Sorry I've Been Gone : Update Blog

So,

I've been absent as of late, and for this I apologize.

I've been suffering sever writers block, and all I've come up with is a menagerie of half written blogs and 1 fairly explicit 'mommy's only' post about postpartum boobs. That one made me laugh, but my husband didn't appreciate it quiet as much (you can find that post in the archives though, I just didn't share it).

I'm back on my daily dose of sanity, in my case that's the wonder drug by the name of Lamictal, keeping my mood swings in check but with that means less mania, which is a good thing, though some of my most productive times have been in a manic state. Can't keep riding the coat tails of insanity though...

Along with my Lamitcal has come a decision to re-commit to AA, many of you know my past but for those of you who don't, simply put, AA is a good thing to keep in my life. Sobriety is important to me because I'm one of those 'all or nothin' kind of people, and the 'all' can get a little extreme in my case.

I do my best to start my day with the Bible and the Big Book. I do what my sponsor tells me, when I'm able, and I follow the steps outlined for me by 'those who have come before' as the Big Book says.

I attend daily meetings, but my favorite is my monday meeting where the youngest person in the room besides me is in their late 60's.

With all this set before me, I can make my mental daily check list, and if I stick to it the odds are in my favor.

1. Read the Bible and the Big Book
2. Get dressed and ready before 10 am
3. Go to a meeting
4. Go to work, don't mess anything up
5. Take Charlotte for a walk
6. Call sponsor
7. CLEAN
8. WRITE!!!

The list has a few other guide lines and thoughts added but for the most part, I do these things daily.

I don't always read as much as I should, and as of 10:54am I'm still not dressed, though it's next on my task list. I'm planning on hitting a 2 o'clock meeting, I work at 4, Charlotte and I will walk if the weather permits, I will call my sponsor, though I always resent these calls for some unknown reason, I've been tiptoeing around the 'Clean' part of my day, but I'll do my best, and here I am writing!

Living with Bipolar disorder does effect me. It effects my day to day life, and the lives of those close to me. Even on medication, there's always the chance of a bad day, feeling more depressed then I have reason to be, or having a bit too much energy and falling on the 'annoying' side of the line. I had to give up nursing and now I find myself spending an exuberant amount of money of formula, which is far from ideal. My anxiety has risen, but I'm still functional, so that's a plus.

My days are fuller now, between Charlotte, work and AA commitments, I feel like the sun rises and sets before I have a chance to catch up. I keep finding myself realizing what I've so casually taken for granted,

Being a stay at home mom for 6 months! What a blessing that was!
Being able to nurse my daughter for nearly 7 months! Thank God for keeping me wain off my meds for that long!
Sobriety, because the second I dip my toe in the poison of my choice, things catapult towards a general state of awfulness.
Having family all around me, though a place of our own would be nice, I will always be thankful for the time we spent at my parents, with all of Charlottes aunts and uncles vying for her attention.
Having friends who understand. I do miss my friends in Houston, especially as they go on to have babies of their own, (Miranda, you'll always be one of my dearest friends!) but I'm eternally grateful for the new friends I've made in Long Beach, (what's up Nancy) and not to mention the Church we've found (Gardner's 4life) I really do feel #blessed.

And with all this said....what color is that dress!!!

Talking About Boobs, Again.

Okay! So, if you find the subject matter of boobs offensive or crude in anyway, then this post is not for you. I'm talking about boobs today.

There are three categories of readers and depending on where you fall, you may or may not relate to this post. There are obvious exceptions, but generally speaking you're one of the following -

1) You have boobs, and baby(s) and your boobs aren't quiet what they used to be

2) You have boobs, and no baby, and your boobs are as they always have been

3) You don't have boobs (male readers, tread softly)

Of course there is category 4) You have boobs, and baby(s) and for whatever reason, surgery or freak of nature, your boobs are unscathed; if you are in this category, you can leave now. Just go away. I don't want to see you and your cute boobs.

