I’m honored to have Gravity Imprint author H.M. Jones here today with us to share her experiences as a parent who suffers from panic disorder, and how that has affected her. Look for Jones’ amazing book, Monochrome, on August 1!
An oppressive heaviness settles like an elephant on my chest, fear pricks my fingers, shooting pain through my arms. Something evil is trying to inhabit my body. I can’t breathe. I want to open my eyes, wake up from this nightmare, but I can barely move, can’t seem to get oxygen into my body. I’m a cement block of fear. When I’m finally able to open my eyes, I’m so afraid of what I’ll see, but I’m not sure why I’m afraid. I’ve never been a fearful person, until I had children. I guess that’s when the panic attacks started. My lungs start to work again, pushing air in and out of my body. The air awakes my senses and my body tingles with pins and needles. My husband comes out of the bathroom and stares at me, noting my wide eyes, my labored breathing. “Are you alright?”
[share ]I only nod. I can’t talk yet. I just need to breathe.[/share]
The Panic Attacks
The panic attacks began about 2010, just after having my first baby. I wasn’t prepared for all the little things that would go wrong: the fact that my breasts would not produce enough milk to nourish my baby, that she would cry, all the time, starved. That her jaundice would not go away and I would have to hold her, awkwardly fumbling, over a UV belt. I thought it would be immediate—the urge to mother, nurture, to love. But it wasn’t for me. It was all sleepless nights, my body failing me, her yellow body a mass of hungry screams.
My sister came to visit when my baby was three months old. She picked up my skinny little girl, the baby that the lactation consultants swore was probably just fine, was getting all the food she needed. They told me my breasts would produce what she needed, but they just didn’t. My sister picked up that scrawny baby and tears came to her eyes. She took me to the store and bought me a can of formula and a bottle. She told me to feed my baby girl from my breast all I could, and then switch when she became frustrated, which was always (since one of my breasts never produced actual milk).
I put her to my sore, un-swollen breast and she ate for a few minutes, until the nutrition ran out. It never took long for that to happen. I could feel they were empty after only a few minutes. [share ]My body had failed in one of its simplest functions[/share]. I was failing as a mother. My sister saw the light leave my eyes, saw moisture collect under my lids. She went to the kitchen and mixed the formula into a bottle. She sat next to me and put my hand around the warm bottle. It felt like hope. She placed the rubber nipple next to my chapped, bleeding one. Clara ate the entire bottle, burped, and fell asleep. The ache in her stomach satiated, she stopped screaming.
I gave her to my sister, went to the bathroom and bawled. I’d been starving my child because I was told it was the best for her. I was so mad at myself, at all the “help” I’d been given, at the advice that fell short and at my body for not doing what it was made to do. I had a panic attack, then, for the fifth time in three months.
Baby Number Two
I have another child. I fed him both from breast and bottle. He was happy immediately, slept well and was content. He had jaundice too, but it left him much more quickly since he received proper nutrition and vitamins from the start. The panic attacks stopped for a while.
Recently, they’ve started again, though. And I don’t know why. My children are 5 and 3 and are helpful, fun and generally manageable. But since 2013, I’ve had several more panic attacks, and guilt plagues me. Guilt over what? Over not bonding with my first right away, over putting stress on our relationship that we are still repairing? Over bonding immediately with my son, understanding him right off? Over allowing my husband to take the financial burden, after spending years and years getting expensive degrees, so I could be with the kids? Over being good at something that just doesn’t pay the bills and may not ever pay the bills? I don’t know where the guilt comes from, but I now understand the phrase, “Mother’s guilt” in a way I never could before having children.
The Daily Struggle
Every single day I struggle with my mistakes, my misspoken words, my harsh actions/reactions. I feel like a walking, talking screw-up, in a way I never did before having children. Would I trade it? Never. The payback is that I have two amazing, funny, smart companions to share my thoughts, dreams, talents, hobbies with. And they are their own hilarious people, so different from me, with their own fears and thoughts and stories and desires. And it’s all so amazing that I grew them in my body! They give back as much as I put in. It’s amazing, this “parenting” gig, but it’s also done a number on me.
I think (read overthink) things all the time now. I’m afraid of everything, what “A” will do to them, how they will react to “B,” whether they will be hurt by “C.” The panic attacks that come with the job are the worst part. Being a mother with a mood disorder is overwhelming, but it’s manageable. We all get by. Even panic attacks only last so long. And I feel braver, just living life as a mother.
