It's natural
Running is natural. The human body is designed to run, whether you choose to use it or not. Choose it and ignore all those who say you'll end up with arthritis and knee pain in old age, who say the first marathoner died. With a regular moderate running schedule you'll live a long and happy life with more mobility and energy than your sedentary peers.
Pregnancy is natural. A woman's body is designed to nuture human life. But unlike running, ignore everyone who says its natural and you'll figure it out.
Like the myths about running, myths about pregnancy abound. "I loved being pregnant"..."I had no morning sickness"..."The second trimester is wonderful"..."You have that glow"
These myths are as dangerous as listening to someone who tells you running will kill you.
Let me tell you something about myself. It is a large part of why I run. It's something I keep to myself because I see it as irrelevant to the outside world. It's not your problem, and it's not an excuse. But I'm beginning to see how it will impact my child because of the physical connection between us, and eventually the emotional one as well.
I have clinical depression.
I've struggled with this depression all my life. Every day is a battle for me to get out of bed and just find the energy to live. There have been times I've wanted to kill myself, but luckily rarely have found the energy to do anything about it. Depression is brown. You feel like you are swimming in a cloudy pool. The world is hidden behind a fog. It's a leaky drain that slowly saps your water levels. It's entropy: An inevitable force of nature that disorders everything inside you and around you.
Running is a natural high and a release that helps me feel good. If I can consistently overcome inertia and get out the door to exercise, my mood and energy level is immensly improved. Any good psychiatrist worth his $100 per hour will tell you to exercise regularly if you have depression. Running is also a spiritual lift for me that gives me time to clear my head of worries, anxieties, and the lead weight always hanging over my head.
But the key to reaping all that benefit is getting out the door in the first place. And that's the real crux of the condition, the insidious mechanism by which depression eats its victims alive. It ties them to the couch (or the bed or the floor) with gravity.
That's where, for me, medication comes in. I've been off and on various anti-depressants for the past 12 years. Prozac is my happy-pill of choice, a wonderous medication which can be life-saving for its users, and in my opinion ranks with the discovery of penecillin in the annals of great medical achievements.
I used to fight being on medication - insisted it was just the establishment's way of making me into someone I'm not. I would take it to pull myself off the couch for a little while, decide I was better, go off it, and instantly sink back into the mire.
In time I realized that I just needed it to maintain a floor under my feet, and with a few years of consistent use I was doing great.
Then I got pregnant. Prozac isn't technically approved for pregnancy because it's virtually impossible to do controlled studies on depressed pregnant women. But the anecodtal evidence collected on its use over the past 25 years is substantial, and all of it points to it being safe without any long-term effects on the child. The only potential issue is that the baby can have withdrawal symptoms after birth, so its recommended that it not be used in the third trimester.
This is where those myths become damaging. Far from being joyous, natural, wonderful, and something I was confident I could figure out, pregnancy has been one of the most stressful, worrisome, chemically imbalanced states I've ever been in. It's not that I'm not overjoyed to be having a baby. But the physical and emotional toll of pregnancy is incredible.
Everyone said the first trimester could be rough with all the new hormones, but things should stabilize by the fourth month. I'd have my energy back, morning sickness would subside, I'd be myself again with a cute little baby bump and a wonderous glow. "You'll be happier than you ever have been in the second trimester."
Well the only glow is coming from my greasy, unwashed hair.
I did fine the first trimester. I was more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life, and a bit cranky, but able to run, motivated to go to work, and excited about baby stuff, if a bit overwhelmed. A normal mother-to-be in other words.
At 4 weeks I started tapering off the Prozac, and got down to half a dose by 8 weeks. I felt pretty good. I ran the Army 10 miler. I was slowing down and tired, but having fun.
Prozac has a long "half-life" as its called in the parlance, and I guess it took a while for that reduced dose to start to have effects. At 12 weeks I started to feel sick and pretty much stopped running. 20 minutes on the staitonary bike was all I was getting maybe once a week. At 14 weeks I realized I hadn't gained any weight in 4 straight weeks and I had no appetite. I couldn't get out of bed. I almost broke down crying in a coworker's office telling her how I just wanted a break. I regularly came into the office at 10 instead of 9.
