The bough.

I’ve been quiet on here for a bit, hey? I haven’t forgotten about Soundly Sarah, however. Rather, I’ve chosen to be purposefully quiet. While I have had many, MANY things I have wanted to write, a large part of me couldn’t consciously put any of it to paper until I addressed something that took place not long after I last posted here. Addressing that something has been an extremely private, long, arduous, six month journey for me, however, and I have returned here now as I am finally ready to write it out and begin again in this space that I have so missed.

On a Friday morning near the end of July, I had a breakdown. It was a full on, anxiety ridden, nerve stricken, tears and screams, I’m losing my mind, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, why am I shaking?! breakdown. It was very real, very scary, and with D’s help, immediate medical attention was sought for me to understand what the hell was going on.

But to make clear to you what I eventually learned about myself, I first need to give a bit of back story.

Many of you are already aware, but for those who are not, the first hundred days of O’s life were a nightmare. He would not, could not, be put down. At all. He slept nowhere but on us (no matter how many times or how hard we tried to change that). If he was awake, he had to be moving or breastfeeding 95% of the time or he was livid. It was all this and so so so so so much more. A part of me has chosen to purposefully forget some of it because I just have to. His colicky, angry and needy demands drained from me every ounce of energy, every ounce of sanity, and my every ounce of EVERYTHING, joy included. The posts I put on FB from during this period were mostly a façade of the few good moments he did have. All the other moments that didn’t make it on FB were the REAL ones, and by god did those real ones hurt.

But after those first hundred days, we found a bit of reprieve. We found a little bit of peace. I was able to find some happiness once again. I started to feel a bit more human. I bit more myself. A bit more like I could do this motherhood thing and that we would survive.

Near the end of July, however, O began a vicious cycle of teething. At the time I didn’t know it, however, as you tend to not know a lot of stuff during that first rodeo until you get slapped in the face with it, and boy – did it ever. The reprieve we had been experiencing? It was shattered to the ground, stomped on, set on fire and proceeded to have its ashes obliterated into one million pieces. Well, that is exactly what was happening in my head at least. Because, unlike freaking out like a normal person and hoping for the best, I began to have a series of PTSD like flashbacks that quickly worsened.

Imagine holding your child as they are screaming at you, unable to find comfort or calm. You are sitting in a rocking chair in their dark room, trying your best to help their exhausted, pained body. But rather be there and be present, your mind is waging war on you. Your mind is telling you that you are going back to those first one hundred days and you are never leaving it. Your mind is telling you this is it from now on. Your mind is telling you that there will never be better. Your mind is SCREAMING at you, as you struggle to breathe amidst a rapid tightening of chest, that this is going to be FOREVER. There is no escape, there is no way out, you’ve gone back and you will never return.

And then imagine telling no one for days and days that this is happening to you continually and soon constantly because you are ashamed, unsure, embarrassed and deathly afraid.

On that Friday morning, the bough finally broke. Like a river it all flowed out, unstoppably and rapidly, and the shell I had been frantically trying to encase it all in soon gave way.

With the help of BC Women’s reproductive mental health unit, psychiatrists, counselors and medicine, I soon came to learn of a thing I had never heard of before. Postpartum anxiety. I knew of postpartum depression, but anxiety? That was a new one. Additionally, I came to learn of the concept known as intrusive thoughts. They were the thoughts that were giving way to the PTSD like flashbacks and they were the thoughts I soon set out to try and understand, come to peace with and, if I was lucky, banish for good.

However, the weird thing about getting help for mental illness – which anxiety falls under – is that it breeds other things. Admitting it can be a chain reaction, and a revelation of so much can be equally clarifying AND unhinging. It brings you up the depth to which you’ve denied, it forces you to acknowledge that which you have refused to do, and it leaves you raw. It leaves you weak. It leaves you to realize just how deep, multifaceted and pervasive our minds can be, and how much they will refuse to let go and morph anew no matter the amount you shake.

Six months later, I still wouldn’t call myself healed, but I’m trying. There has definitely been some harder moments, and they’ve absolutely effected how I deal with the outside world (I apologize to those who might have read this who I KNOW have gotten the receiving end of some of that), but I’m trying. Intrusive thoughts are still a daily struggle of mine, though they have decreased in intensity and occurrence. But I am making my way back. Always.

Most importantly, and this has taken me a LONG time to say, I finally know now and can say with confidence that this doesn’t make me a bad mom. This doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve O. An inability to cope doesn’t make me abnormal. It makes me human. Admitting it here, on a public blog, can in fact be empowering. It can be healing in itself. And while this has been a damn hard journey to wellness, I am determined to get that shell of mine back. That is a belief that I refuse to let go of. And to those of you who are willing to join me for this journey, thank you. I appreciate you more than you know.

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The start of something greater.

Sometimes, I forget that I immigrated to this country.