(Seriously though, any cuteboobs-postpregnancy readers need to leave now, i actually hate you.)

The other day, while hanging out with my oldest of friends, I reached over the grab something and once again, my F$%^&* boob fell out of my bra. This never ceases to amaze/piss me off. My once perky and awesome boobs are now a little on the pancake side and they have this insane habit of falling out of my bra when I bend over.

What!? If you had told me one day my perfect boobs would rebel in such a way I would have scoffed.

I began on one of my crazy rants, ending in what was basically a post partum 'show and tell', and left my dear friend rolling on the floor laughing. Old friends are special because they can squeal things like "OH MY GOD! You used to loveeee your boobs! That is NOT what they used to look like!!!" while laughing through tears and it only makes you want to punch them a little bit.

"When I bend over, sometimes my boobs just fall out of my bra" I stated blankly

I then bent over dramatically to prove my point.

"All women must experience this right? and just, no one talks about it..." this is when I decided to write another boob blog.

So of course, if I wear the 'right' bra, everything is fine. The girls still look super cute when they're packaged correctly, but as a working mother just how often I can dig up the 'right' bra, and not just throw on the bra sitting on top of the laundry pile, well that's a daily battle I often lose.

Let me take you back a few years...

From the moment I realized boobs were a cool thing to have, probably around 14, I decidedly loved mine. They were pretty damn perfect, at least I thought so, and so began the Library of Alexandria size archive of boob selfies, which I took purely on the Samantha a'la Sex In The City thought wave of "I'm going to be old one day, but today I look great so I'm taking a picture so one day I can look back and say 'DAMN! I was hot!'"

Honestly, I'm glad I have those pictures. Not so I can look back on the good ol' days and mope. Not to remember that I was hot. And not to make myself feel better in anyway.
I'm simply glad I have them because DAMN! I wassss hot! And that's not who I was, it's who I am. 

Maybe 'the girls' aren't quite themselves these days. That's okay. 'The girls' have grown up, they've nourished a baby person for 6 months! They've gone through some real.tough.shit. And basically, they're women now. Just like me. Me and my boobs have grown up!

As far as deflated pancakes go, I still think they're pretty cute.

When I think about the fact that I sustained a tiny human for 6 months with only my boobs, well, that's really, really, impressive. Added to my boob archive is now 6 months worth of shots taken with Charlotte nursing, cuddled against me, usually a little milk-drunk.

Sometimes I try and tell myself it's all in my head, and that it's really not that bad.

But then I bend over in the wrong bra.

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OUT.

Morning Mommy

Let me start off by saying, I miss you all! I miss you all terribly, and though the conversation usually remains 90% in my head and about %10 in the comment section, the support and encouragement from you all has been amazing.

I guess all in all, more of YOU have noticed my absence from blogging then I myself have, and that means a lot to me.

I'm happily working at Benley's Vietnamese Kitchen as a backup waitress, and I'd like to thank my manager and love-traingle bff Rachel (that's how I'm choosing to describe you, okay?) for putting up with all my quirks and crazy moments.

A Vietnamese man by the name of 'Elvis' speaks broken english and translates between us and the kitchen and I can almost remember how to count to 5 in Vietnamese. Almost.

Getting out of the house for my 5 hour shift has been a huge wake up call to me. Getting dressed and doing my hair/makeup is now a requirement for my daily life. Since when should that be something I put in the requirement category? Isn't that just something people…do.

Well, it's back on my 'do' list, which I realize was impressively short during the 6 months I spent home with Charlotte. Though taking care of a new born, nursing, not nursing, getting off meds, readjusting to meds, sleeping, not sleeping, etc., can totally take it out of you, now that I'm back in the 'real world' so to speak, I'm stretching my arms and waking up to reality.

I miss my baby when I'm at work. My shifts are short and my commute hardly takes 10 minutes but by the time I get home we're both excited to see each other.

With AA meetings now a daily part of my life (what's up friends of bill) and shifts at Benley's there are nights where Charlotte will not sleep without being rocked for several hours, just like the good ol' days pre-sleep training.

