Disclaimer: I really don’t like to start my posts with a disclaimer but I want to get this one out of the way. I love my children so much. They are the loves of my life, along with my husband and Netflix. But they do have the innate ability to annoy me at times. Yes, I am lucky and blessed to be a mom. But that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to want to do something for me. In this case, that is working outside of the home.
Now that we have that out of the way, I will say it loud and proud.
I feel like self-care has become such a buzzword lately. It’s everywhere, mostly in parenting blogs, like mine – HA.
“Moms need to take care of themselves! You have to practice self-care to be a balanced human and a good parent and spouse. Blah blah blah.”
But seriously, who has time for self-care? To me, it feels like just another task that has to be completed, and if it’s between me doing the laundry and going to see a movie by myself, I’m going to do the laundry.
I know, the laundry will wait for me. It’s not moving.
No shit, my laundry hasn’t moved without my help over the last ten years.
Right after I had my now 18-month old son, Simon, I wrote a post about all the things I had learned from being a mom to two children. I wrote it TWO WEEKS after I had Simon. He couldn’t even smile yet. Of course it was easy. All I had to do was feed him and change his diapers.
Below is the link to the said post. It was picked up by Motherly and they still use it on a regular basis.
To be 100% honest, I don’t know how to start this post. I have been writing about my past issues with depression lately, but today I want to talk about an episode I had with depression just about six months ago.
I am not a doctor. I am not a specialist. But I have experienced depression. And if I can help someone by sharing my story and being real and open, I am all for it.
And to be totally honest, this is not something that is easy to talk about. The only people who really knew I was suffering from depression at the time were my husband and possibly my mom.
I know that you are having a hard time with life right now. You are battling depression and anxiety and sometimes you literally don’t know how you are going to make it through the day. Your mind is full of doubt and racing with worry to the point of having panic attacks.
So you self-medicate and drink. And drink. And drink. You still make it to your 8-5 job with a smile on your face and manage to somehow make it through each day. But you are hiding the fact that you are so hungover from last night’s bar crawl that you have to run to the bathroom to vomit a few times.
The other day, someone I didn’t know reached out to me and complimented me on how brave it was that I am so open about my experience with postpartum depression.
I was flattered, to be honest. But the only thing I could think to say back, besides thank you, was that I wish someone had spoken out about it before I did.
I know doctors talked about it in articles you could find in mental health magazines. There were some celebrities that had discussed their situations. But no one sat my pudgy pregnant little ass down and said, “Okay, you have a history of depression.