Even a Queen Can Sing the Blues

Yes, indeed it has been some since I have sat down to chronicle the trials and tribulations of the Poopie Queen.  Believe me, my absence has not been because I am lacking material.  Not a day goes by that I do not have a poop related incident.  For instance, one day last week, I noticed something reading “Great Job!” peeking up at me from Prince Doodie Diapers doodie diaper.  Apparently, he ate one of his sisters’ stickers and it came out looking the same way it did upon ingestion. Although I am compulsive recycler and reuser, I decided it would not be the most sanitary thing to wipe it off and stick it the latest piece of art work to come home with my princesses from preschool.  Or, just the other day Princess Poopie Pants did not make it to the bathroom in time because she found it necessary to search for her newest baby doll so she could have company while she pooped.  She ended up pooping all over her dress and proceeded to smear it all over her back and arms upon taking it off.  Not only was she covered in it, literally from head to toe, there was a big wad of poop then lying on the bathroom floor.  No, I am never at a loss for material.  I have been busy dealing with post-partum depression.

There, I said it. Yes, even a queen can get the “Baby Blues.”  No one is immune to post-partum depression.  There is this unfortunate stigma placed upon someone suffering from this debilitating disorder, along with the whole array of other mental health related illnesses, in our society.  After one gives birth to her bundle of joy she is miraculously supposed to be glowing from sheer happiness, not sporting raccoon eyes from severe sleep deprivation.  She is expected to swoon over her newborn rather than complain how sore her nipples are from having this little being hang off of her boobs for hours every day.  A new mother should be elated and excited—even in the middle of the night, after being woken up for the 7^th time—not disheartened and depressed.  Well, the truth is plenty of new mothers, and even some fathers, experience symptoms of post-partum depression. 

Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children—with all my heart.  There is the terrible misconception that mothers who suffer from PPD do not love their children or are incompetent parents.  Certainly one’s PPD can be so crippling that she can become an inept mother.  This was the case with me.  The everyday routine became extremely difficult.  I would cringe when one of my princesses would hang from me in a playful manner.  I felt hopeless and enraged.  I never knew I had the capability of being such an angry person. 

I have been plagued by depression for a large portion of my life.  It was always there, but cyclical in its patterns and I would experience highs and lows.  However, it was not until the months following Prince Doodie Diapers’ birth that I became stuck in this deep, dark hole and did not have the necessary tools to help dig me out.  I lost my shit shovel.  I had access to it in the past and always managed to dig my way out.  I once was able to get my head to resurface, though I may have been covered in and stinking of depressing doo-doo.  Not this last time.  I could not climb out.  Instead it felt as if dirt was being thrown down on me while I was stuck and screaming in this frightening hole.   

I have incredibly fortunate to have some wonderful people in my life: my unbelievably dedicated and compassionate husband, who was willing to do whatever it took to help me; my loving and resilient mother; my supportive and caring fellow mommy friends, who are all beautiful queens in my eyes; and a few highly intelligent and devoted health care professionals.  Oh, and I certainly cannot forget my friends at Pfizer.  I tried so hard not to be pharmaceutically dependent, yet again.  I try to take the natural and homeopathic route whenever possible.  But, a chemical imbalance is just that, an imbalance.  My brain needs some extra help to work properly.  My family needs me to be balanced and present.  I need me to be preforming to the best of my abilities.  When one has the important job of being a queen, and is depended on and expected to live up to all the expectations placed upon a matriarchal monarch, she needs to be on her A game at all times.  She needs to be on her Zoloft.