While my process of moving to Canada was absolutely nothing like the refugees that are dying to get here, and the country from which I came (the US) has next to nothing of the horrors those said refugees are trying to escape (unless you can count Donald Trump as one), Canada is not the land of my birth and nor the land of my childhood/adolescence.

Citizenship of this country I do have, but acquiring that officially at the age of 22 due to my parents lineage, not directly my own, can sometimes make me wonder if it’s truly mine at all. Does a law and a location change give me the right to call myself Canadian? I don’t know. These are but the many question I ask myself.

As I make efforts to raise O, I do not want this for him. I want him to know and to unequivocally be a part of the land which homes him. I want him be able to proudly call himself Canadian and to know how lucky he is to call this country his own. I want him to know that he is part of the fabric of Canada and helps make it what it is, because sometimes, I am not entirely sure if I do, or if I am but just an immigrant.

Nearly everyday we read these books, and while they will never fully measure the scale in terms of what Canada is or what it means to be Canadian, at eight months old they are the start of something much greater. And that it is a greater I want so much for his life. 💚⁣ ⁣

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My weekend has been won.

It’s been a rough three weeks.

O’s had teething issues, tummy problems, sleeping woes and a clinginess that has been nearly suffocating. I’ve had some difficult mental struggles that I’m still trying to understand and make sense of… and D, the super hero that he is, has been working extra extra extra extra hard to make sure that we’re both okay and happy, but he too is getting rather worn around the edges as a result.

This morning, however, O let me sleep in until 6:30 and I was able to make, eat and *enjoy* my breakfast all while he contently played on his own in his space. I can’t remember the last time this happened. By 7:25AM, my entire weekend had been won.

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Work WAS the vacation.

When I was pregnant and mat leave was on the horizon, I was so excited about how much time I’d have off from work. It was like I’d be having a year long paid vacation and it sounded amazing! Come sooner, mat leave, I’d say. Mommas ready for some time off!

Ah, hindsight. Work WAS the vacation. THIS stuff of parenting feels like *THE* work.

This is work that has no sick days, no room for late shows, lunch breaks, early clock outs, hell — start and end times in general, no time to slack when a supervisor isn’t watching, coworkers to joke with in the middle of the day, retirement dates, vacation days, understanding if you’re not at your best ’cause of life circumstances… It has none of that, and some days it lets you know like a punch in the face.

I adore, cherish and love my son with my whole heart. But today, especially today, and everyday before it has been a reminder that the real work of my life has just begun.

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For you, I have all the gratitude in the world.

Over the years D and I had many conversations about having children. Some wavered on maybe possibly yes, some were stuck in the middle, some were hesitant but kinda pretty sure no. Some of those no periods admittedly lasted quite long, but obviously came to an eventual end.

In times of those conversations that ended in no, we were driven by a worry that we weren’t sure if we could be selfless enough to have children. On top of so many other things, bringing a child into your life requires tremendous amounts of sacrifice. For all the years we had been together, and for the very many years before that, we both relished in the quiet, predictable, certainty of our lives. Our hobbies and interests were paramount to us, practically creature comforts, and we were incredibly habitual and unwavering in doing them. Trying to bring a child into that equation often felt like it would be mixing oil with water.

O changed everything.

In watching D become a father, I have often thought back to those conversations. I replay who the people we were then to who we are now, and I am stunned. In D’s case, a man who once professed great worry that being a father would take away from him all the time in his life for the things he liked to do, he is transformed. Not necessarily to something greater, but to someone who now lives beyond himself. To someone who’s things he likes to do now intimately involve his son and the joy he now derives from life is deeply connected to the time they spend together — 99% of which they giggle and smile at one another, thick as thieves.

Some might say that this happened because he became a dad, but I disagree. Some men have children that never evolve or truly get it. Ever since O came home from the hospital, however, this has categorically not been the case for D. Selflessly he has poured every inch of himself into helping his son, helping me help his son, and helping me stay sane in being there for our son. If I only have three and a half hours of sleep one night, then so does D as he trades off to relieve me, regardless if his next day ahead holds twelve hours of work and commutes. Unfailingly he has been there at any and every hour that I’ve needed, and at times I’ve gotten more rest than him, for he has believed since the beginning that I work just as hard at raising our son during the day then he does at work, and that belief doesn’t stop when shit gets real at 3AM.

This willing and continual sacrifice of sleep, one he continues to make at the drop of a hat if I even begin to speak aloud a moment of need, it represents one of the THOUSAND sacrifices D has made and continues to make every day for the sake of our family. It is in stark contrast to a man who once wondered if he could ever be selfless enough to have a child. Tirelessly he endeavours every day to make it so that we equally share the load and responsibilities of raising our son, and his continued recognition and appreciation of how hard I work every day, being on mat leave or not, makes my heart sing. I do not deserve him, but I love him terribly. Happy Father’s Day, D. For you, I have all the gratitude in the world.

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