I understand that she actually does miss me, and if she needs a little extra love some nights I'm more than happy to give it to her, but I think it's taking the both of us sometime to readjust to life with mom on the 'outside' so to speak.

Most mornings I prop Charlotte up on the bathroom sink in her beloved Bumpo seat (god, do I love that thing) I hand her something to knock around, something other than what I thought was a securely closed tube of mascara…, and do the things most women do in the morning.

I brush my teeth and grab the toothpaste bottle out of her hands.

I blow out my hair while exchanging the picture frame she eating for a hair brush.

I straighten my hair and watch her gnaw the brush end of the hair brush, re-think the hair brush, grab her, run across the hall, grab a pacifier, stick her in the Bumpo, stick the pacifier in her mouth and finish my hair.

As I apply my makeup I wash my husbands pomade off her hands and move the jar out of reach. As I pull my dress over my head I keep one eye and at least one hand on her even though I know escape from the Bumpo is virtually impossible at this age.

I check her diaper, put on my shoes, put her down for her nap, forget to find the keys. Search like crazy around the room like a ninja mommy, doing my best not to be seen, find the keys, sneak out the door and go!

Just a normal morning, right mommies?

Grandma handles Charlotte while I'm gone, I make a mad dash for the gas station grabbing the biggest Red Bull available (bad, I know) hop in the car and get to Benleys. I basically do the same thing in reverse on my way home.

I never want to wake up, but once I'm up, I'm up and going.

Sometimes I just have to remember to most things from the 'have to' category to the 'normal people' category, and so far, so good.

Working Mommy

Wow!

Being a mom is tough work. It's a full time job, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for the rest of your life.
I know this because I've watched my own mother rear all seven of us Crane kids (though now I'm a Deliganis), and being the oldest at 23, I still need my mom.

I recently wrote about the mental strife of leaving behind breast feeding so that I could return to my bi-polar treatment. I'm glad to report that apart from some painful pumping sessions (cold turkey breast feeding can be a fairly brutal experience), Charlotte has official accepted the bottle and only grabs for my boobs ever so often, and though it does break my heart we've found new ways of cuddling and cozying up with the bottle and all is well.

Along with our switch to the bottle, Charlotte and I have also been dealing with some serious separation anxiety. I recently started working the lunch shift at a local mom & pops shop and along with my pay check comes countless hours spent away from my sweet baby girl.

I'm blessed to be working with such an incredible, beautiful, awesome manger (sup Rachel, love you bbgurl) who let's me off early when the rush dies down, allowing me to get a few more hours in with my little angle baby, but even at that, I find myself constantly missing her.

Taking after mommy.

This is what my day now looks like -

7am - Charlotte wakes up mommy and daddy
7:01am - Mommy begs daddy to let her sleep more
7:05am - Mommy makes bottle, daddy feeds Charlotte, mommy hides under blankets

After our little morning ritual the three of us get to play, watch some Yo Gabba Gabba and take turns trying to get ready for work. Often times Charlotte sits in her Bumpo seat looking at her reflection in the mirror while I rush to get my make up on, fighting for counter space whilst Andrew tries to get a clean shave for work. The three of us don't really all fit in the bathroom at one time, but it works, and it also allows time for kissing in-between drying lipstick and making silly faces at the baby through the mirror.

Charlotte goes down for her morning nap around 930 and if I'm lucky I get to sneak off to my favorite local coffee shop for a quick triple shot before my shift. If I'm really-really lucky I get to bring my sweet husband along with me, and that's my pretty much the best start to my day ever.

With my triple shot of espresso (con panna) working it's way through my veins I make my 10 minute drive, park the car, and walk in.

Everyone speaks Vietnamese, apart from the owner and one of my favorite co-workers who goes by 'Elvis' - I'm fairly sure that's not his real name, but I like it, and it often brings to mind some of the Kings greatest hits which I sing while chopping limes and jalapeños at the start of my shift.

