"You could rattle the stars. You could do anything, if you only dared."

Dear Harper,

In exactly one week and 2 days, you will officially be a kindergartener.  You probably don’t even realize your little world is going to be turned upside down.  You poor thing.  Let’s face it: you’re the second born.  We don’t have a “Countdown to Kindergarten” posted.  Mommy hasn’t been obsessively quizzing you on letter sounds and sight words like I did to your older sister (may God bless her little, anxiety-ridden soul).  We don’t count every single step we take, but somehow you still count to 60 and I haven’t the faintest idea how that happened.  My mind knows that I should have done these things, but…let’s call a spade a spade.  Mommy slacked with you and I’m sort-of, kind-of, maybe a little bit sorry.  But, not really.  Because, I know that you my man, my little dude that terrified us when we thought you would never hear, when we thought you would never speak…you will be just fine.

I know that starting kindergarten is not nearly as exciting as your new Lego Batman t-shirt; and doesn’t even compare to your recent discovery that pterodactyls are in fact reptiles and not dinosaurs.  But, to your mommy…this moment is the beginning. The beginning of the ache.  That feeling right under the left side of my chest, right where my heart resides, that feeling that lets me know you’re growing up.  So before the lump in my throat bursts, I’m here to present you with a list of advice as you start this next adventure. Listen carefully. Remove my favorite smirk of yours off your face. And try to be serious, if only for a second.

1.    When you think you’ve wiped “good enough”, wipe again.

 I’m coming out of the gates swinging with this one, little dude.  Seriously.  Take that extra minute to grab another couple squares and wipe, again.  There is no full-length mirror for you to bend over and check your bottom.  Lord knows, your kindergarten teacher will not wipe your hiney, so don’t even ask.  You do not want your first nickname in school to be “Skid Marks”.  Wipe again.

2.    When it’s Rest Time, for the love of God, REST.

Your little brain has worked hard.  Your growing body is exhausted.  You may not know this and this may be a lot to take in, but you are in school all day this year. Yes, all day.  So, when the lights go out and you put your little head on your towel, please close your eyes.  You don’t have to fall asleep, but you do have to shut your mouth.  If not for you, then be a champ and do it for your kindergarten teacher.  She is dog-tired and daydreaming of wine and bubble baths and door knobs that lock.

3.    Use all the crayons in the box.

I know blue is your favorite color, but leaves aren’t blue. The sun isn’t blue. If your teacher comments on how beautiful your blue sun is… tell her thank you, but know that she is blatantly lying to you.  So, don’t be afraid to use all the colors in the crayon box.  And remember, even the broken ones can make beautiful things.

4.    Share. Share. Share.

Even if you like it, it is not yours. If you saw it first, it is not yours.  If it is in your hand, it is still not yours.  All the blocks do not belong to you.  The playground balls do not have the name Harper written on them.  You want to make a friend?  Share. You want to keep a friend?  Share.  No one wants to play with a kid that doesn’t share.  But, please remember that the sharing stops at lice.

5.    It’s ok to wear pink in Housekeeping.

Boys can wear pink and boys can wear dresses.  Girls can wear blue and girls can wear ties.  Kindergarten is the time to be who you are and try out who you may be; and to not even think about that because you are five and you’re just hoping to get through the day without skid marks.  Wear the dress if you want.  Wear pink.  If you don’t want to, no problem.  But, don’t you dare giggle at the one who does.  However, if your teacher has anything resembling a Steelers or Patriots uniform, know that it is not ok and there will be consequences when you get home.

6.    Being headstrong is acceptable, being a little asshole is not.

You are indeed my son.  We have a quasi-Napolean complex and occasionally feel the need to exert our passionate opinions to compensate for our vertical shortcomings.  Pretty much, we've got the makings of a little asshole; but we can choose not to be.  Harps, it's appropriate to stand up for yourself.  Assert your feelings.  Be resilient.  Persevere.  Be determined.  But, remember that showing respect for and truly listening to the ideas and feelings of others is what will set your spirited self apart from the ones that your teacher prays are absent the next day.  So, don’t be a little asshole.

7.    It’s ok to not know. It’s not ok to not try.

You love all things awesome.  But, awesome is not always easy, my little dude.  So, try.  Try, try, try.  What if you fail?  So, what.  But, just maybe, what if you soar? 

8.    Be kind.

This one is simple.  Give people that big, silly heart of yours.  Be the reason someone smiles.  Don’t wait for someone to be nice to you, show them how.  Every day.  How you make others feel about themselves, says a lot about you.  So, be kind and you’ll feel the sparkles for the rest of your life.

            My last piece of advice my dear Harper, is the one that gives me the feels.  That makes my heart spin and makes the ache swell at the same time.  Number 9: Be you.  Your story is just beginning.  Some people wait their whole lives to be themselves.  Don’t. Don’t stop being you.  The spirited kid.  The ornery one.  The lover of the ladies.  The one who seeks adventure.  The believer in magic and the believer in Bigfoot.  The one who makes our hearts laugh and our hearts burst.  My wild thing.  You will meet people along the way that will try to change you because they don’t know you.  Show them.  Show them why the world was waiting on a Harper.

