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myadhdbot · 11 months

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tldr: nothing important

just knowing you might have adhd without the official diagnosis, and no means to even get one bc where you live in doesn't take mental health seriously, is so frustrating.

i relate to most of the adhd behaviours described online. i cannot regulate my attention. my recent hyper-fixation lasted almost an entire semester and i barely scraped through all the other subjects other than the ones i was really interested in. i also lose focus easily in class unless I'm writing every word they say down. executive dysfunction is an everyday thing. i cannot stop scrolling on the internet even though i mentally list all the better things i could be doing rather than waste time every 10-15 minutes. I'm easily bored and have had meltdowns in the past so yes i 98% think i have adhd probably a bit of anxiety as well.

but without the official diagnosis my imposter syndrome makes it so difficult to live guilt free. theres always stupid thoughts in my head saying if I'm just exaggerating things (i know I'm not) but it's so hard to shut down the voice and i go into a spiral thinking if I'm just being lazy, not working hard enough to get things done on time, not trying to remember important schedules or assignments, not trying complete my assignments or homeworks or reading until the very last minute.

my issues with memory also make it incredibly hard to recall anything other than some specific instances of my childhood and everybody (esp my mom) remembers a different version of me bc i lived in a boarding school from 11-16(until covid) and i was extremely high functioning. i used to ace tests without having to read too much and my boarding school had a very strict routine that made it easy bc i knew what i was supposed to do every minute of the day but when 11th grade came around everything changed even though i was still in the same boarding setup. i suddenly didnt do well in tests bc i hadn't needed to until then. so i don't know who i was, i don't know who i am or who I'm supposed to be.

i did nothing productive during the covid year couldn't concentrate in class. i read hp fanfics all day. i couldn't even read new books, or watch tv shows or pick up a hobby or learn a language (which is an interest of mine), nothing other than reading about the same people fall for each other in a thousand different au's. this was a very important stage in my student life and i didn't give university exams properly. i can't regret it bc i don't even think about it. i don't think about anything concrete but my mind is always busy.

(i don't even know where i was going with this. does this qualify as trauma dump?)

i see people with the same problems on the internet and it does relieve me to a certain extent but there's always doubt clawing at me. also bc in just 2 years I've to get a job and i hear how office spaces are not accomodating enough for nd folks and it's scary. i also don't really like the job profile very much but it's also bc i have no real direction in life. i dream about having a book cafe but it's not sustainable nor fair to my family ig.

sundays are not fun when you're in an existential crisis (if this even qualifies as one) and i have homework to do that I could've done anytime between the last 30 hours which I've procrastinated against doing until now.

#undiagnosed adhd #adhd things?#adhd brain #adhd stuff #adult adhd #muad

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spiritualgravity · 5 years

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The Crusade.

BC. AC. Before child. After child.

From October 2, 2017 — onward, that is how the days will be categorized in the Dewey Decimal System of my life.

Countless people told me over the years how they don’t remember what their life was like before they had their child(ren).

Not me. I remember all of it.

BC = Jeans with zippers. Working out whenever I wanted. A social life. Sleeping. Dates with my sidekick.

AC = Leggings. Not working out for a year. Rarely seeing friends for quality time together. Dates? What are dates?

Maybe I vividly recall BC because I had my first child later in life than the average gal. I got pregnant & gave birth at 38 years old, so I have many memories of what life was like pre-baby.

As I chronicled in this blog during and after my pregnancy, I really just wanted to know that I’d be able to keep my daughter alive and safe. That was it. “You’ll figure it out, you just will.” And they were right.

I had girlfriends from all walks of life give me invaluable tips about the actual labor and what to expect. I thanked them profusely for giving me all the gory details and useful product hacks to care for my mangled body immediately following birth and onward for several weeks, and have even passed those insights onto other ladies over the last year who have a little one on the way. But no one, not a single person, talked to me about postpartum depression.

Which is shocking, because evidently lots of women suffer from postpartum depression. But most are never diagnosed, which is frightening to say the least. According to the CDC, nationally, about 1 in 9 women experience symptoms of postpartum depression.

There is some kind of unexplainable gag order on the subject. Are we embarrassed? Do we think we’re the only one going through it? Will people judge us who don’t get it? Whatever the unspoken rules are, it isn’t an openly discussed topic. Only when you proactively bring it up in conversation, will others confide that they survived PPD.

How often postpartum depression symptoms occur, how long they last, and how intense they feel can be different for each person. The symptoms of postpartum depression are similar to symptoms for good old fashioned depression, but may also include:

Crying more often than usual.