Like I mentioned earlier, I can usually get out around 3-330 and head home to my sweet girl, but between her 4 o'clock nap and her 630 bedtime, there's just not enough hours in the day.

My husband constantly reminds me, it's not about the money.

Yes, we have financial needs. We would like to get a place of our own, and get to the point where another baby could be a realistic possibility - financially speaking - but my husband is truly my other half. Where I lose myself to picking up shifts for the extra $ he reminds me of what that extra money actually costs. I'm about to go on a novel length rant about my wonderful, humble, loving, ever-striving husband, but I'll save that for another day.

All in all, going to work is really just a break from my job, and my job is the most important job there could ever be. My job is to love, my job is to cuddle and snuggle, my job is to comfort and most importantly, my job is to raise my baby girl into a women of God, who knows her worth and value.

I really do love waiting tables, going to work is awesome and getting a pay check is even cooler but at the end of the day, it's not going to work that I care about, it's about coming home and doing my job as a mother.
My job = my blessing.

This Brain On 23 - A response to 'The Brain On 23'

After reading yet another bottom of the barrel article via Huffington Post (remind me again why I still subscribe?) I couldn't help but drag my reluctant, over-tired, self into the office to write a response.

I would applaud Molly Sprayregen for writing such a generation defining article about my age bracket if only it hadn't made us sound so pitiful. 'The Brain On 23' is well written, by all means. What it lacks however, is a solid dose of reality.

Maybe Miss Sprayregen spends her days in the company of the infamous Gilmore Girls and her nights flippantly deciding between which bar to hit up and which ex to lament over, but my life at 23 looks nothing like this, so much to the point that I felt the need to take a stand for the rest of us 20-somethings who aren't passing the time swiping-left and 'being worried all the time' despite the fact that they 'don't yet have children or spouses' - her words, not mine.

You see, my life at 23 looks nearly polar opposite to that life described in the article previously mentioned. And I know I'm not alone.

By the age of 21 I held a professional title, I'd spent several years building up a resume and portfolio, I worked hard, and from an early age, and it paid off. At the age of 23 being a Mark Zuckerberg isn't the norm, and there I do agree with Miss Sprayregen. Where I disagree with her is the spectrum divide she seems to live in where either you're the 1 in 10000000 who makes something of themselves at a young age, or seemingly, you're nothing.

By 22 I was completely sober. This may not be the path everyone chooses, or needs to choose in life, but it's the path I took. I don't spend my nights in the highs of partying with my friends or the lows of Netflix binges. Instead, I just kinda coast. I know this may sound crazy, but curling up in bed with my husband to watch a movie is actually a pretty awesome night in my book. So is getting together with some friends, going for a walk, going on a date - some of my best nights have involved a few friends and a deck of cards. Novel idea, right?

This brings me to 23.

At 23 I'm both married and mothered. I have a loving husband who works hard to provide for his family. I have a beautiful 6 month old baby girl who brings meaning and joy to my life daily. I gave up the crazy career and started waiting tables so that I could spend more time doing the things I love.

23 isn't bleak. It doesn't have to be the manic highs and despairing lows that I felt were depicted in 'The Brain On 23'. In fact, though I never expected to be a sober, married, mother, waiting tables at 23, it's the best year of my life so far and I can't wait to finish it out and see what This Brain On 24 will look like!

The Great Boob Rebellion of 2015 - 2018 REWRITE

Let me say, this is a blog about boobs, and nursing, and you're probably going to be horrified and possibly grossed out if you aren't a mother.

Originally this post started with a disclaimer telling men to stay away from this post, however I'd like to fully retract that warning and actually go so far as to reissue the opposite -

Ladies who have not yet breast fed, STAY AWAY FROM THIS POST - you don't need to know of these horrors before your time...and Gentlemen, if you plan on fathering children or perhaps already have, read this, your wife/girlfriend/baby mama deserves the moon, as does your mother and you should know that this shit is real.