You are so loved.

- Mommy

P.S - Number 10: Giving mom a hug is and will always be totally, totally cool. 

"You were never created to live depressed, defeated, guilty, condemned, ashamed or unworthy. You were created to be victorious."

I knew this day would come. I didn't know how. I didn't know when.  But, I knew it would find its way.  It’s been almost 8 years in the making.

8 years ago, this post would have been plastered with threads of confusion and denial. Then later, utter hopelessness. 5 years ago, it would have been mangled in despair. Two years ago, most likely anger.  Because, that’s the stages of grief, right?  But, now it’s something surprisingly different. 

I’m not quite sure when it happened.  When my whole being shifted. I still have random moments when I remember. And I cry.  I try to think when the crying changed from tears of fury and anguish; to tears of strength and “Holy shit. I made it. I survived.” Because that’s when it struck me… that I was finally, finally healing. My wounds are still there, but they don’t need a bandage anymore. They left me with scars.  Scars that I’d rather not have, but I’m proud of at the same time.  And, that’s ok. Because I fucking made it. I’m here.  Hell, I’m one bad-ass motherfucker. And I’m finally ready to tell my story…because it needs to be told.  The stigma of mental illness needs to be erased.  The surprise and shock that a kindergarten teacher, a self-proclaimed “baby whisperer”, an absolute lover of all things innocent and little CAN go through this - it needs to be recognized.  And most important - maybe, just maybe, someone out there needs to hear these words. Right now.

So, settle in. It’s a long one.

I knew I would never get pregnant.  It wasn't a question, it was an ABSOLUTE statement.  I was 25, in good shape (not college lacrosse days shape, but good shape nonetheless), no underlining physical health conditions, no family history of infertility. But to me, pregnancy was an inconceivable.  My mind “knew” it.  Truth. And my mind fixated on this one thought that to me, was simply "reality". 

But, I did get pregnant.  And right away, I might add, even to the disbelief of my husband.

So, my mind moved on to the next thought - I knew there would be something wrong with my baby.  I just "knew". And there went the next nine excruciating months of my life.  I should have clued in.  I should have noticed the signs.  The signs that my diagnosed OCD and ensuing depression were now in full-on manic mode.  The signs should have prepared me for the next battle.  But, when it’s a daily struggle to get your mind under control for the next minute, the next second… you’re not preparing for the future.  You’re only concern is the moment you’re living in- right then and there.

I gave birth to my first born, a healthy baby girl named Maggie, via cesarean after a mentally exhausting 30 hours of labor.  My blood pressure was out of control.  Hell, my mind was out of control.  When the doctor mentioned a c-section, my mother and husband pretty much screamed “Sign us up!”  The following moments in the operating room were a blur.   I only have glimpses of memories; and it’s still hard to distinguish from reality and fiction.  When the nurse showed me “that baby”, my first memory was looking at her and thinking, “I guess I’m supposed to give her a kiss.”  I will never, ever forget that first thought; it still haunts me to this day.   I didn't know who that child was because she certainly wasn’t mine. Surely, if she was my child than I would have taken one look at her, confetti would have rained down, a choir would be singing that song from “The Lion King”, and my heart would have surged through my chest.  But, no, this child. This child was a stranger.  The next couple of days in the hospital were cloudy to say the least.  I was living on a different planet.  I was out of my body looking down at someone that looked a whole damn lot like me, but she was holding “that baby” again, that stranger.  I remember my dear mother-in-law saying something like, “Don’t you just look at her and wonder how there could ever be something better than this?”  I may have smiled at her, who knows? But, inside I thought, “No, I don’t.”  However, I kept that thought tucked away. It was too dark. Too scary.

When we brought Maggie home, my Mom lived with us for the next week. I was barely existing.  If I held the baby it was because my mom and husband insisted.  Family stopped in and I made them hold the baby.  I faked smiles, I did my best to make it seem like I was just exhausted; not scared of this new life, not scared of MYSELF.  No one outside of our family was invited to meet our baby girl; including our large group of friends who were chomping at the bit to meet Maggie - the first baby in our close circle of friends.  But, I wasn't ready to face the world.  I was masking these terrifying feelings of panic, confusion, and total despair.  Eventually, these feelings morphed into unspeakable thoughts.  Atrocious thoughts.  What I now know are termed 'intrusive thoughts'. “What if I put a pillow over her face while she was sleeping?  What if I accidentally stabbed her with the knife I was using to cut my sandwich?  What if I dropped her down the stairs?”  I could actually picture me doing these things despite the fact that I didn't want to do these things.  So, dear God, why wouldn't they just fucking leave?  Inside I was wasting away.  I was lost inside of myself.  I remember sitting in the basement with my husband one evening - he was holding Mags, holding onto to her little fingers, smiling like he finally had a glimpse into Heaven; and I looked at him with lifeless eyes and said, “I want things to go back to how they were before she was born.” He peered up at me and I knew that I had killed him.  My words, my thoughts were a razor blade to his heart.  It was the first time I thought that whatever was happening... well, there was no words.

