It’s been a life-changing while…

Welcome to life on meds that work!!!

I am so beyond excited and thankful to be on medicine that is allowing my brain to function. I knew that the anxiety-driven brain I had been living with for 27 years was NOT up to par. I just thought I was dumb, broken, a mess that could not be fixed.

That belief and experience has caused me sooo much suffering and depression and more anxiety about not being good enough, and losing jobs because of it, definitely feeling inadequate at every job.

Now, I. CAN. THINK.

It is such an amazing revelation that I want to shout it from the mountaintops. I’m not dumb, I’m not broken or damaged beyond repair. I just needed the right combination of medicine that was prescribed to me by a doctor to help resolve so much of that. That was taboo and an unpopular and questioned opinion in a certain group in the 12 step group I am apart of. That held me and my life back for years. Of course, my non-belief in myself is what made their pressure a reality I could not say no to. I will take on what is mine.

And I will grieve what is mine.

A life that for years simply did not have to be as hard and torturous as it was. It was this shield of embarrassment that I held around me like a cloak that could not be taken off. It would only grow stronger in new and unfamiliar situations. So many friends was impossible. Keeping them was even harder. And it was even with my own family that I could not feel like myself or even enjoy their company for years. I was too busy comparing myself with everyone and everything.

Now, of course the medication did not do all the work. I have been striving for over 6 years to have more belief in myself and love and tolerance toward others. But I was getting almost nowhere before starting a regimen from a doctor that works with my brain chemistry. It was like putting in what felt like 8,000 pounds of effort and getting a sliver of hope and change.

hope 2

And I am SO thankful I trudged on.

There was always that tiny little voice in my heart and gut saying, “What if it gets better tomorrow?” My mind would scream it wouldn’t and list all the reasons why. But I could not shake that tiny speck of hope, because, what it if was right?

Half the time, I didn’t even have that voice, I was just too scared to kill myself. But whatever the reason, I want to share this to let everyone know, it will get better, for you too.

hope

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Suicidal toddlers

By Siobhan-

Killer Toddler.jpg

At this point in my life, I have been a mother for the last 8 years -which boggles my mind in and of itself. My first born came ripping through me a month and a half after my 18th birthday. So, essentially I have had kids my entire adulthood. In that time I have picked up some wisdom, I have begun to gray far too young, and I have developed an incredibly dark viewpoint on motherhood. The first two are unavoidable in my opinion while working the ultimate “learn-on-the-job” gig. But the last one is how I keep my sanity intact amongst the chaos that is actively not killing the three mini-overlords that call me mom. Only by laughing (sometimes literally) in the face of danger am I able to avoid a trip to the psych ward. Especially when it comes to toddlerdom.

Now, before you think this is another one of those mom rants on the terror that is a two year old, just hold on. Don’t get me wrong mood swings at two are tough, but so are meltdowns at three and four and five and you get the picture.

My biggest issue with my current beautiful bundle turned dictator is that he’s constantly trying to kill himself, albeit in new and creative methods. Experience tells me that this is not unique to my youngest. Both of his older siblings went through a similar seemingly accidental suicidal stage at this age as well. To help illustrate this phenomenon, let me paint you a word picture. Imagine a beautifully warm mid-summer afternoon, a friend of mine offers an extra set of hands to aid in taking my middle child, a kind-hearted seven-year-old girl, and my youngest, the aforementioned suicidal rambunctious two year old boy, to a day at the pool. To set the scene, we are at an immaculately-maintained resort pool that we were not guests of, nor did we pay for day passes. My friend Nick, who happens to be a large intimidating-looking tattooed man, and myself, with all (well most) of my tattoos showing, along with long, pointed black nails and my oversized black and white sun hat looking like a vintage gothic goddess.

Needless to say, amongst the J.Crew catalogue families along the poolside, we stuck out. As we made our approach, Nick leaned in to whisper, “They’re gonna smell the poor on us.” A concept that has never kept me from living it up boujee style. There I am, being not so subtlety gawked at by four tan blonde housewives, perched on the side of the kiddie pool as two thirds of my reasons for living are gleefully splashing amidst Western New York’s well-to-do. Seamus, the youngest of my brood, was shrieking (rather loudly) with delight at one of the waterfalls in the splash pool. Yes, you read that correctly, there was not one, but two waterfalls in the kiddie pool at this place! His laughter is one of those magical kid sounds that blots out the nastiness of this world. As I watched him play, poised on the edge of the pool, I was having a conversation with Nick. Not about anything in particular, just some random bullshit. And multiple times, Seamus would just be standing there, playing with the waterfall, my attention in that way that only moms know how to do. Where I can be fully engulfed in conversation with an adult, and somehow, seemingly without even looking at my child, know the exact moment when that beautiful little face decides to go plunging, freefall style, into the water. And makes no attempt at standing. No attempt to pull his face from said water.

Kid in water

As he is actively trying to drown his tiny, little two-year-old body, without even skipping a beat in conversation, I loop my hand under his armpit and stand him back up. Without even turning my gaze to his precious cough-face, I give him a few loving taps on the back and go back to whatever meaningless subject my friend and I were discussing. This happens, I kid you not, at least ten times, in succession. At this point, Nick’s face has that twisted, horrified look that all non-parents get when they begin to realize that all those fanciful dreams of having children someday are insane. He keeps looking back and forth, his eyes darting from small creature attempting suicide to tranquil mother attempting to have her talk. Something I desperately search for, because adult conversations are so rare when you are this outnumbered. We’re at three to one —a child to parent ratio that should never exist for one’s sanity. And so, you graciously hold onto any grown-up conversation you can get. Even as the youngest of your offspring is doing his best to off himself. Actively trying to end his short life before he has even enjoyed the breaths of it. Breaths of which he is liberally taking underwater. It’s moments such as these that I cease wondering why there isn’t some sort of screening process, some type of licensing procedure before a person is allowed to procreate. Because honestly, who would pass? Only the off kilter have what it takes for this undertaking. Only the beautifully ill-informed willing march towards this, the most thankless of jobs. So here’s to you, sweatpants-clad wonder woman. To successfully thwarting yet another endeavor made by our tiny tyrants to kill themselves. And more impressive still, for not taking care of the deed for them.