I should post an update...ya know, since I went to the doctor.

Good job Mandy, getting all caught up in the goodness of being a mom ;o)

Anyways, I know I posted my updated on Land of Snark, but I feel like I should post it here to. Hell, I could dedicate an entire post about how much I love you freakin' sweethearts....because seriously, I do. But I'll save that for an extra mushy day where I can use really good adjectives and throw in some country twang.

I went to see my psychiatrist yesterday evening with David. To say I was scared would be an understatement. I felt like a little girl being punished and going to the principals office. I knew this wasn't a punishment, I made the appointment myself for God's sake. But I felt almost ashamed, sitting in an office with people that had no idea what I was doing to myself. The receptionist actually came over and patted my belly, happily smiling and saying "Another one on the way, I see?" Part of me wanted to punch her because of my obvious belly. The other part of me wanted to tell her that her highlights on her short pixie cut made her look like a cheetah.

I did neither.

When my doctor called my name from the doorway the big shots come out of he commented on my husband being there. "Amanda, it's nice to see your husband, but you usually come alone. What's wrong?" This was all while we were in the doorway between the waiting room and the narrow hallway to the doctor's offices. Was I supposed to tell him in front of 10 people that I had a cutting relapse? Obviously not. So I said as nicely as I could "I needed him here for support."

I think that concerned my doctor because when we sat down in his office he looked at me like I was from outer space. Don't get me wrong, I love my psychiatrist, but when even the doctors that treat the crazies look at you like you're REALLY REALLY crazy, you get a little uneasy.

I shifted in my chair as he asked the usual questions. "How are your meds?" "Bad." "How has your mood been?" "Horrible." I explained to him that I was on bed rest for placenta previa and it was strict bed rest so I was getting uneasy from not getting out of the house. He asked me if that's why I have been feeling so horrible and I explained to him that was just the cherry on the sundae, so to speak.

I have been having a very strained relationship with my older sister, whom I consider my best friend, for the past few months. I have also been having a strained relationship with my mom because she thinks we're having another baby way too early. Between those two things, being couped up in the house for the last few weeks, and not doing the normal "mommy" things I'm supposed to be doing, I felt like I was trapped and suffocating.

I confessed to my doctor that I had a cutting relapse. He was comforting and sympathetic. He even went as far as saying that he doesn't know how his wife can take care of three children all day everyday. I guess that was comforting to hear. He then asked David if he had any concerns and David broke down crying, saying he didn't want me to kill myself. I, of course, broke down crying, too. So we were two crying saps sitting in front of a very professional doctor.

Luckily my doctor interjected when the crying died down and told David that cutting isn't necessarily a suicidal tendency. It's more of a release for the cutter, because they can't effectively express their feelings.

Thanks doc, I knew you'd be able to say the right thing.

I was recommended for a partial hospitalization program, which is 5 hours of intense therapy per day. I just need the okay from my OB to be put on modified bed rest. Until I'm able to attend the program my therapist who I've been seeing for the past few months told me she'd be able to come to the house two or three times a week. That's a relief, since I think I need more than just switching my medication. Speaking of which I was switched off Zoloft to Prozac. I took my first dose last night and feel a little better. I know I need 3-6 weeks to see the real results but I want to think that it will help.

I promise to update as I get more info from my OB about the partial hospitalization program. I really hope I'm able to attend before I hit 30 weeks, because by that point I'll be in that stage in pregnancy where all I want to do is sit and eat and complain that I'm a whale :P.

Much love to everyone <3

I woke up this morning with a puff in my hair...

And I loved it. Lucy was sitting next to me and as soon as I turned over she gave me a huge grin. A toothy grin, at that. She handed me a puff and I pretended to eat it and said "yum yum!" I gave the puff back to her and she ate it and said "Yum yum!" My heart melted. If I could have replayed those 15 seconds for the rest of the day, I would, because I was literally a pile of mush.

I left Lucy on the bed (BAD MOMMA! BAD!) See, I can scold myself...but I needed to pee and on the dresser next to the bathroom David wrote me a note. "Took Libby with me to Mom's, running some other errands, be back around 2. Oh (and this is how he wrote it) Lucy's lunch is in the mini fridge. xoxoxo Love you, D and L"

I'm that lunatic that has a mini fridge in my bathroom because I need more beverages at an arms reach than any sane person ever would. So, for my birthday (per my request) David installed one in our bathroom under the vanity. It is quite perfect. I keep my endless amounts of water in there, juice, and whatever snacks or meals the girls share with me in bed also fit in their very nicely.

