A Surprisingly Sane Blog

I’ve already declared that I’m mentally insane (a fact that I’m currently trying to see for myself and come to terms with), but now it’s time for me to share way more than you probably ever needed to know about me.  As usual.

So I, er, blogged about the unfortunate happenings of what childbirth does to one’s va-jay-jay last week sometime, but what I didn’t really explain was the culprit to all the agony behind the blog.

Besides my (obvious) anger about the death of the perfect vadge, there was a lot more written between the lines of that blog.

I contacted my midwife Lisa a few weeks ago to get a February appointment to check on some problems I’ve been having.  James contacted her about my depression crisis around the same time, and she ended up not setting up an appointment with me.  She wanted to wait until my mental status was in check before actually working on my pelvic floor issues.

What she didn’t know is that a lot of my self-loathing is a direct result of what has happened to me physically during and after childbirth.  When I talked to my first midwife, Fran, at the birthing center on Friday regarding using Prozac while breastfeeding, I also told her that I was concerned about some physical issues that were really affecting my mental healing.  She told me to come in today for an appointment to see exactly what is going on down there.

Bless that woman, she is an incredible midwife.

Using the bathroom has been difficult for me every since April was born.  Both ways, in fact.  Going pee is supposed to be an easy thing.  Yeah, no.  Not after pushing out an almost-9-pounder.  Whereas many women experience incontinence and have trouble holding their urine after having a baby, I’ve been having the exact opposite problem.  It’s actually difficult for me to pee.  And pooping, oh geez, don’t get me started on how much trouble I’ve been having with that.

In addition to the potty problems, there was the excruciating menstrual cramps.  Lower back pain that wasn’t subsiding even with the help of my chiropractor.  And then sex.  Sex has been a serious issue.  Things just don’t feel right.  I keep trying to use that “throwing a hotdog down a hallway” analagy with my hubby, but he doesn’t agree (well, he won’t verbally admit it even if that is the case).  But even he has admitted that things feel different (not bad just different, he always wants me to be sure that I understand).  Like my equipment is out of place or something.  And using tampons has been uncomfortable, but pads suck big time, so there’s no way I want to rely on elephant saddles.

So I went to see Fran today to get that checked out.  The diagnosis sucks big time.  It wasn’t unexpected, I just was hoping it would be better news than I knew it was going to be.

I have all kinds of issues down there.  I have cystocele and rectocele and uterine prolapse.  Basically, what that means is that my bladder and rectum are both falling inwards towards my vaginal wall and pushing downwards towards the opening.  If I look in a mirror and bear down, I see a bulge of tissue in the front and another one in the back of my hoo-haw.  Oh yeah, and my uterus is dropping down as well, but it’s not as bad as the other two.  In addition, my uterus is extremely retroverted, which is not unsual, but my cervix is dropped very low down as a result of the prolapse.  I have a lot of uncomfortable pelvic pressure from all of it.

Apparently, my reproductive and elimination organs are trying to escape via the vadge.

All the Kegels in the world before childbirth and after it haven’t saved my pelvic floor, sadly.  I could do them until I’m blue in the face, but they will unfortunately not have the desired effect.

Like my mental state, my physical condition seems to be a genetic flaw.  My poor girls are screwed.

You would never guess this by looking at me.  I’m fit, thin, strong and healthy on the outside.  A wreck on the inside.  The guys flirting with me at the Starbucks drive-thru window that I stopped by after my appointment to console myself with a mocha- they have no idea how broken I am.  They just saw some sorta-cute chick with a nice smile ordering her theraputic dose of caffeine.  If they could see what’s on the inside- my prozac-infested system, my pelvic organ prolapse, my anger towards myself welling up in me as invisible waves, would they still spend the time to do a double-take?  Probably not.

Fran recommended physiotherapy to combat the prolapse before resorting to surgery.  Right now I’m in the process of battling it out with insurance trying to find a physical therapist who does pelvic floor therapy.  It’s really tough to find someone who does that and takes insurance in this darn town.  And receptionists have half a freaking braincell.  They should have to pass a basic intelligence test before being allowed to answer the damn phone.

I feel like crawling into a small hole and hiding.

It can always be worse, I know.  But that doesn’t make me feel better.

I’ve come to realize that I have never before put my own needs first.  Except, perhaps, when I was a newborn and toddler who had no choice but to rely on pure selfishness to survive.

How we ever make it beyond our infancy and “terrible twos” is beyond me.  Thank God we are adorable (even if we’re truly funny looking like I think I was) to our parents when we are that little.  Otherwise, the human race would never have survived.

My girls are both so happy.

You know why?  It’s because every single need they have is fulfilled.  Pretty much immediately, really.  When Julie says, “Mommy, I’m HUUUUUUNGRY,”… POOF! A peanut butter and jelly sandwich magically appears in front of her.  When April fusses, I pick her up, feed her, cuddle her, show her some true mommy love, swaddle her like a little furry burrito, and pop a binkie in her mouth.  And she falls asleep, cooing through that pacifier, because she feels warm and content and happy, having all her needs met.

Besides the fact that I am, unfortunately, genetically predispositioned to struggle with depression, anxiety, eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorder, suicidal tendencies, etc., I am learning to recognize that I make my situation worse by never putting my own needs first.

And I mean never.  I am disgustingly selfless at times.

Oh, you need me to clean up your drunk friend’s puke that somehow ended up everywhere EXCEPT the toilet (even though I don’t even live here)?  But of course!  No thank you necessary, I’m happy to do it.  Here!  Let me book the plane tickets and spend all my dance-lesson-earned-cash to go to that West Coast Swing convention even though I know I’m going to end up wishing I’d plunged off of the balcony when I had the chance.  But I’ll happily do it because I love you and I know it’s important to you.  You need to vent your suicidal wishes to me?  Go for it!  I’ll hold your hand and do EVERYTHING in my power to stop you, take on your burdens, and help you through it even though I’m barely hanging on by a thread myself because I love you and I want you to be well.  You need me to pull you out of your self-loathing-killing-yourself-slowly episode even though you hurt me emotionally so bad that I have nightmares and feel sick about what you did to me for years?  Of course.  I will do everything I can to help you think that you weren’t being a selfish bitch who did some serious damage to your family.  You know why?  Because I want to shield you from the monster you can be at times, regardless of what it costs me.

This, ladies and gentlemen, was never my intention.  I never realized how badly I do this.  It’s not to please people, or to bargain myself a warm seat in heaven next to Mother Teresa.  Martyrdom was never part of my plan.  I’m not a doormat.

If fact, people-pleasers drive me crazy.  Ass-kissers?  They actually make me want to punch them.

It’s time I learned to be a little selfish and but my needs first in my life.  This is an entirely new concept to me.  One which I really have no clue how to accomplish.

Aren’t you proud of me?  I came up with this all on my own.  I realized it yesterday while I was talking to James.  He took me out to dinner, and I felt like for the first time since I can remember, I had so much to say that it was just bubbling out of me.

Clarity.  I woke up this morning, after my third night of peaceful sleep (besides a few disturbing dreams), and felt like it was actually ME in my body getting out of bed.  I wasn’t watching from some third-person-perspective haze as I stumbled through my room and into the kitchen to be sure that Julie’s breakfast mystically appeared on the table.

In fact, I actually decided to shower even BEFORE I drank my coffee and while April was still sleeping, rather than waiting until I put her down for her morning nap.

This is very uncharacteristic for me.