At that point I called the psychiatrist and told her I was worried my depression, which has caused me to drop weight like a war victim in the past, was affecting my ability to eat. But I also told her I'd been feeling nauseous and perhaps that was the reason for my lack of appetite. The OB told me my lack of weight gain was not concerning at the moment. My mother and all the books said the nausea, low energy, and bad mood would stop any day now. I made the decision to stay on the reduced Prozac dose.
At 15 weeks I started throwing up. I threw up once before work during that week. The next Monday I spent a few hours before work puking and took the day off, figuring it was an isolated incident. I needed that day off anyway. Tuesday I went into work, ran into my boss getting off the elevator, who told me I looked awful. Wednesday I spent most of the day in my office with my door closed lying on the floor and crying. Wednesday evening my boss found me keeled over the trash can and suggested I take the next day off. I spent Thursday in my pajamas.
Friday morning the 10th I had an OB appointment. I told him that I'd been getting sicker and sicker. He said "Well that's a little backwards but nothing to be concerned about." He prescribed a medication called Zofran for my nausea, which was developed for chemotherapy patients. He suggested it may have something to do with stress. I started reading about all the horrible effects of stress on the baby. Higher blood pressure, an anxious baby, loss of appetite and weight, premature birth, low birthweight. The risks of being chronically stressed out were starting to become more worrisome than the possible effects of Prozac.
I picked up my prescription Friday evening and read the pamphlet of drug information (I'm sure doctors hate it when you do that). To my surprise, I discovered Zofran works on serotonin, the same neurochemical that Prozac affects. I did more research (thank god for Google) and discovered Zofran is used to treat depression, OCD, bulemia, all kinds of things besides nausea.
I didn't take it because I didn't want it to interact with the Prozac, but called the psychiatrist and asked if I should go back up to my full dose of Prozac. We decided I should.
Within two days I stopped puking and within a week I was back to being myself. I never took the Zofran.
With such stark evidence staring me in the face that my depression is a physical disease with distinct physical effects, I am forced to admit that I can't change my chemical makeup. I'm stuck with it. And so's my kid.
Those of us who take anti-depressants beat ourselves up at times. Why do I need this? Why can't I just learn to be a better person? What's wrong with me that I feel like this? Why can't I just be grateful for my good life? If I were stronger I could do this alone. I'm just giving into the American ideal of the happy, productive, extrovert. I wish I could just be me. Which is fine to do if it's just you, but you really need to get over that when other people are involved.
But because of my horrible weeks of stress-induced morning sickness, I've finally realized I have the mental equivalent of diabetes. It's a physical disease. It has to be managed. If I were diabetic, I wouldn't beat myself up for it. I would try and make behavioral changes that could make me healthier but chances are I'd need to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it's brought on by outside factors. But it's here and I'm stuck with it.
The physical change has been remarkable. I've gone running or biking every weekday for the last two weeks. I'm hungry again. I'm not too tired to get out of bed in the morning. My stress level is markedly decreased. All of this has convinced me that my decision is best for the baby. We'll deal with the third trimester issue later, but for now, I'm happy, I'm running, and I'm convinced my baby is better for it.
Though I've been miserable for a few weeks, I'm glad I've had this experience to teach me that I can manage this physical condition, and I don't need to beat myself up. I can let go of all of the anxieties I have about not being a good enough person to be someone's mother. Just take the medication, go to therapy, and with a little help, and a few good runs, I'll do just fine. Yes I'm flawed, but that's ok. Prozac doesn't mask those things. It just releases the bonds of gravity to get me off the couch to run. Or to feed my screaming baby. And if I bequeath my genetic legacy of depression to my child, then I know how to deal with it, and how to tell them that the person they are is just fine, no matter what.
Pregnancy is natural. A woman's body is designed to nuture human life. But unlike running, ignore everyone who says its natural and you'll figure it out.
Like the myths about running, myths about pregnancy abound. "I loved being pregnant"..."I had no morning sickness"..."The second trimester is wonderful"..."You have that glow"
These myths are as dangerous as listening to someone who tells you running will kill you.
Let me tell you something about myself. It is a large part of why I run. It's something I keep to myself because I see it as irrelevant to the outside world. It's not your problem, and it's not an excuse. But I'm beginning to see how it will impact my child because of the physical connection between us, and eventually the emotional one as well.
I have clinical depression.
I've struggled with this depression all my life. Every day is a battle for me to get out of bed and just find the energy to live. There have been times I've wanted to kill myself, but luckily rarely have found the energy to do anything about it. Depression is brown. You feel like you are swimming in a cloudy pool. The world is hidden behind a fog. It's a leaky drain that slowly saps your water levels. It's entropy: An inevitable force of nature that disorders everything inside you and around you.
