My mom worked double shifts and often overnights at the local factory, my dad worked a lot of late nights and some early shifts as a security guard, which meant that most mornings I had to get ready and leave for school without waking them up, because that was their only time to sleep. We lived in one of those multi-story apartment buildings with somewhat shady neighbors (I was told to never make an eye-contact with the neighbor from the third floor). I don’t remember exactly how old I was but it was before my brother was born so around 8 or 9.  That year for April Fool’s I thought it would be very funny to wake my parents up screaming from the hallway pretending that our drunk neighbor from the third floor is trying to get me… (ok, so I’m thinking I was probably 5, because it seemed like a really brilliant idea at that time)

Aaaand I did it.

We lived on the forth floor, so I purposely left our apartment door open, went down to the third floor and… SCREAMED bloody murder… Everything went according to the plan and as soon as I saw my practically naked and exhausted from working all night parents in the hallway… running to my rescue… I ran out to school shouting “April Fool’s!” before they even had a chance to realize what just happened.

There were no cell-phones so they couldn’t call or text to let me know I’ve been emancipated and I knew that by the time I get home from school they both will be at work, so the next real chance of getting in trouble was 24 hours later…  and I figured that by then they will see how FUNNY that really was.  Right? Working at the factory all night, taking a short nap and saving your daughter from a potential pervert attack at 7am – pure comedy!

Surprisingly that night my mother still left me dinner under the pillow. It’s not a joke – my mom always left my dinners under the pillows, because she had to be at work about an hour before I got home from school and wanted to make sure I had a hot dinner without setting the whole building on fire trying to warm it up (the microwave was about 10 years into the future at that point).

I ate my perfectly warm dinner and daydreamed about how we all going to roll on the floor laughing about this the next morning. And we did laugh… about ten years later… not so much that next morning. There were no time-outs back then and nobody was taking away privileges (because you can’t really take away food, clothes or a roof over your child’s head to prove the point)  just some good old fashion belt action… And the punishment didn’t end there… my mother loves telling this story over and over again.

I accepted a job offer and will be starting next Monday. It happened a bit sooner than I thought it would but the time and most importantly the job itself is perfect. I’ve been at home with kids for a little over two years so the fact that I will be in the office in less than seven days hasn’t sunk in yet. I will have one more weekday play-date this week, a few more walks around the park in the morning, maybe one more grocery shopping trip with the kids before lunch and then… it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day.

Today the house is extra messy. I think it’s my way of spending more time with kids… licking those last drops of the bottom of the ice cream bowl. I feel full. Happy and really excited. There is no doubt in my mind that the decision to go back to work was a good one. I need this job financially and emotionally. Yet, there is part of me that is mourning… and that’s ok. I am giving myself a little time to cry, a couple extra hugs and a few more kisses on those chubby cheeks. I am staying away from all the baby pictures, cause there is no stopping that tsunami of sweet memories and bitter guilt.

I have been incredibly blessed to be able to stay home with my kids for as long as I did. I know so many parents who would love to do that. I am also incredibly lucky that I had a  choice – some of us have to stay home because taking kids to day care is not financially smart. And then I got lucky again, because when I did decide to go back to work, a perfect job practically landed on my head. I am one lucky girl. Yet… this is the most bitter sweet moment of my life.

Next Monday I will wake up a few minutes before my babies, wash my hair and get the kids ready while making sure nobody pukes on my shirt and nobody wipes their hands with my pants. I will drop them off at the daycare with my heart neatly tucked into their little pockets just in case they need it… and hope that their little banks of love are full and last them through the day. I won’t put any make-up, because I will cry all the way to work. I will join the rush hour traffic and pray I don’t use any baby-talk in the office or wipe somebody’s nose out of habit.

Millions have done it before me and millions have survived. I will be OK. I will be OK. I will be OK.

Just kidding.

But only because it didn’t last long. After about a week of OK I started slipping back… Called my Dr. FeelGood just to see if it was normal. Yes, turns out – very normal and all I had to do is increase the dosage. More happy pills? Don’t mind if I do, doc!

