I have reached it. Looked it in the eye while running past it, in fact.

So here I sit on the other side of ‘it,’ broken down but still functioning. I know there is grace here in this time, and I know in a dry, intellectual sense that this isn’t forever…I have hope that the right combination of consecutive hours of sleep and evened-out hormones and perhaps a different medication can and will bring me back into some semblance of normal.

But for now, it’s all hard. Everything is hard, and everything feels much bigger and scarier than it really is.

Bl. John Paul II, pray for us.