The Other Shoe

Throughout the years, I’ve documented my ups and downs with bipolar/depression here. (I always feel the need to temper the word “bipolar” with the word “depression” because the former generally invokes visions of a manic person staying awake for a week while they paint the corners of their closets and then cry for three days. [Or maybe that's crystal meth?] I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar II, a milder form of bipolar disorder that consists of euphoric highs cycled with very deep, dark lows.) Unfortunately, it’s a constant part of my life. I don’t deal with it well. It’s uncomfortable. And perhaps the worst part is that I can feel it coming on.

When I’m in my euphoria, life is AWESOME. I’m happy, bubbly, expressive, fun, maybe a little wild (okay, maybe pretty wild. I try to blur out most of my teens years and 20′s because some of the stuff I did makes me cringe.). I convince myself that everything is okay and that my depressive bouts must be a distant memory — that this time, things will be different.

It never is. It never, ever is.

Since having Amaia, I’ve been mostly stable. Even as recent as a few weeks ago, I felt pretty great. Life was fulfilling and I had a positive and generally even-tempered outlook on things. The regular exercise must be helping, I told myself. Having a break while the girls are in school is really doing wonders, I thought.

But I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling that the next depressive low was just around the corner. Like I was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Of course, the shoe dropped. It’s dropping now. I’m not doing well. Again. It’s not as bad as it was when it hit after the twins, but it’s not good. Every day, every hour, feels harder than the last. I’m holding onto my sanity by ever-thinning threads. I feel like some days are getting too much for me to handle. I need more help than I can possibly bring myself to ask for — because of course, asking for help makes me a fucking HORRIBLE mother, which intensifies the feelings of worthlessness, failure, guilt, and anxiety.

Interestingly, I noticed that the downward turn coincides with the return of my period — just as it did last time when my period came back after the twins. The hormones probably have a big impact and it makes me wonder how things will look after I finish nursing.

And speaking of nursing, the onset of a depressive episode reminds me of how long this rollercoaster has been going on — the pregnant-nursing-weaning-woops-pregnant-again-nursing-again-need-to-wean-soon rollercoaster, that is. I had only weaned the twins because I needed to get back on my medication (Lamictal), only to immediately get pregnant with Amaia as soon as I weaned.

I do NOT want to stop breastfeeding because of this FUCKING disorder. BUT. I can’t go on like this. I’m not a good mom like this. I am NOT a good mom like this.

I know there’s more to me than what I feel now. I know that I can love and feel good again. I know because I’ve felt it.

So I will eventually wean Amaia because I love her that much. I love all my kids that much.

The baby is now 9.5 months old and I’m getting close to being able to do that. I just need to hang in there for a few more months.