Let's go!

Me and the girls (my boobs) have always had a fairly harmonious relationship. They were small enough to look cute in oversized t-shirts and defied gravity in a way that was appreciated, though sorely taken for granted. They seemingly had no real purpose in my life but they also had never caused me any real issues, so we got along fine.

In fact, I really loved my boobs. And not in the way that cool instagram moms still love their mom boobs. I really loved my pre-mom boobs, and I really don't love them as much now and that's fiiiinnneeee!

I feel like every women who says she loves her body more post-motherhood is full of shit. Where I used to have smooth hips, I have silver-pink stretchmarks reminding me of how determined charlotte was to split me open from the inside out. My feet were once tiny and cute, lucky to fit a size 5.5, and now they are just normal size 6's. Before I became a mother, my eyebrows were plucked and my legs were shaved, rain or shine. Now, my tweezers were last seen a few months ago removing a splinter . from a wiggly finger and I shave with a toddler splashing at my feet (hahahaha this is funny, cause I made it sound like I remember to shave)...

I believe Samantha said it best (Sex and the City) when she was set to do her nude photo shoot in season 4 - "This is not about a man’s approval. This photo is just for me so when I’m old and my tits are in my shoes I can look at it and say ¨Damn, I was hot.¨"

a true feminist icon

I really loved that sentiment, it's how I felt about my own passing youth, though I had no idea just how quickly that youth would pass. You see,  never did I expect to join the ranks of motherhood in my early 20's. That wasn't the plan. 

I was the oldest of 7 siblings, which means I grew up around babies. In fact, when my mom told 14 year old me that she was pregnant AGAIN with my last and youngest sister, I actually cried.

And yet here I am, 26 years old with a toddler. And guess what! I LOVE being a young mom, I'd have done things no other way, and I have no regrets - though had I know postpartum applied to your entire body...I might have taken a few more pictures because the day, neigh, the second Charlotte started to grow, everything changed.

'Engorged' is the word used to describe what happens to the female breast during the process of growing/sustaining a baby. Engorged isn't my favorite word, however it does describe the event perfectly.

Engorgement is every bit as painful as it sounds. During my 1st trimester I couldn't so much as roll over in bed without feeling each breast was its own individual cement truck. Only instead of cement, it felt more like hundreds of jagged burning bricks smashed inside what once was a cute B cup, on a good day.

Once my sweet baby girl entered this world, the sensation of 1st trimester brick-boobs returned with a vengeance. Once, I actually cried because Charlotte decided she wasn't as hungry as I soooo desperately needed her to be.

All this to say,

6 and a half months into nursing, due to extenuating life circumstances, I found myself in the position of throwing in the towel on breastfeeding - cold turkey.

Sureeeee, I expected some discomfort, but after several months of have my engorged boobs gnawed on by my offspring, I thought I'd seen the worst of things. I was in no way prepared for what was to come.

Not 2 missed feedings later I had my first glimpse of the beast I'd awakened.

I had just got in the car, buckled my seat belt and rummaged my phone out of my purse. I swiveled my lower back to throw my purse behind my seat when the inside of my arm hit something rock hard. At first, my brain didn't even make the association between the giant boulder my arm had just ran into, and the screaming pain I was simultaneously experiencing, but then it clicked.

That wasn't a confusingly misplaced boulder at all! That was my boob.

My boob was so 'engorged' that my own brain didn't recognize it!

I won't go into detail about how I resolved this issue, sans pump, but even my best efforts provided only the slightest relief.

Fast forward into the night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep, I didn't want to breathe, and I genuinely was avoiding going pee because I had the fear of GOD in me. The slightest sigh of breath was agonizing, my boobs had gone from their life long B-cups to BUSTING out of DDs and that was before this cold-turkey nonsense.

THE PAINNNNNNN ugh! I remember it like it was yesterday, both first trimester AND early breast feeding amounts of pain were far surpassed. Around 3:30am I hit the shower to see what relief I could find in the warm water. None. None plus carefully avoiding any direct contact between the streams of water and my very very scary boobs...

