Today's a 2

Today's a bad day. And that's ok. You don't have to read if it makes you uncomfortable.
I don't post about it to get sympathy or pity or attention.
I post about it because I believe in being real and because of the personal messages of thanks I get from people who thought they were the only one struggling.



It started out being a really good day.
Our schedule has been working great, and we've really noticed improvements.
I woke up and got out of bed. We had couple prayer before Tucker kissed me and headed out the door. I did yoga. I ate breakfast. I studied the scriptures while Annie slept in. It was glorious.
And then at 8:30, a wave of exhaustion hit me out of nowhere, and I zonked out on the couch for an hour. At 9:30, I woke up to Annie crying in her crib so I stumbled through the kitchen to go get her. I could barely walk and took her back to my room where I collapsed onto the bed again for another hour while she switched between nursing, playing, and watching Curious George. At 10:30, she woke me up because she was starving and bored, and I was neglecting her. And being the awesome mom that I am (heavy sarcasm), I got annoyed with her and was irritable. I stuck her in her highchair and searched for something fast and easy to give her. The last banana had been eaten, so I decided to whip up some baby food pancakes real fast. And that failed over and over again into a lumpy, partially burned, mostly gooey mess. All-the-while, she just got more impatient and upset. I gave up after the 3rd attempt and just poured some fruit mix baby food into a reusable pouch and handed it to her. She went through 3 jars of it, poor girl.
And then Tucker texted me that he was on his way home earlier than planned. He swooped in and rescued me, sending me to work and taking over toddler duty, which included a poopy diaper and a giant puddle of milk spreading from the open sippy cup under the high-chair. I really don't deserve him.
The day got a little better. I like work because it's secluded and I have tasks to focus on. But seclusion can also be bad because then the anxiety kicked in, and I started feeling really guilty for leaving Tucker such a mess and being so depressed and forcing him to step up more than he should have to. And then it snowballed. The argument from last night that was totally forgotten this morning began to replay in my head and weigh me down. I checked my bank account and started stressing about money. Images from fitful and stressful dreams the night before floated up in my memory. The worst part of it is the guilt.
I want so badly to pull out of it. To stand up and say, "This is over," and suddenly be Karli again. I want to be fun. I want to be spontaneous. I want to be happy. I want to be strong. I want to be fierce. I want to be stable. I want to not be a burden. I want to be me.

Life Lesson #78917892428: Don't Try to Ween Yourself Off Your Depression and Anxiety Meds Without Talking to Your Doctor

I didn't mean to.

I just kept forgetting to go pick up my refill.

And then I thought, "What if....?"

What if I'm better?

What if I'm not a crazy lady anymore?

What if I can be me again without any "help"?

So I decided to experiment.

I just didn't go get the refill.

Monday was not so bad. By midday, I started to have some weird vertigo episodes and head rushes and increased heart rate. All normal withdrawal effects so I wasn't worried.

I knew Tuesday would be harder when I woke up with my head spinning. I got to work just fine, but staring at a computer screen only made things worse. I broke into my migraine emergency Diet Coke storage hoping a surge of caffeine would help, but I didn't notice much of a difference. Throughout the day, the symptoms just got worse.

Besides the withdrawal crap, I could feel myself starting to sink.

It's a weird experience feeling the depression and anxiety creeping in. It's a bit like standing on a beach, and as the waves wash under  you, your feet sink lower and lower in the sand. If you stay there long enough, you're stuck up to your calves. Or it's a little like being a bug in a glass jar watching the walls getting taller and taller above you. The more you search for an escape, the more frantic you get. And trying to sit and remain calm isn't doing you any good either because the glass just keeps getting taller. So you might as well freak out. Right?

Tuesday got worse and worse. By mid-afternoon, I called in my prescription and asked Tucker to go pick it up before the pharmacy closed. By 5:00, I was so done with the day, and I still had one class left. I sat in the back, trying to hold things together. Juries were the next morning, and my music wasn't memorized. Not only that, but what text had been in my head started slipping out. Sheets of music and words started jumbling together. If I paused for a second, I could feel the tightening in my throat start. So I just didn't stop. I paced in the back, muttering French lyrics over and over until it was my turn to sing in front of the class. I tried. The lyrics weren't in my brain anymore. But I still had until the next morning.

