But there’s an underlying current of hate on twitter right now, and it’s not against the shooter.

It’s against mental illness as a whole.

Ok so shoot up the only place that can help your crazy ass, talk about insanity........ #westernpsych

March 8, 2012 4:02 pm via Twitter for AndroidReplyRetweetFavorite

@Darko_Darlin

Jessica

Western psych should be in the woods they're crazy anyway so who cares

March 8, 2012 4:29 pm via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@soyourPOOHBERRY

Taraya Lynn

Thanks @Hova1914! I'm safe. I'm crazy, but not Western Psych crazy (yet).

March 8, 2012 4:22 pm via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@ThunderBroad

Thunder Broad

There are more. Many more. Jokes, puns, flat out hatred toward mental illness. People are injured and dead, and we’re taking to twitter to make fun of people with mental illness. Classy.

It’s frustrating. It’s discouraging. It’s a conversation that needs to be had, shooting or otherwise.

Western Psych provides services for mental health and addiction. Let me tell you something about places like Western Psych: There is no shame in seeking out help, in going to therapy, in having hope that there’s something more beyond the shadow in which you currently live. If we don’t want, as the shooter has been referred to ceaselessly on twitter, “crazy people” to “shoot up” buildings, then we have to have places like Western Psych. We have to have access to services and treatment. We also have to help spread the word that mental illness does not deserve the social stigma we still attach to it, whether it’s depression or bipolar disorder or postpartum psychosis or anxiety or eating disorders or addiction or ADHD or what have you. The finger pointing, the name-calling: they don’t help.

More over, Western Psych has a great program for children and adolescents. They have services for autism. For teens at risk. Behavioral intervention. The list goes on and on. In fact, Western Psych has more specialists in children’s mental health than any other behavioral health provider in the nation. These are children — innocent children who need help for various reasons. Could you look at one of them and call them crazy, simply because they’re wired a bit differently than you?

So we’re just going to say that the people at Western Psych don’t matter because they’re “crazy.” That people with depression aren’t worth our time and effort. That children with autism are useless. That trying to overcome addiction isn’t worthwhile. Really? That’s how we’re going to play?

Because I call bullshit.

I stand with those at Western Psych today and ask you to drop the name-calling, the finger-pointing.

I have anxiety. I have sought both in- and out-patient therapy for my anxiety and various bouts of depression. I have taken medication, sought alternative remedies and generally fought to live a normal life… despite the fact that people make fun of me when I say I have to go to therapy. Despite being given a hard time by friends who don’t believe that anyone should ever take medication for mental illness. Despite the stigma and shame that are thrust upon those who aren’t “normal.” Despite being told I’m “broken” or “less than” or that I won’t ever be good enough unless I ignore my diagnosis. But I am me. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I have fought Postpartum Depression. I am me.

I urge you to drop the crazy talk, tell your story and encourage others to do the same. What happened at Western Psych is a tragedy. It’s not less of a tragedy because it was in a place where people with mental health issues go for help. In fact, when you stop and think of it, it’s an even bigger tragedy when we invade a place that should be safe for all people and ruin it with senseless violence.

Our prayers go out to the victims of this senseless crime. We hold you in our hearts during this awful time.

Leading up to our Spring Show, I had a few dreams about the performance. Well, I’d really classify these as nightmares as they always went horribly. I think I had a total of two. Two nights ago, I had another dream about the show, though it had been over for two weeks. Again, everything went wrong. But I didn’t wake up after the show ended. And the dream, er, nightmare didn’t end there either.

On my way home from the theater, I came upon fire trucks and an old, tall church in the city that was on fire. Most of the flames were out by the point of my arrival. So, of course, as this was a dream, I made my way into the Sanctuary where I found my Husband. He was crying. So was his friend. After some discussion, I found that another firefighter to whom he was close was injured and another, one who was in our wedding, had died during an explosion in the fire. This dream went on for quite some time. I woke up with tears in my eyes.