Exhausted, in pain, and probably depressed I finally gave up and slank back to bed. Charlotte would be waking up soon and I'd yet to have gotten any real sleep, an already rare and precious commodity. I couldn't even pump - I was told that my 'supply' wouldn't dry up unless I stopped telling my body to produce more, and I didn't want to produce more for fear of actual death or exploded boobs(an all to real fear at the time).

My last ditch effort to get some sleep was probably one of my more asinine of ideas but to avoid the inevitable leaking that I couldn't escape, I donned two of charlotte's diapers in the style of the clam-shell bra in the style of The Little Mermaid.

This didn't actually work, but I pretended it did long enough to fall asleep.

But then, then dear readers, I woke up.

By 700am things we're gettin' real ugly. And real painful.

Now, keep in mind that I'm wearing diapers as bra-cups at this point. Actual, full-human baby sized diapers, as bra cups... If ever I had a cliche morning as a frazzled, sleep deprived, teary-eyed new mother - this was it.

In a frenzy to find the breast pump, clutching my diaper-bra to my chest, I kicked into panic mode. I no longer cared about my 'supply', I don't even think I grabbed a shirt, I just focused all my motherly powers on locating, assembling, and utilizing the breast pump, as quickly as possible. I tore shit up. My entire house fell to chaos, eventually resembling dorthy's farmhouse post-tornado drop in OZ...this scene ended in silent tears when only three fourths of the pump could be found and I finally gave up the hunt for the remaining tube and in utter defeat began to pump one side at a time.



I don't really remember how because at this point I wasn't really functioning in reality anymore, but I did survive all this.

I pumped 8oz out of 1 boob that morning.

That may mean nothing to you, but if you're a pumping momma, just let that sink in for a second.

8oz - 1 boob. FEATS OF HUMANITY LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

Charlotte was almost equally upset by this entire process, which all said and done took over a FULL YEAR to stop producing milk once I gave up the pump for good a few days later.

Man - my anxiety is just through the roof retelling this ancient tale....

MORAL OF MY STORY - cause if you can learn from this, you really should...

If you are able, don't cold turkey breast feeding.

On the bright side, it hurts so much, you won't even have the brain capacity to feel sad about no longer nursing!

Bipolar Mommy

This is a subject I've been wanting to tackle for a while. It's close to my heart and often effects my day to day life. It's played a part in making my teen years extra crazy, my adulthood sometimes scary, and my role as mother even more challenging than I'd like to admit.

Bipolar disorder is a psychological disorder that can send you skyrocketing into a manic episode, or sink you into the depths of a deep depression. When I was younger my manic episodes took me places like Joshua tree, by myself, on a whim, on a school day. Other times, an episode of depression would leave me an entire semester behind because the suffocating blows that left me unable to get out of bed.

Anyone who suffers from bipolar disorder will laughingly tell you stories of something crazy they did during a manic episode, once I spent hours hallucinating little red people who needed to be picked off my blanket, which in reality were just lint balls. My mom thought I was on drugs and sat up with me all night. Another time, I literally relocated my mattress and high heels (what else does a girl need, amiright?) into the downstairs bathroom, because I wanted a change of scenery. I had short hair for years because I could never go more than a few months without impulsively cutting it all off again. I also had a crazy god-complex during my manic episodes and would go days without sleeping or eating for no other reason then...I could.

All of this added up to one very crazy teenage girl back in the day. My parents took me to a psychologist when I was 16 and we got started on the long and arduous journey to finding the right meds to balance me out.

One sanity-cocktail made me gain 30 lbs! Another, at 16, made my hair fall out in clumps. One drug actaully left me feeling even crazier than I was initially, I had a soggy brain and a stutter, that was a no-go!

Finally, I found my mix. I stabilized.

