It's only been three days since I ran out of Citalopram, but if I don't get those glorious little pills back in my possession, by the time Thanksgiving Day rolls around I may or may not have to primal scream at the dinner table right there in front of my mamaw. The kids will start crying, my poor husband will go hide in the basement, but I'm pretty sure my dad will laugh because, well, this sort of thing isn't happening to him anymore.
I started taking this wonder drug about five years ago, when my older two children were just starting to test the limits of my sanity. They hadn't even mastered their craft yet. It wasn't that they were unusually rowdy kids, but I found myself to be so much less than the mother I had once envisioned I'd be. Their unending arguments and physical tussles would set my teeth on edge, and to be completely honest, I felt rage welling up inside. It truly frightened me. After a lot of prayer, counsel from Christians I trusted and internal back-and-forth, I decided to give medicinal intervention a try.
Those of us in church circles know all too well the stigma that comes along with taking antidepressants. There's this unspoken notion that we don't fully rely on the Lord for strength and joy. And, of course, how could we not be so in love with our precious children that we would need a Mother's Little Helper to get through a day of homeschooling, baking, cleaning and being thin, beautiful and generally awesome--right? Let me stop you right there and tell you I don't do all that stuff, mkay?
What added to my anxiety was the judgement I've felt as a flawed mom from other moms--and some of them in the Church--that had built up in me since having my babies. I've noticed the stares, heard the whispering and felt the judgement when my kids act up. One example burned into my heart happened while walking my two little guys to the car after a Bible study. At the time, my son was not yet 3 and was a runner; I was extremely pregnant with my third and did well to waddle. He wriggled his hand free of mine and took off toward the parking lot. Since he's still with us, you can deduce that I caught him, but no thanks to the gaggle of women standing outside who witnessed the whole thing and did absolutely nothing to help. One in particular who had seen me do the panicked quick waddle after my straying sheep actually exclaimed afterward, "Whew, that was a close one, huh?" Thanks for noticing, I guess.
Since then, I've felt my mothering skills are less than stellar--mostly because of that awful inner dialogue that daily tells me I'm failing my kids. Being a mom is, by far, the most stressful job I've ever had--and that includes six years in a newsroom. It's 24/7. The stakes couldn't be higher and there are no breaks, no awards or vacation time. And after a while, it takes a toll. There's so much tension and self-disappointment sometimes I don't recognize myself. The enemy is powerful in this department, is he not?
What added to my anxiety was the judgement I've felt as a flawed mom from other moms--and some of them in the Church--that had built up in me since having my babies. I've noticed the stares, heard the whispering and felt the judgement when my kids act up. One example burned into my heart happened while walking my two little guys to the car after a Bible study. At the time, my son was not yet 3 and was a runner; I was extremely pregnant with my third and did well to waddle. He wriggled his hand free of mine and took off toward the parking lot. Since he's still with us, you can deduce that I caught him, but no thanks to the gaggle of women standing outside who witnessed the whole thing and did absolutely nothing to help. One in particular who had seen me do the panicked quick waddle after my straying sheep actually exclaimed afterward, "Whew, that was a close one, huh?" Thanks for noticing, I guess.
Since then, I've felt my mothering skills are less than stellar--mostly because of that awful inner dialogue that daily tells me I'm failing my kids. Being a mom is, by far, the most stressful job I've ever had--and that includes six years in a newsroom. It's 24/7. The stakes couldn't be higher and there are no breaks, no awards or vacation time. And after a while, it takes a toll. There's so much tension and self-disappointment sometimes I don't recognize myself. The enemy is powerful in this department, is he not?
But here are a few matters to ponder, my fellow church ladies: First, joy and happiness are not the same thing. Happiness is an emotion that often is dependent on circumstances. Emotions aren't good or bad--they just are. Emotions ebb and flow, so heaven help you if you make decisions based solely on them. Joy; however, is a state of knowing that no matter what life throws at us--and it will throw some pretty nasty curve balls, no matter who you are--your future is secure because of your relationship with Christ. Still, I struggled with the question of whether my stress related more to my sins of perfectionism and disappointment in having not achieved it than to a chemical imbalance. There was only one way to find out.
While you may suppose past generations of moms were able to raise several children without medicinal help, consider that our present culture isn't the same as it was for them. We're busier than ever, and the kids we are responsible for raising are expected to achieve more and to participate in more, earlier than ever. More is expected of us, ladies, and the standards are impossible. Plus, I bet you a dollar to a donut that if you could go back in time and offer a Prozac to your great-great-gramma, who got up at 4:30 a.m. to milk cows, help her husband work the farm and raise 12 kids, she'd take it--perhaps with a swig of whiskey.
Let me suggest to you that the aforementioned stigma exists only in your head. I've learned this in the last few years while in Bible studies, at least the ones where the ladies are willing to take off their masks. We all end up talking about our struggles to deal with growing families and the stress that all but overtakes us. In initially hushed tones, we talk about the diagnoses, the therapy sessions, the prescriptions. But once we come to the realization that we are in a sisterhood, we can relax and even laugh about it. Sometimes there also is joy that comes from knowing (to borrow a phrase from the Cheshire Cat) that "we're all mad here." And more than that silly pill, I need to know that you'll be there, dear sister, to laugh and cry with me.
Speaking of which... The beauty of Citalopram for me has been that it didn't alter my personality or cloud my thinking like some other meds have in the past. They all affect each person a bit differently, but this one merely helped me handle stress better. I can take the kids' loud, destructive antics without completely losing my stuff. Most of the time. The only thing I couldn't do, interestingly enough, was cry. Oh sure, if something truly sad happened--a relative dying or some other sort of tragedy--I would most definitely shed some tears. But the run-of-the-mill daily craziness isn't going to make me dissolve into a puddle as it once did.
So imagine my surprise when, sans scrip, I found myself crying in spin class this week. SPIN CLASS. Linda Grady, I promise it wasn't your tobadas that made me misty. Some song lyric reminded me it was Veteran's Day. That reminded me of my papaw. And that reminded me how much I miss him. And then it was all over. I was mopping up more than sweat with that hand towel.
Not to state the obvious, but since running out of Citalopram I've been having some extra feelings. We took our annual family photos, which was extraordinarily bad timing. Getting three little kids to look in the same direction and smile nicely while refraining from hitting, poking, pushing, licking, stomping or calling one another some potty-related name is as likely as capturing a unicorn and keeping it in your backyard for a pet. At one point, the photographer had to remind me to breathe in and out. Poor thing. I may have been the worst behaved of the Johnson five that day.
I could use some extra grace, but I'm willing to bet that so do you, mama. Let's not forget we're in this thing together. So Lord, help us all. And, Dr. Patel, if you could just get on to that paper work, that would be great.
Cheshire Cat