Thankfully, after Mags was delivered my team of doctors immediately started me back on Paxil, the medication I had been taking for depression and, mainly, for OCD since I was 18.  During that time I tried to confide in my doctor and she said, “Oh, you’re a new mom. Things will get better.” But, my heart and my being knew she was wrong. I walked out of her office and never returned.  After weeks of existing in the deepest pits of hell, the medication started kicking in.  After one month, I was starting to get use to this “new normal”.  Mags was a month, maybe even two months old, when I looked at her for the first time and thought “Oh my God.  I love this child.  I actually love her.”  When you wait for so long for that feeling, you never forget it. I still remember when and where I was when that feeling hit me.

Fast forward one year later.  One year of hearing the choir sing, the confetti rain down.  One year of feeling like I was blessed with this insurmountable gift.  One year of wondering what I did to deserve this little girl? One year. One year and I went off my much-needed medicine and I relapsed.  The thoughts came back. Tenfold.  And with those thoughts came the only truth I knew - I couldn't be Maggie’s mom.  And if I couldn't be her mom, then I couldn't be.  I couldn't BE.  After looking at my own Mom one morning and barely breathing to her, “If you don’t take me to the hospital right now, I will not be here tomorrow”; I voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric hospital for 5 days.  When I got there, I knew I had to leave. I couldn't breathe. I begged my family.  I curled on the floor, laid my shaking head on their knees, and begged them to take me home - a scene straight from Hollywood.  But, they refused.  And in that moment, in that one word “NO”, they saved my life.  They. Saved. My. Life. I could write a novel (a very long novel) on what I learned about myself; about being a mom; about the miraculous doctors who made me understand that OCD, Postpartum Depression and Postpartum OCD would never, EVER define me as a person; and that my PPOCD was actually a heightened manifestation to protect my children at all costs (say, what?); but that’s for another time. And quite honestly, there aren't enough words in the world to express my gratitude.  One professional expressed to my husband and I that he had “Never met a mother more dedicated to her child than you.”  During horrible moments, moments when I remember, that single affirmation reminds me of why I made it: because everything I did, everything I endured, everything carried me to Maggie. To Maggie.

Some years later, my husband, and I decided we would try for another baby. With a massive team of doctors, we had a plan. Game on. I was switched to the teeniest dose of Zoloft that I took every other day throughout my pregnancy. I continued to go to therapy.  I was open and brutally honest about my feelings.  While my first pregnancy was a battle, this one seemed like a breeze.  It wasn't easy, but it was manageable. 

38 ½ weeks later, our son Harper was born.  They showed him to me and I immediately smiled.  I smiled, then I laughed because I. Freaking. Smiled!  And I didn't worry about not hearing the choir, because I didn't think to worry.  People watched me like a hawk, but I was ok.  And then one night, something changed.  My nurse walked in to do a blood pressure check and damn it, something changed.  She didn't have to say a word.  Her face held everything.  And I knew.  In that instant, I knew.  My son, my teeny boy, was going through withdrawal from the Zoloft.  They said it was possible, but the doctors were almost certain with such a “baby dose” it wouldn't happen.  But, it did.  According to the doctors it wasn't bad, he didn't need meds to help him, he would be fine, and it only lasted for 48 hours.  But that 48 hours could have been 48 years, I wouldn't have known the difference. 48 hours was all it took for my world to implode.  “I hurt my baby,” was the only thought that seemed real.  And with that one alarming phrase, the horrific feelings returned.  That’s the simple version when it was anything other.  If those unspeakable thoughts left my world in a chaotic mess with Maggie, this time... this time they held a revolver to my head.  But, with medication and intensive therapy, I made it out.  Alive…again.  Pretty exhausting, right?

It sounds like I went through battle.  Dear Lord. I did.  You see, mental illness is like constant combat.  Everyone has demons inside.  Everyone.  Some are louder than others.  Some push us to our limits.  Some stay dormant.  Some nip at your heels everyday.  And some. Some try to convince you it's not worth it. And if your demons are out to play right now…keep pushing, keep going. Have courage.  Carry on. Think of me. Think of the madness I endured. And then, picture me now: with my head held high, my crown back on, and my middle finger in the air…walking away like a boss. A BOSS.

Because when you make it out alive. Full of breath. Full of hope. Full of purpose.  When you look at your story and your two beautiful, astounding, healthy children and think everyday, “How did I become so blessed to be your mom?” Then it was worth the fight.  It was worth the war. Every fucking bit of it.

"Throw me to the wolves and I will return, leading the pack."