By the time I was 22 I was on 4 different medications, I carted around my little personal pharmacy and went about life. (note: sobriety helped immensely)

Then, bam! I was pregnant.

I was terrified to come off my meds. I talked to my obgyn, my psychologist, and a specialist, and slowly began tapering off everything.

Anxiety meds were the first to go. A beta-blocker and a benzo, now I was on my own to deal with the anxiety issues I had finally escaped.

Next was essentially a high dose antihistamine, I didn't notice the loss of this one quiet as much but it was the last of my 'calming' meds and so now I really was raw to everything.

Pair the loss of these types of meds with the insanity of the 1st trimester and my poor husband had his hands full. I remember yelling at him, like a banshee, for the first time in our relationship at this point. Over taco bell, or something equally pointless.

The last to go was Lamictal, and this was the big one.

For those of you who have been treated for Bipolar disorder, or anything else in the spectrum of crazy that Lamictal is prescribed to, you know how awesome this drug is. For those of you who aren't familiar with this wonder pill, let me explain.

Drugs that treat depression, bipolar, and other mood disorders, are infamous for a few things.

First, they make you gain a lot of weight. When I say a lot, I mean, without changing my actual diet, at 16 I went from 105 to 135 in about two months.

Second, they leave you feeling 'too' balanced. Instead of feeling normal you just feel, well, blank.

Third, while treating your depression they can actually leave you feeling very suicidal, which is in part due to the blank, dull feeling that comes with being 'too' balanced like stated above.

After experiencing all of this, plus major hair loss (thanks Depakote) I was introduced to that little miracle drug Lamitcal and all was calmed.

Now though, I was pregnant, and while I could stay on a low dose while pregnant, I was going to have to have a totally clean system if I wanted to breastfeed.

I weighed out my pros and cons. In my 2 years of sobriety I had found a new level of sanity that I believed could carry me through the breastfeeding stage and my husband agreed to let me try, on the basis that I keep in touch with my therapist and get back on the meds if things started to feel unstable.

Lamitcal is a fantastic drug and really does it's job well. In this case however, too well. In order to have a 'clean system' and normally restored blood levels I had to tapped off and have 3 months minimum before it would be totally out of my system.

That brings me to today. Charlotte is 6.5 months old now, and that means I've been completely off everything for nearly 10 months! On the plus side, only recently have I begun to feel the slight waves of manic/depression, but on the negative side, I am beginning to feel the slight waves of manic/depression.

This breaks my heart because I know that it's my duty to my daughter, and myself, to make sure I'm mentally stable. I can't care for her if I can't get myself out of bed.

My throat tightens and my eyes start to water as I type this, really admitting to myself, and anyone who happens to read this, that it's time to get back on the meds.

I want to be a good mom. I want to nurse my sweet baby girl, to nourish and comfort her, and I'm going to have to give this up. I'm really going to miss the sweet snuggles that only mommy gets while she falls asleep next to me during her midnight feedings, but if a manic episode kept me up the night before, I'll be too tired to appreciate them anyways.

I need to treat my anxiety, because holing up in the house for days on end due to social anxiety isn't going to be okay when she's old enough to want to go to the park, or to play with friends.

These are the kind of things bipolar mommy's have to deal with. We sacrifice in different ways, and it's a unique pain that comes with it.

Yes, back on my meds I may lead a more balanced life. I'll have an easier time staying sober, finding a job, holding to my commitments. But I'll also desperately be missing parts of my daughters baby years, and I'll have to work through giving up nursing. When the formula constipates her, I'll probably cry. When she grabs at me and wants to nurse, I'll also probably cry. But I know one day she'll be older, and we'll go to the park, or the beach or whatever, and I won't have to worry about the crowds of people and I can just enjoy my daughter.

 I know I'm not the only one who's had to deal with this. And I know not everyone is comfortable talking about this. But if you have experience, or any thoughts on this I'd love to get a conversation running in the comments, but please, please, be sensitive and positive when talking about moms and meds, it's a touchy subject so keep a kind heart <3