Tucker picked me up from class at 7:00. The last day of the semester. Over. It started to rain, and I got pretty damp in the 20 feet to the car. I climbed in and exhaled, slumping down into my seat. He surprised me by driving to pick up pizza for an end-of-semester celebration and shared some really incredible news with me. I tried so hard to be happy for him, but I was exhausted. While he went inside to get the pizza, I climbed in the back to feed Annie. Suddenly, I just felt everything all at once. I tried to cry, but my sobs were mostly dry. I just wanted to curl up with a blanket and sleep forever. Back at home, we ate pizza and watched TV, and Tucker tried to cheer me up. I tried to make a joke, but it came out mean and biting. Then I started to cry for real.

That's when Tucker stood up, took the baby, and said, "Alright! That's it! Where did I put your meds?!"

After a couple minutes, he brought me a pill with some water.

We took it easy the rest of the evening.

I put Annie to bed and eventually went to bed myself.

The next day, Tucker and I had a talk about how important it is for me to take my meds. I need them to function. I need them to be happy and calm. I need them to be able to handle everyday life.

Ok then.

I realized that despite knowing there's no shame in being dependent on medication, I didn't actually believe it. It annoys me that I can't be my normal self without that little pill. Why can't I just tell myself to chill out and be able to move on? Why does my brain build trivial, little issues into huge, insurmountable fortresses with armed guards and long-range archers waiting to shoot me down? Why does Annie's crying stress me out more than other moms and babies? Why is a mildly cluttered house fine one day and turning me into an impatient, panicky monster the next?

I don't know.

But I'm working on being ok with it.

And by ok, I mean happy.

I'm already ok with it.

But I need to be happy with it.

This is who I am now. Maybe just until I'm done breastfeeding. Or maybe forever.

Doesn't matter either way.

Time to accept it and stop waiting for the someday when I'm not dependent on meds anymore.

Because for all I know, that day might never come.

But who cares?

Because I can be happy right here. Right now.

Seven Months of Memories, Milestones, and Motherhood: Part 1

I remember the first time I walked home from work and it felt different. The gravel crunched under my feet, the leaves were changing from emerald to russet, the air - unusually warm for autumn - was clear and fresh, and for the first time, I was actually excited to get home to my baby.

It was mid-October. Annie was nearly 3 1/2 months old. And I'd just started a medicine to treat post-partum depression and anxiety.

Like any other pregnant lady, I did a lot of reading during those nine months. I knew about post-partum depression, that it was a real thing, and even knew several women who'd gone through it. Like most other potential issues, the "what if...?" crept into my thoughts on more than one occasion, but I tried not to dwell on it. No use worrying about things before you even know if it will apply to you.

So baby came and things were happy. We were tired and learning, but happy. Life was predictable, full of snuggles and naps and diapers and spit-up and poop and laundry and greasy hair. My body slowly healed, and within a few weeks, I was able to pull out my pre-pregnancy jeans if I actually felt like getting ready. Family visited. We attended a funeral and two weddings. And we just kept trucking along.

But the thought kept creeping in, "Why don't I like this? Shouldn't I like this?" I always looked forward to becoming a mother. All growing up, I heard, "Oh, you'll be such a wonderful mother someday!" And I believed it. Like I mentioned before, I was basically as prepared as possible, what with all the siblings and cousins I grew up with. I could do motherhood no problem, but being was a whole different issue. One that I was totally unprepared for.