Subconscious at work much?

In all of the years we have been together, I don’t think fire has entered my dreams in this way. I don’t know if that is in direct relation to the recent influx of fires or if it was just time for me to have that kind of a dream. When FireDad arrived home, I asked him if everyone was okay. He looked at me as if I had two heads. (But, yes, everyone is okay.) I later asked if the two firefighters who were harmed in the dream-blaze worked on the same shift. (They don’t.) When I explained my dream, he just kind of smiled at me. He knows me too well.

It’s curious, though, why I had such a nightmare now. My logical, rational, experienced fire-wife side knows that it is just because of the fact that fire has been so prevalent in our lives as of late. Plus, if you add up the years, I was probably due to dream something horrible. But my anxious, worried, loving fire-wife side doesn’t want to consider things like premonitions and omens and other such nonsense. I find it weird, really, that I’ve never had a dream of this nature when FireDad has had to dart off in the middle of the night, leaving me alone with my worried thoughts. Instead, it happened on a calm, no-fires night.

I had no such dream last night. (Though, perhaps, this was due in part to the thunder waking me up at 1:30 and 3:00. Also, we had a storm at 11:00pm which was in its full blast form at 11:34, causing our satellite to go out just one minute before Conan came on for his first Tonight Show appearance. I was sad.) I am pleased that FireDad switched with someone and is off for these three days in a row. His presence is calming and physically seeing him with my eyes is probably what I need right now. However, I know that if there is an all-hands call, he’ll be off in a flash even if he isn’t scheduled to work that day. I wonder when my next fire nightmare will be.

I think perhaps I need to start doing yoga before bed.

Motherhood is such an emotionally charged subject for me. As my foray into motherhood was interrupted by the relinquishment of my firstborn, I am prone to feeling overly guilty any time I need a moment to myself in the craziness of parenting two awesome boys. I often push myself harder and harder, way past my personal breaking point(s), because I feel that I should never take a moment I have with any of my children for granted. I am aware, on some level, that this is not the healthiest way to approach motherhood, that I should cut myself some slack and allow room for error. But it is a cycle I cannot seem to break.

Every time I raise my voice at my two year old for, you know, throwing toys or poking his younger brother in the forehead, I know that my neighbors will hear and that they will call Child Protective Services and that when they arrive they will automatically know that I am a birth mother, for it is a Scarlet Letter I wear upon my forehead, and they will take my children from me. No. Seriously. I live with this fear on a daily basis. And no, I don’t do anything to endanger my children to make that a legitimate possibility. In fact, possibly due to the relinquishment of my daughter, I am more prone to be that over-protective Helicopter Mom you see at the playground that follows her child from toy to toy, repeating over and over, “Be careful! Go slow!” I know that my fear is not based in logic, it is based in fear. But no one ever said that parenting was full of logic.

The reality of my motherhood is that I spend far too much time being afraid. What if BigBrother is walking down the steps on his own, as he needs to learn to do that, and he trips and falls and I can’t catch him? And at the hospital they think that I pushed him? And they take him away? Or what if LittleBrother rolls over onto his tummy while sleeping and suffocates and they think that I did it? Or what if this? And what if that? I play the what-if game every single day of my life. It is not a fun way to live.

And yes, I do work on these thing with my (awesome) therapist. There are days when I wake up and tell myself, “You will get through this day and you will be okay just like every other mother on the planet. There is no need to worry.” And then? I worry. My anxiety kicks in and the panic rides in on its Big Black Horse of Doom and I just try to make it through the day without hiding under the covers and pretending we’re building a “fort.”

The good thing in all of this is that I am not alone. Other first mothers have spoken up about their similar fears as they parent their children. They have survived and, in that, I know that there is hope for me. I know, on that core level, that I am an amazing parent. I know that my children are thriving under my care. I know that they love me with all of their beings just as I love them with every inch of my soul. I know that I am providing them with a safe, happy environment despite my fears. And I do, honestly, feel the success in that. Sometimes I even pat myself on the back and buy myself something nice. But it is a constant battle brought about by self-doubt and fear.

