Moving on... one day at a time

So I had everything I needed - a psychiatrist, therapist, and pills. I didn't feel better, but I was ready to take life day by day.  How long would it take for me to feel better?

Ryan's mom arrived a couple weeks after I got out of treatment.  She helped me with my process to feel normal again.  It sounds bad, but when she first arrived she took care of Philip. I was free to go to appointments and do things around the house. I felt relieved to have her taking care of him.  It was still too hard for me to handle.  I could cook and clean and distract myself from the truth... I was a horrible mother.  

In the beginning, I had therapy two times a week. I had never been to therapy before.  I had to sit there and tell a stranger all about my problems. I was lucky, the woman I had chosen due to my driving preferences was a great fit for me. I was comfortable talking to her and sharing the horrible thoughts I was having. It was hard to say some things out loud. Every session it got a little easier. It felt freeing to put everything out there.  I started to tell Ryan and his mom more and more too.  

We talked about my upcoming psychiatry appointment.  I was still tying myself to my bed at night.  The room crashed in on me daily.  I couldn't stop thinking about what was going to happen. Would this ever stop? Can I be a good mother? Will I love my son? This is where my sleeping pill was useful. I couldn't stay up all night drowning, I was knocked out in about thirty minutes. My therapist said that I might ask the psychiatrist about medication for anxiety. 

The day came for my first psychiatrist appointment. As I waited, I was again struck by how "normal" everybody looked.  There were children, men, and women.  All ages and races were represented in the chairs around the room.  Each one had their own struggles that they needed help to handle. Mental health does not look a certain way.  I don't look "broken" and neither did any of the other people. When it was my turn, I sat down with another person to tell them what was going on. She increased the dosage on one of my medications and added one for the anxiety.  

You shouldn't drink much alcohol while on any medication.  That was okay, I hadn't had any since before Philip was born.  The psychiatrist made a point to mention that with my new anxiety medication that I shouldn't drink at all.  It was six weeks after my c-section.  I was starting to get my body back and wasn't having pain very often.  I have never been a big drinker, but I was disappointed to hear this.  Ryan's mom was going to watch Philip while we went on our first date night since Philip's birth.  

As I progressed with medication, I continued to feel better. Each day I was trying to do more with Philip.  I would feed him his bottle, let him fall asleep on me, and just spend time holding him. It wasn't easy, but I needed to do it.  I was starting to feel less hopeless. I wanted to get better... I needed to get better.  Ryan's mom left and I continued to get better. I was taking care of Philip during the day, by myself, with no babysitters.    

I would calm myself with adult coloring books and thought stopping. When thought stopping, I would picture a stop sign and then think positive thoughts.  I was not "healed", but I was getting better. I felt stronger! I would take life day by day; I could handle one day at a time.