I trusted those around me who said the first few weeks are the hardest, and that things would slowly become easier and more enjoyable. "It's just the baby-blues," they said, "Everyone goes through it." "Yes, it's hard, but isn't it just the most rewarding feeling?!" As the weeks went by, I began to resent the good-natured encouragement and looks of sympathy. The worst was "Oh honey, just give the baby to someone for a couple hours so you can take a nap. Sleep works wonders! You'll feel better!" First of all, I slept all snuggled up with Annie. I was probably sleeping 14+ hours a day most days and still felt exhausted. Sleep was NOT the issue. And second, I had no one to just give the baby to. Tucker worked. Friends moved. Family lived out-of-state. And I wanted to be the one taking care of her anyway - gotta love all those conflicting new-mom emotions.

Facebook didn't help any either. There were a few moms who'd given birth around the same time I did. I'd followed them through their pregnancies, feeling the same sense of excitement, looking forward to the journey ahead. I hated their happy, bubbly posts about how motherhood was the most beautiful thing in the world and came so naturally to them. I hated their cutesy crafts and perfect nurseries and handmade baby bows. I hated their perfectly captured month updates. And I hated myself for being so juvenile and not just being happy for them.

I was falling apart.

September arrived, family left, and school started. And the anxiety attacks became more frequent. Two or three times a week, I'd find myself huddled on the floor, fists knotted in my hair, hyperventilating. I resorted to holding Annie 15+ hours a day because I couldn't handle hearing her cry. Logically, I knew she'd be fine, but my nerves couldn't take it, and my brain was flooded with nonsense. But sometimes, even holding her wouldn't help, and I'd just get so frustrated. I'd be mad at myself because I couldn't help, I'd be mad at Annie because she needed me to help, and then I'd be even more mad at myself for getting upset with this beautiful, perfect, teeny blessing. It was a vicious cycle that often woke Tucker up a couple hours before he had to be at work. He'd take her from me with a worried look, not saying anything, and I'd flee the room wanting to punch holes through all the walls and pull my hair out.

In moments of clarity, I was just barely clinging to sanity. I'd see old pictures of myself and want to be that girl again so desperately. I wasn't me. Even more, I felt guilty because I wasn't who Tucker loved and married either. But he was there. For better or for worse. He gave me blessings when I asked for them. He stayed up until the baby was asleep so I could have a few minutes with him. I could see in his eyes that he missed me and that he was trying so hard to not let me see how hard it was on him, too. He had to be the strong one, which just made me feel more guilty.

The conflicting new-mom emotions of wanting to give this precious baby all of me while at the same time wishing there was an escape button, the resentment, the frustration, the exhaustion, the guilt...
It all just ate away at me.

The thought of seeking medical attention entered my mind occasionally, but I kept telling myself it would get better. The first couple months were fine so it couldn't be post-partum related, right?

Early October, I finally just decided to try it. I wanted answers so I made an appointment at the doctors office. They had me fill out some paperwork and answer some questions to assess my mental state. We sat in silence while the doctor tallied up the score. I liked her. She wasn't one of those sickly sweet doctors who look at you with pity. She was real. She'd been where I was. And she assured me things would get better. Because I was dealing with anxiety as well as depression, she filled a prescription that would take care of both and gave me the number for the counseling center.

I was surprised at how quickly it worked. I experienced a couple side-effects, but taking notice of the warm sunshine and feeling that gushy, bubbly feeling when my baby smiled at me more than made up for them.

Still facing school and work and motherhood, the battle wasn't totally over, but at least the playing field was a little more level now.

The rest of the semester was H.A.R.D. But we got through it! I had a hard time with letting gradesslide a little so I could focus on my more important priorities, but I was blessed with understanding teachers and made it to the finish line, even if I was finishing a research paper on Christmas Eve.

This semester has been unbelievably better. I feel like I finally have a grasp on my sanity and the face in the mirror is more familiar, more me. I'm finally feeling like I'm mountain climbing instead of just dangling off the edge of a cliff with no gear. Still hard, but not impossible. I'd even go so far as to say enjoyable and occasionally rewarding.