There is nothing more frightening, after all, than a parent worrying over their children.
About H.M. Jones:
H.M. Jones is the B.R.A.G Medallion author of Monochrome, re-released with Gravity, an imprint of Booktrope. She is also responsible for the Attempting to Define poetry quartet and has contributed a short story to Master’s of Time: A Sci-Fi and Fantasy Time Travel Anthology. A bestseller only in her mind, Jones pays the electric bill by teaching English and research courses at Northwest Indian College. Jones is also the moderator for Elite Indie Reads, a review website for Indie and Self published books. Besides buying enough second-hand books to fill a library, Jones loves to spend time helping her preschoolers grow into thinking, feeling citizens of this world, run, weave, pull with the Port Gamble S’Klallam Canoe Family and attempt to deserve her handsome husband, who is helping pay the other bills until his wife becomes the next big thing. Connect with her on her website.
About Monochrome:
What would you do to save your most precious memories?
That’s the question that Abigail Bennet, a new mother, must answer in this dark fantasy.
The cries of her new baby throw Abigail into rage and desperation. Frightened by foreign anger and overwhelming depression, the first-time mother decides to end her life to spare the life of her only child. But before she acts on her dark intuition, she is overcome by a panic attack and blacks out.
When she awakes, everything is blue: the trees, the grass, the rocks and still, scentless sky above her. Everything except the face of the man who stands over her. He is Ishmael Dubois and claims to be her Guide through the dangerous world of Monochrome, a physical manifestation of the depressed mind. But in a place where good memories are currency, nightmares walk, and hopeless people are hired to bring down those who still have the will to live, Abigail starts to wonder if she’ll ever make it back to her family. Despite her growing feelings for her handsome, mysterious Guide, Abigail must fight for the life she once wished to take or fade into the blue.
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A.M. Willard says
July 27, 2015 at 11:12 amThis is a great article H.M. Jones, I think that even mother’s without a disorder panic about doing the right things. Once I became a parent, the world was a different place. Choices become harder, as you always second guess what’s best for your kids. Thanks for posting this.
H.M. Jones says
July 27, 2015 at 7:46 pmThanks, A.M. You’re not wrong. You second guess everything. Your choices don’t just alter your life anymore, but the precious lives of your children, and that’s a huge deal. Thanks for reading.
Melissa Flickinger says
July 27, 2015 at 11:26 amI love H.M. Jones honesty in everything she writes. She puts out such an important message to mothers- motherhood is not always a perfect journey and it’s okay to talk about it. A great post for sure!
H.M. Jones says
July 27, 2015 at 7:50 pmThanks, Melissa! You’re the sweetest for saying so. The most healing thing for me during my postpartum depression was when other mothers told me that the had or were having the same problems I had. It made things seem more manageable. People don’t always like my honesty, but I think the ones who are most affected by it appreciate it greatly, so I try to be very honest. I want others who are struggling to know that they aren’t alone.
C. Streetlights says
July 27, 2015 at 11:28 amWe place such undue stress on women in too many areas of their lives. We tell ourselves to be anything we want to be, to go to school and break glass ceilings, that anything men can do we can do better. But what happens when biology betrays us? We become a nightmare to ourselves. We go online and see other women supposedly doing things better, telling us how to be better, “specialists” telling us how we do things wrong and how we’ll be wrong for our children. We’re told so many things that becomes too hard to listen to instincts.
Nursing was a nightmare for me with my first child. I produced milk but he didn’t know how to latch on. He would look at me and just purse his lips together. Nothing came easily with the pregnancy, I should have known nursing wouldn’t have either. Conceiving was difficult, birthing ended up as an emergency C-section, everything. My body betrayed me. Devastation. Second pregnancy came over ten years later after losing a baby in between.
The panic and fear of not doing things “right” has never left me. Each child is dramatically different and sometimes I watch them as if I’m looking at specimens, wondering how I got so lucky to have such beautiful and wonderful babies when I’m so screwy. But I did. That’s the miracle, I guess. How can all of “They” tell me what I’m doing wrong, or need to do more/less/better know anything if my kids are so magical?
Thank you for being so honest here. This is actually what women need — honesty.
H.M. Jones says
July 27, 2015 at 8:08 pmC,
I really love what you said there. Women put too much stress on ourselves and others put too much stress on us. The comments about me being a mentally ill mother and my children deserving “A,” “B,” or “C” are not new ones. I don’t care about those comments. My kids think I am the BEST person on the planet. I think they are very lucky to have a mother who cares so much about them that she sometimes freaks out a little about, well, all the little things that will form them.