Feelings of anger.

Withdrawing from loved ones.

Feeling numb or disconnected from your baby.

Worrying that you will hurt the baby.

Feeling guilty about not being a good mom or doubting your ability to care for the baby.

After childbirth, the levels of hormones (estrogen and progesterone) in a woman’s body plummet. This leads to chemical changes in her brain that may will trigger mood swings. In addition, many mothers are unable to get the rest they need to fully recover from giving birth. Constant sleep deprivation can lead to physical discomfort and exhaustion, which can contribute to the symptoms of postpartum depression.

Sleep deprivation. Bingo. I 1,000% attribute my PPD to lack of sleep. My daughter has never liked to sleep much, not from day 1. Breastfeeding around the clock + not sleeping are unequivocally responsible for the erosion of my wellbeing.

Never in a million years did I anticipate the troubles my husband and I would face. A “colicky” baby. The most helpless I have ever felt, is not being able to soothe my baby. A baby with several food allergies. A baby that would not sleep in any contraption, whatsoever. A baby who had to be physically rocked to sleep every single time. A baby who was chronically unhappy. A baby with reflux. A baby who didn’t eat enough and slowly slid down the weight ratio scale for her age. A baby who. A baby who. A baby who. The fill-in-the-blank baby list was endless, and the list suffocated me. On a few occasions, the things I thought about her and about myself during the darkest darkness, I cannot yet find the courage to type here. But, I promise when I write my book about the experience, I will tell the whole truth because I know I’m not alone.

I am a master preparer; I inherited that attribute from my father. Planning, road-mapping, tracking, the whole nine yards. I organized a binder for labor, birth and after birth, highlighted, underlined and marked up with copious notes what I learned from my Doula and the hospital classes months leading up to birth. But no where in there did it talk about PPD.

Not that anyone could have prepared me per se, but I never even saw it coming. For some reason, I convinced myself that I was fine, and would be fine. On a handful of occasions, maybe two or three times, ladies used PPD in conversation during my first six weeks as a Mother, and I immediately wrote it off. Maybe I was in denial. Maybe I truly didn’t think I had PPD, besides which, I had no context or experience. I figured all of my dark thoughts and feelings were “normal.” I figured crying, everyday, throughout the day, was par for the course. Being sleep deprived and having your world flipped upside down overnight would bring anyone to their knees…right?

At six weeks postpartum, exactly 1 day before my OB/GYN check-in appointment, I was accidentally diagnosed with PPD while being seen for a stye in my eye. The universe has a funny way of intervening. If it wasn’t for that one-eyed monster stye, I would have never gone into a medical office for assistance with mental help. I filled out a new patient intake form at the PCP, and evidently whatever questions I answered, was a blazing red flag for the doc. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, or the sound of her soft, concerned voice when she said, “You have moderate to severe post partum depression.” She literally made me promize, multiple times, to talk to my OB/GYN doc about it the following day.

Zoloft only exacerbated my sleeplessness and caused insomnia — so the coveted minutes I actually could have slept, I didn’t...I moved onto Wellbutrin, a pharmaceutical alma mater of mine. You see, I had a bout of depression when I was 20-years-old in college. That drug saved my life. I try not to pop Advil every time my head hurts, but to say I’m an advocate of getting treatment for a chemical imbalance would be a massive understatement.

I have stayed on Wellbutrin, fluctuating the dosage up and down for many months since first being diagnosed. Then, the Universe intervened, yet again. I got another stye in my other eye when my daughter was about 10 months old, give or take, so back to the primary care physician’s office I went. And what did we talk about in the examination room? PPD. Of course we did. Ugh. She prescribed another medication for me to take on top of the Wellbutrin. I can’t exactly explain the scientific rationale, but it has something to do with a special concoction — the two meds work better together, I suppose like Jack Johnson beautifully sang? Eating only peanut butter on bread just isn’t the same sensation as when you add jelly to the sandwich.

Within a few weeks on the new PBJ duo prescription, I felt remarkably better. All of the sudden, I could cope. Things in the past that would seemingly debilitate me, I could now handle. And handle fairly well if I do say so myself.

My daughter is now 14-months-old; I’ve been taking a prescription for PPD since she was six weeks old. A part of my intellect is at peace with the current reality — at least I’m functioning, and dare I say it...happy. But at the same time, my ego is bruised. Am I artificially content? Is my happiness manufactured? What will happen if I stop taking the medication? Will I go back to the constant crying? Or am I past it and no longer need the chemical crutch? I’m too afraid to find out, yet.