Today I feel hopeful. I feel an overwhelming sense of calm. And I feel loved, because right now Lucy has her head snuggled next to my left breast softly heaving sighs with droopy eyes. I love the feeling of her breathing. I made that little one. I made that 19 lb comedian who tries with all her might to walk across the room to Daddy, but just can't seem to get it yet. I made her and she literally takes my breath away.

I mean, I suppose David did have a part in it, but he'll never be able to know what it's like. Singing to the baby in my belly, feeling kicks, movements, and even the bad stuff. Being worried for someone I've never met and praying to God that he'll give me enough strength to handle every day.

I'm praying hard these days. Not just for my own well being, but for a lot of you ladies. For Nat and her little Alessa, for Heather and her growing bump, for the ladies that PM'ed me about their similar journeys. So I'm doing a lot of good praying. Healthy praying.

I believe God only gives me what I can truly handle. I feel like if I have enough power and strength to deal with my relapse, I have the power to do anything. That includes staying on bed rest long as long as I need to so Lola will be healthy when she arrives.

I just got off the phone with David....he put Libby on the phone. "Momma, what ice keem do you want." "Well, what ice cream would YOU want Libby?" "Chocowat" "Okay baby, chocolate it is."

My heart is melting. Hopefully, the chocolate ice cream doesn't.

I'm new at this. Give me a little break...mmmk?

*This would have been what I wrote after I cut myself on Saturday night (3/6/11)*

I am drowning. I am numb. I am isolated, alone, and want to crawl out of my skin. I look at the still raw cuts on my arm and pick at the newly forming scabs. I need to bleed just a bit more.

I'm sitting on the toilet with the lid down. I have my blue boy short panties poised ever so tenderly above this bump that will soon be my child. My third child. My third child in three years, nonetheless. I look at my reflection in the mirror and rip the hair band out of my hair. I push my fingers through limp strands and start to claw at my head. My eyes are closed, but the clawing feels good, like a rough massage at the hair salon when you're about to get shampooed. I finally get sick of clawing at my head and pull one hand down at a time. First my left then my right. Both are filled with lack luster brown strands. I haven't dyed my hair in God knows how long. Before Lucy came into my life, at least.

I gather the hair and throw it into the wicker waste basket. It forms what looks like a birds nest on top of a used tissue. At that moment I think to myself "God damnit, Mandy, what the fuck are you doing to yourself?" I just keep staring at the hair nest in the waste basket. I then think of that stupid line from The Notebook...you know the one "If I'm a bird, then you're a bird". Well fuck, if I was a bird I'd have flown south for the winter and never came back.

I feel blood running down my forearm. The smart thing would be to get a tissue and sop up the blood, but because I feel so numb and so disassociated from myself I smear the blood around my forearm and touch a bloody finger to my lips. Metallic and salty. I feel relief. I also feel searing pain and anxiety that David will find me huddled in a helpless heap in the bathroom. At that moment my care flies out the window and I sit on the toilet seat with my legs perched under me, waiting for anyone to find me.

The bloods residue is now under my fingernail, almost like a reminder that I tasted my being. I reached for the fingernail clippers to clip the blood stained nail off, but put them back. I needed that reminder that I was still alive. I was still breathing. I was still bleeding.

The last time I looked at the clock was at 9:45. This was before I first felt metal skim across my skin. I now look at the clock and it's 11:32. Where was my husband? Why has he not come rescue me. I needed to be rescued, coddled and told that everything was going to be okay. Where the hell did he go?

I stood up with dried blood on my arm and realize drips had fallen onto my white tank top and blue boy short panties. I go to the sink to try to wash the dried blood off, like that would somehow hide the evidence that I had just reverted back to my old 15 year old self. I guess the sink woke David up because while I was soaping up my arm he opened the door a few inches then flung the door open with more gusto than I could ever remember.

He looked at me, and I smiled. I smiled like an idiot. I knew this because I stuck my tongue behind my top teeth and stretched my lips really big. I remember him asking me what happened, and I stood there. I stood there trying to figure out myself what had happened.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour (in actuality it was less than 2 minutes) I burst out crying. I cried until my belly hurt. David cried with me and between sobs kissed my face and my arm. I cried until I fell asleep only to be awoken by David taking his arm out from under my neck. I fell back asleep again.

I am drowning. I am numb. And I need help.
If not only for me, for my husband, for Elizabeth, for Lucy, and for Lola.
I need to be a better mother, wife, and lover.

I am drowning, I am numb, but that does not define me.