I'm thankful for modern medicine and that we're advanced enough that we can even treat hormonal imbalances and regulate emotions. At first, I was worried about becoming dependent on it, but I'm at the point now where I'm not worried about getting off of it. If I have to stay on medicine to be a normal human, then there's no shame in that. If it helps me be a better wife and mother and helps me be me, then I'm all for it. I'm also thankful for incredibly patient and supportive teachers, family, and friends. And more than words can say, I'm thankful for Tucker. He's definitely the one I want by my side through the rough patches for the rest of my life.

And I guess I'm thankful for this adorable stinker, too. ;)

Pre-Life Crisis

Ok, so I guess it's not really Pre-Life. But it kinda is. Pre-Karli-as-an-adult-Life. More like Pre-what-am-I-going-to-do-for-the-rest-of-my-life.


So here goes.


I miss being a nerd.


I was a nerd once. I once took a whole 2nd Quarter question as captain of National Academic League all to myself because I knew right off the top of my head that there are roughly 31,536,000 seconds in a year. I miss being the one who everyone gets mad at in Biology because I used my favorite word in a game that no one else knew the meaning to (the word was "recondite." It means "above the average level of thinking." I learned it after reading Wells' The Time Machine). I miss being one of the few who could explain thermodynamics and falling electrons and the color spectrum to another student (we'll just forget I took AP chem. Things changed that year). I miss feeling my brain work and stress, dendrites fusing, doing a calculus problem that takes 4 pages after TI-89 magic fails.


I miss academics. I miss feeling smart. I miss learning.


Not that I'm not learning now. I love music. Every time I perform, I feel like it's right. My whole life seems like it's shaped up perfectly for a career in music. It's a huge part of who I am. In fact, I'd reckon it sort of holds all the other different parts of me together. But those different parts are so different. I considered being an astrological engineer once. Or an OB-GYN. Or an Egyptologist working in Alexandria. Or a child psychologist. Or an interior designer. Or a member of the U.S. Uniformed Services. Or a child Social Worker (one who actually cared about the kids). Or an elementary school teacher. Or an opera singer.


And a wife and mother to lots of kids.


I've always hated school. I love learning, just never much cared for the modern institution of school. Especially now, where people want me to declare a major, or, in other words, plan the rest of my life right now. You know, I'm pretty sure Da Vinci and all the other famous philosophers would hate the modern educational system too. They got to spend years dabbling in whatever they wanted, whatever interested them. Art. Science. Math. Architecture. Literature. Religion. Politics. All of it. No one asked them, "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" and then laid out a plan for them and expected them to stick to it. They explored, experimented, and in doing so, learned a lot about a lot of things, and I'm willing to bet they learned a lot about themselves in the process, too.


I don't mean to rant. Just, I'm not sure which direction my life is headed. I know some things, the important things, but I'm not quite sure how to fit the rest of it into the picture, or what to even fit in. 


Right now, I'm on track to hit it big with opera. Not saying I will, I just have the connections and professors who know the path and could help me. Being a serious opera performer in America means travel. And a lot of it. Not the most stable family situation, but possible. My voice teacher's wife starred at the MET for 5 years. She's pregnant with their 4th or 5th child and flies out to LA or NYC or wherever every few weeks when her agent calls and schedules a show. So a family life is possible. Just difficult. Unless I want to move to Europe. I could live near an opera house, send my kids off to school in the morning and my husband off to work, go to work myself for a couple hours, be home in the afternoons when the kids return, have dinner together as a family, and go back to work for evening rehearsals. But I don't expect a husband to do that. And would I even be willing to do that? Plus, performing soprano roles in opera often involves less-than-ideal situations involving little clothing and lots of other men all in front of an audience. Even if it is art or part of the drama, it's not something I, myself, want to deal with.


So what? I could teach music in schools. I wouldn't be happy. My passion is in performing, and high school choir teachers have one of the biggest burn-out rates of any career. Low pay, lots of extra time outside the 40 hour week, plus the necessity of figuring out other ways to get extra money. It takes a very special person to do that. And I fully admit I'm not one of them.