But there is so much truth to what you said about women’s stress. Once upon a time (okay, that time has not really passed), we were told it was our job to take care of the household things, the payments, the organization of the lives of everyone, to really run the show. I think most women just accepted those responsibilities and did their best with such a huge job. Now, we understand that our opportunities were being limited, that we really can do anything, and, if most moms are like me, we try to do EVERYTHING.
We try to be full-time moms, career women, fit and sexy, soccer moms and all the other things we take on. We never drop anything. We take more on, and we still expect so much of ourselves. That’s bound to make anyone unhappy. Maybe, like me, even a little loopy at times. My mom told me once: “It’s okay if you decide to be a full-time mom. It’s okay if you decide to work full-time away from the house, but if you’re anything like me, you’ll end up wanting to do it all so that it will be done right. And you’ll wear yourself out. Your body and your mind can’t do that forever. Pick the things that are most important, that bring you joy and do those things. Don’t let people decide for you.”
I’ve been really trying to take that advice lately, especially with these panic attacks. I’m clearly trying to do EVERYTHING and be everything. And, you know what, my kids don’t even know. They don’t think I’m awesome because I write books, teach college, keep the house cleanish and cook good food. They think I’m the coolest when I play, when I make weird faces, when I have dance parties. Their expectations are pretty low. So, as much as my mania will allow, I set things aside that don’t need to be done right away. My kids are so little and cool, but they are hard work everyday. It’s okay if I’m stressed, and it’s super okay for any mother to be frustrated, stressed and even feel just depressed. As long as we help ourselves. Self care, all. Self care. Take care of mom, too. They don’t know it, but you taking care of yourself makes them happy, too.
Thank you for telling me of your journey, C. I do know about the stress of the body failing you, or even the stress of expectations that fall through the cracks. It’s very hard to admit those things. But I find that when I do, others open up to. It’s a beautiful thing. I hope in being honest, my kids will never feel like they have to hide their own truths.
Hugs.
Sarah Fader says
July 28, 2015 at 8:32 amThis is such a beautifully honest essay. Hannah, from one anxious mom to another you perfectly describe how it is to have a new baby and be overwhelmed. Hormones are raging and you’re dealing with the anxiety of trying to do the best that you can. You are such an incredible writer and you capture panic perfectly. As a mom who also lives with panic disorder thank you for being honest and speaking your truth. You are helping so many others.
H.M. Jones says
July 31, 2015 at 10:30 pmSarah,
Thank you for your kind words. Our bodies are so complex. Having a good mixture of hormonal/chemical imbalances is never a lot of fun, but I think that motherhood really enhances both physical and emotional complications we already deal with. I can’t be anything other than honest with what has happened in my life, in hopes that other moms will feel okay with their imperfections. Much love to you, my lady Stigma Fighter. I know a tough momma when I meet one.
Lia Mack says
July 30, 2015 at 11:23 amYou speak my language! I am so there with you, so sad to know we’re not alone. But wonderful to see how you’ve used a cathartic approach to writing to help you deal with your panic attacks/depression. And to have a book published out of that evolution – congratulations! Sorry to see you didn’t have a good lactation consultant to see you needed to supplement. A movement back to breastfeeding should never ignore the % of women who’s body doesn’t produce enough or won’t produce at all. In countries where breastfeeding is the norm – not a soap box/advocacy/movement – there is the natural 15% of women who need to supplement. I love the description of your book! What a wonderful world – a blue world – to have to live and work your way out of. That’s my kind of twisted mind read – a real psychological dissection of the human experience. Looking forward to reading it!
H.M. Jones says
July 31, 2015 at 10:36 pmLia,
It was hard when I realized that I just wasn’t producing enough after three months tireless consultations, but I kept at it. I never did make enough, but they got time with me and received everything I had, which I think was the most important. Once I stopped worrying about what you so perfectly called “the soapbox movement” (love that), I was happily doing the best my body and I could do and supplementing what it could not, and it made a huge difference in making feeding enjoyable. Thank you for your kind words about my book. I hope, above all, that it reaches mothers with motherhood postpartum issues, as it was a very scary, alienating time. If I had known, as I do now, how many people were just waiting to hear that their scary thoughts were shared, I think I would have been so relieved. Sad, yes, but relieved that I was not abnormal and just needed help. Wishing you much joy in life. Happy reading, if you get to it. Virtual hugs.