So, no. The truth is that my version of motherhood isn’t a bucket of rainbows. It’s hard at times. But all it takes is a big, snotty kiss from BigBrother, a smile from LittleBrother… or a phone call from the Munchkin… and, if only for a moment, those fears melt away and my world is at peace. Rainbows even pop out for a second or two, giving me reason to continue on this journey of motherhood.

–

This post was conceived out of a happy little Blog Blast about motherhood and the Discovery Health show Deliver Me over at the Parent Bloggers Network. I didn’t mean to get all heavy on you guys! But I’d be doing a disservice to myself and others if I didn’t actually share my truths. That’s the point of the blast, is it not? And? PS? This is the most “real” and “deep” I’ve delved on this blog since we moved domains. I’m tempted to close comments but, instead, pardon me while I go play “fort” with BigBrother.

But dang. We’re tired.

And so, we’re going to get ourselves labeled as sub-par parents. And we don’t give a rip. FireDad and I are taking off our parent hats for one evening and returning to FireHusband and FireWife. We’ve booked ourselves at a Super Swanky Hotel. I’ve purchased some cheesy St. Patrick’s Day themed clothing. We’re going to enjoy the presence of one another without the added bonus of whining and spit-up. And then we’re going to collapse in the big, fluffy bed. And sleep. Uninterrupted. For more than eight hours.

I’ve gotten some criticism from various Know-It-All Parents. But they aren’t living in my skin. My anxiety has made this one night away an absolute necessity. I am desperately trying to avoid medication for postpartum related issues which have exacerbated my anxiety. I went on medication after BigBrother was born and it wasn’t my most favorite experience in life (but not the worst either). Since then I have learned some creative coping techniques that I’ve been employing over the past few months. But? Truth be told? I need a refresher. I need one night away to breathe. I need to step back, reevaluate and remind myself of certain things. If it wasn’t for this night, which has been in the plans for awhile now, I don’t know if I could force myself to keep my chin up, to keep pushing towards healthy goals. It’s been the only reason I’ve made it through this hectic week: the promise of a brief reprieve.

As far as our breastfeeding relationship, I’m not all that worried about it. I’ve pumped over fifty ounces for less than twenty-four hours. My Mother is watching LittleBrother as she lives closer to where we will be staying and, as such, if something horrible happened, we could be to him in a short amount of time. He’s taken a bottle (three, to be exact) from my Mother-in-Law without issue before but, just in case, we’re also taking a medicine dropper. My Mom is also set to cloth diaper and co-sleep. Me and the breast issue? The pump is going with me. Yes, our night away will be broken up into two-to-three hour chunks of time as I remember to pump to keep my supply up (I respond well to the pump) but, hey, it’s okay. As much as I need a night away, my breastfeeding goals make pumping every now-and-then a non-issue. FireDad is supportive and plans to stalk Wii’s on the internet every time we return to the room to pump.

I’m hoping that, come Sunday morning, I will feel calmer. I just need to take some time to breathe. I just need to sleep for a few hours. (Here’s hoping the nightmares that have resurfaced won’t follow me to the hotel!) This is my last ditch effort to get my anxiety and emotions “on track” so as to avoid medication. I have every hope that it will work.

Plus, time spent with FireHusband (you know, FireDad) is time well spent. Word on the street is that he’s a hottie. I concur. When we come home, we’ll put our parent hats back on and once again be FireMom and FireDad. But this weekend is about us. (If I can stash the anxiety about leaving both boys… ugh.)

(By the way? The picture you see? Was from last year a week and a half before we found out that we were soon to be the everyday parents of two children instead of just one. We seem to conceive well during this time of year. So, uh, perhaps a plan of only sleep is the way to go this year! Oof!)