I could teach elementary school. I would LOVE that. And I have lots of experience. But I'd always wonder what would have happened had I decided to pursue music.


Or I could go into medicine. But am I even going to want to go through med school?


I just wanna be a mom. And do everything else too.


I feel stuck. Don't get me wrong! I am so happy with who I am and where I am. I love life right now. In fact, today was a really really good day. I walked all the way home smiling for no particular reason other than I was happy. I just feel like I need to explore a little. Maybe that means going home for a semester and working and taking community college courses. Maybe it means flying somewhere different and just living for awhile. Maybe it means staying put but changing the way I live. I don't know. I'll figure it out.


I can't wait to be old and be on the other side of this, laughing at myself for worrying because, of course, everything will turn out for the best.


But for now, I'm just confused.

tick. tock. SMASH.

Hickory, Dickory Dock

The mouse ran up the clock

The clock struck one

The mouse ran down

Scurrying away from the raging Karli coming to smash the clock with a hammer.

Don't judge me. yet. I love clocks. Love them. So much, in fact, that I have this fantasy of having a "clock wall" in my house some day. One wall entirely devoted to beautiful, unique TICK-LESS clocks.


You see, dear reader, I have what I like to call the "Captain Hook" syndrome. Ticking clocks drive me nuts. They tick. and tick. and tick. digging into every fiber of my being to the point where if I can hear a ticking clock, my foot unconsciously keeps time with it. And then I go crazy.

Most of the time, it's honestly not that bad. If I can keep myself busy, I can usually push the incessant ticking to the back of my mind.

BUT if I am trying to sleep, it's hopeless.

Back home, I'd lay in bed for hours hating the ticking clock in the boys' bathroom down the hallway. It's one of the reasons why my fan is ALWAYS on, to drown out the ticking and thus, calm the threatening insanity.

And then I came to college. And there, on the bookshelf in all its tick-tock-yness sat my roommate's clock. I loathed it from the moment I saw it. Not wanting to be rude, though, I chose to deal with it. Most nights, if I leave the door open, the sound of the perpetually running toilet blocks the ticking. Yes, toilet-sound helps me sleep. weird. And on a few occasions, I have had the gall to remove the batteries to the perplexity of my roommate when she noticed a few days later. However, two nights ago, I'd fallen asleep while my roommate was still awake. Lights on and everything. I must have been exhausted. Plus, it was only 11:15. I was planning on full 8 hours with some time to do some extra stuff before work in the morning. 

Mr. Clock had other plans.

When my roommate noticed I was asleep, she walked out turning out the lights and SHUTTING THE DOOR. 

tick. tock. tick. tock. tick. TOCK.

I instantly awoke, ready to explode, I tell you! I glared at the glow-in-the-dark hands beating away each second of my life. Once my roommate was in bed, I sneakily got up and opened the door. 10 minutes later, my roommate sneakily got up and shut the blasted thing again.

It's now well after 1:00 AM. And I am NOT a happy camper.

And then I had an idea. I pulled out my ipod and turned on the same piano music I used to fall asleep to every night as a kid. Problem. In order to not hear any ticking, I had to turn the music up so loud that it pretty much defeated the purpose of lulling me to sleep. Plus, as I laid (lied? lay? lie?) there, I realized my foot was still beating out time from the clock, not the music. Fail.


Exhausted and absolutely miserable, I dragged my blankie and little pillow into the kitchen (not-so-softly shutting the bedroom door) and crashed on the couch for a few hours respite from that devil clock.


The next morning, a frustrated and grumpy Karli was seriously considering smashing the thing to a pulp. I swear, the devil himself invented the second-hand. Instead, my less violent, decorate-y side remembered those wonderful inventions call Command Strips (I raved about them in my first ever post). I dug through my desk drawer, thrilled to find some at the very bottom, and stuck that blasted clock to the kitchen wall WHERE IT WILL STAY FOR THE REST OF THE SEMESTER NEVER TO DISTURB MY SLEEP AGAIN SO HELP ME JIMMER!


Ha! I win. :)