So instead of having anxiety about having anxiety, I’ve been trying to focus on my self-proclaimed, Self-Care Crusade.

Ever since the doctor added jelly to my wellbeing sandwich, I’ve been knee-deep in activities that involve “doing me.” Individually, they’re pretty small, but collectively, they have rocked my world in the best way possible.

Every night before bed, I take a few minutes to roll out my back/spine. My chiropractor gave me those directions, and while I’m a compliant patient who always follows directions, I never realized how such a trivial task could quite literally lift the weight of the world off of my shoulders. Five minutes later, when I roll into bed, I feel 10 pounds lighter.

I started to read again. Sure, maybe I’ve only completed four chapters in a month, but it’s better than nothing. I’m convinced that, “Girl, Wash Your Face” was written for me. It’s about lies that we tell ourselves as women, and calling out our own bullshit. When the author was writing her pitch document to find a publisher, under target demographic, I am absolutely sure that it said: Mary Beth from Virginia.

I began to eat better around the middle of August. I’ll have to dedicate another blog post to this undertaking, but my God, fitting into JEANS…with a freaking ZIPPER, is glorious.

I joined a gym around my daughter’s 1st birthday in October, which is sort of like joining a church in my book. It’s a holy experience to reflect, meditate, and turn off the noise. To have solitude and lift weights and sweat. It is cathartic and an outlet for renewal. It took one whole year after becoming a Mom to feel like I could muster up the energy to purposefully move muscles. My daughter continued to keep me on my sleep-deprived toes for nearly 12 months. She graduated from sleep training school at 4 1/2 months old which was a massive success, but there were inevitably age-related sleep regressions, sicknesses, and Mercury Retrograde for all I know along the way, causing her to wake up every night and leaving me looking and feeling like a Mombie Zombie. After she finally hit her snoozing stride around her first birthday, the next challenge was getting my daughter acclimated to leaving her alone with complete strangers in the gym’s daycare; that endeavor took a few brutal weeks of separation anxiety adjustment on her end. But it worked. I finally earned an hour all to myself to focus on moi…three times a week.

I started saying daily affirmations, along with following a program called Aura Soma. In a nut shell, I take a few minutes, twice a day, while closing my eyes, and focus on my highest self. I could never adequately explain what Aura Soma is (otherwise I’d describe it as essential oils on steroids), so the company’s description will have to do: “Harnessing the vibrational powers of Mother Nature, Aura‑Soma is a system of colour, plant and crystal energies that enhance happiness and vitality. Created using the highest quality organic and biodynamic ingredients our products bring ease, balance and calm to your energetic system. While strengthening and protecting the aura they empower and elevate.” It makes me feel heavenly and has awakened a part of my consciousness that has been dormant for, well, probably since forever.

While I do still very clearly remember my BC days, my early AC days are starting to fade…which I never, ever thought was possible. I thought the darkest, lowest moments of despair would always be engraved in the Temporal Lobe of my brain. So much so, it made me second guess if I could fathom having a second child, something I always envisioned. But it turns out that our minds have a way of protecting us over time. I suppose like when people who have been through horrific traumas, and their subconscious blocks out the memories entirely.

The manual swinging, and rocking, and willing my baby to sleep in a pitch black bathroom with no windows, while tears were drenching my cheeks and my lower back was in agony — all day long — I rarely, if ever, think of those days anymore. What’s more, on one or maybe two recent occasions, I had a case of baby fever, and it’s worth mentioning that I was conscious when those thoughts happened.

I am now finally on the other side of suffering, artificial happiness or not, all that matters is that I made it through. Today I’m truly enjoying my daughter, virtually every moment, of every day. She is hilarious, loving, smart and simply the best human I’ve ever known. I’m grateful that I’m finally at a point, and she’s at an age, where we can absolutely adore each other. I love her to pieces, and even miss her when she’s asleep {which is crazy since I’m with her all day long} — I’ve got a really serious, undiagnosed case of infatuation going on for baby girl. The stars are brighter than ever and I can see the constellation of my heart shining again.

Are there problems orbiting in my shiny world? Of course, too many to count. But all that matters is that I’m capable of coping with them, and crushing this crusade like a boss.

#postpartum #postpartum depression #mental health #pregnancy #mother #first time mom #daughter #fitness #working out #blog #writer #aura soma #girl wash your face #wellbutrin

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