I got better, but never quite as good as I did after the first three weeks of starting Zoloft. But even that didn’t last, so I called again. Was told to increase the dosage, again. That went on for a couple more months. Until finally the dosage got so big I started having horrid nightmares, sweats and waking up in the middle of the night sobbing. I felt somewhat ok during the day, but was dreading the nights. Guess what the doctor offered? Another pill that is usually given to patients with heart problems to help them deal with night terrors and sweats.

A pill to deal with the side effects from another pill? Of course my liver might fail, a possible blood clot here or there, glowing teeth and an urge to stab myself are all common side effects of the drug… but yay for no more nightmares! Talk about winning!

That was the day I started to care… because it became very obvious that my doctor didn’t. I spent the next two days in front of my computer reading everything and anything about the PPD. The more I read the more I got convinced that I wanted to try a more natural treatment.

And before I go any further I feel like I need to clarify this – I am not against the medication and I truly believe some people need it and it is the best treatment option for them. I knew that one of the options was to try a different type of drug and I was going to do just that… AFTER I have tried a more natural way which is basically an overdose of vitamin B and other herbs.

And so against my caring doctor’s advice I went off the meds cold-turkey.

P.S. I’ve been getting a lot of questions about my PPD experience so I thought I would just write a short post and answer them all in here… I have no idea how this story is turning into a three post beast! Yes… there is part III.

P.P.S. And apologies for the most non-St.Patrick’s Day post ever.

If other women were doing their job they would have twelve too!

Nobody ever asks for a clarification, purely out of fear of having a sex ed conversation with a 86 year old. Well one thing is clear - I am obviously doing something wrong. Most likely birth control, but hey – to each their own.  Before Leila was born we were thinking it would be nice to have four kids, but realistically we knew it would probably be three. That is one of the reasons we had Leila and Liam so close together – I knew that if I was going to have a third I will need a bigger gap in between and at the same time I didn’t want to get pregnant being “advanced maternal age”. Third child was always a possibility… well, that is until Liam was born and I fell into a rabbit hole called PPD.

I always thought of myself as somewhat moody, but that? That was beyond moody. It was just pure dark and cold. Chinese people call depression the flu of the soul… The Western culture prefers the term cancer of the soul. I don’t know which one is more accurate, but mine was treated with an urgency of a heart attack… After 2 weeks of crying and practically wishing a bus would hit me so I wouldn’t have to feel or deal with my own thoughts I finally went to the doctor. Well, it was strongly suggested I see one, so I did.

You don’t need to be severely depressed to start crying when you see that your doctor’s name is listed under Psychiatry… I remember taking the elevator and thinking is this me? Am I officially that person? Have I crossed the line? Will calling myself crazy never be funny anymore? And why can’t I stop crying? I am not even sad, dammit!

For some weird reason I was relieved my doctor’s office didn’t have a couch. Everything looked very… functional – two chairs facing each other, no clocks, a tissue box, white blinds and a picture of some sort of travel destination. The only slightly concerning thing was a “PPD for Dummies” on one of the bookshelves, which later she offered to me… I guess it’s like when you go to the dentist and they give you a small goodie bag with a cheep tooth brush and a travel-sized toothpaste. A shrink gives you the book… cause the toothpaste would be weird, I guess.  She sounded smart. I sounded crazy.

In less than an hour I was prescribed and given a three month supply of Zoloft. No other treatment options offered or discussed. I remember the doctor saying something about how depression is like diabetes – the only way to get it under control is with a help of medication. I never had or known anybody with diabetes, so I took her word. Plus I didn’t care…. I really didn’t. I just wanted it to stop. I am pretty sure if she said we need to cut your left ear off for it to stop I would have said yes. It was too exhausting being me. Everything was difficult from the minute I woke up. I was shattered. I suddenly understood why depressed people slept so much… sleep was as close to death as I could get without actually dying.

So there I was… every morning religiously putting a little white pill on my tounge… all in hopes of some magic… a cure for my darkness. I didn’t know if I should pray when I took them and always wondered what were the chances that they gave me a placebo? It just felt too easy and simple to get a three month supply of a mind-altering pill, no? Could a pill really change my way of thinking? Would I feel anything?  Will I be dizzy? Drunk? I mean what does happiness feel like anyway?