Guess what? I finally did it! I finally published a book!
My dream was to publish a book by age 30… I am in my 30s, so that counts, right?
This one is not my memoir, but acts as a companion to it. It is titled As a Living House and it is about tools, tips and tricks I used to overcome PTSD. I hope it can help you on your journey as well!
It is available on kindle devices or on Amazon. If you don’t have a kindle device, download it from Amazon and read from the app!
I will give you a short snippet, but then you need to go buy it.
Seriously, ya’ll, it is $2.99 and you can read it in an hour or less. For less than the price of a latte at Starbucks and in the time it would take you to drink it, you will be done! Go get it! Maybe I can buy a month’s worth of lattes with the royalties…
Both my children were born prematurely. Other than lacking the suckle reflex and being fed au gavage, my daughter was fine, but my son was special needs the first two years of his life and came home on a heart monitor. With my son, I had been in the hospital for 6 weeks prior to his birth because of some problems with my pregnancy, including my water breaking at 28 weeks, and he was in the hospital for 7 weeks. With my daughter, despite all precautions, the situation became quite traumatic quite quickly. She was born via emergency C-section in which even the doctor was fearful he could save both of our lives; but we lived, so I decided it was all fine.
I refused to go back on antidepressants after my daughter was born.
I had gone on them briefly after I stopped breastfeeding my son, but this time was different, I kept telling myself. After the initial 2 weeks of postpartum hell called “baby blues”, I felt fine. I had decided that this time would be better. I would steel my resolve. I would breastfeed longer. My daughter breastfed like a champ despite her tongue tie. I bonded with her quicker than I did with my son and I wasn’t crying non-stop. I wasn’t depressed. It would be fine. This time was different. I had decided.
I wasn’t depressed. I had post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.
Medical professionals looked at me with tender pity. They seemed to know what I didn’t. The disorder seemed to permeate from me like a sour perfume. I was in denial. It would get worse before it would get better. I would need antidepressants to navigate my life and crippling emotions.
But I was breastfeeding and not depressed, so I refused. A nurse we were working with assured me that some antidepressants were safe for breastfeeding if that was my only concern.
‘They aren’t safe for my baby,’ I convinced myself, my obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) already starting to kick in along with and eerily linked to my maternal instinct. They were practically the same entity.
When the time came to face my emotions, I basically had no other choice but to because I was drowning in them. I was being swallowed in their undertow.
I talk a lot about self-care and ways to calm yourself, but the truth is, I could’ve sat there all day, surrounded by candles, bathing in aromatherapy and wearing a detoxifying face mask and still not have the instincts that I need to pull through. I would have just been longing for death in a bathtub that smelled like lavender.
Happy Reading!
Megan