Running is a natural high and a release that helps me feel good. If I can consistently overcome inertia and get out the door to exercise, my mood and energy level is immensly improved. Any good psychiatrist worth his $100 per hour will tell you to exercise regularly if you have depression. Running is also a spiritual lift for me that gives me time to clear my head of worries, anxieties, and the lead weight always hanging over my head.
But the key to reaping all that benefit is getting out the door in the first place. And that's the real crux of the condition, the insidious mechanism by which depression eats its victims alive. It ties them to the couch (or the bed or the floor) with gravity.
That's where, for me, medication comes in. I've been off and on various anti-depressants for the past 12 years. Prozac is my happy-pill of choice, a wonderous medication which can be life-saving for its users, and in my opinion ranks with the discovery of penecillin in the annals of great medical achievements.
I used to fight being on medication - insisted it was just the establishment's way of making me into someone I'm not. I would take it to pull myself off the couch for a little while, decide I was better, go off it, and instantly sink back into the mire.
In time I realized that I just needed it to maintain a floor under my feet, and with a few years of consistent use I was doing great.
Then I got pregnant. Prozac isn't technically approved for pregnancy because it's virtually impossible to do controlled studies on depressed pregnant women. But the anecodtal evidence collected on its use over the past 25 years is substantial, and all of it points to it being safe without any long-term effects on the child. The only potential issue is that the baby can have withdrawal symptoms after birth, so its recommended that it not be used in the third trimester.
This is where those myths become damaging. Far from being joyous, natural, wonderful, and something I was confident I could figure out, pregnancy has been one of the most stressful, worrisome, chemically imbalanced states I've ever been in. It's not that I'm not overjoyed to be having a baby. But the physical and emotional toll of pregnancy is incredible.
Everyone said the first trimester could be rough with all the new hormones, but things should stabilize by the fourth month. I'd have my energy back, morning sickness would subside, I'd be myself again with a cute little baby bump and a wonderous glow. "You'll be happier than you ever have been in the second trimester."
Well the only glow is coming from my greasy, unwashed hair.
I did fine the first trimester. I was more exhausted than I'd ever been in my life, and a bit cranky, but able to run, motivated to go to work, and excited about baby stuff, if a bit overwhelmed. A normal mother-to-be in other words.
At 4 weeks I started tapering off the Prozac, and got down to half a dose by 8 weeks. I felt pretty good. I ran the Army 10 miler. I was slowing down and tired, but having fun.
Prozac has a long "half-life" as its called in the parlance, and I guess it took a while for that reduced dose to start to have effects. At 12 weeks I started to feel sick and pretty much stopped running. 20 minutes on the staitonary bike was all I was getting maybe once a week. At 14 weeks I realized I hadn't gained any weight in 4 straight weeks and I had no appetite. I couldn't get out of bed. I almost broke down crying in a coworker's office telling her how I just wanted a break. I regularly came into the office at 10 instead of 9.
At that point I called the psychiatrist and told her I was worried my depression, which has caused me to drop weight like a war victim in the past, was affecting my ability to eat. But I also told her I'd been feeling nauseous and perhaps that was the reason for my lack of appetite. The OB told me my lack of weight gain was not concerning at the moment. My mother and all the books said the nausea, low energy, and bad mood would stop any day now. I made the decision to stay on the reduced Prozac dose.
At 15 weeks I started throwing up. I threw up once before work during that week. The next Monday I spent a few hours before work puking and took the day off, figuring it was an isolated incident. I needed that day off anyway. Tuesday I went into work, ran into my boss getting off the elevator, who told me I looked awful. Wednesday I spent most of the day in my office with my door closed lying on the floor and crying. Wednesday evening my boss found me keeled over the trash can and suggested I take the next day off. I spent Thursday in my pajamas.
Friday morning the 10th I had an OB appointment. I told him that I'd been getting sicker and sicker. He said "Well that's a little backwards but nothing to be concerned about." He prescribed a medication called Zofran for my nausea, which was developed for chemotherapy patients. He suggested it may have something to do with stress. I started reading about all the horrible effects of stress on the baby. Higher blood pressure, an anxious baby, loss of appetite and weight, premature birth, low birthweight. The risks of being chronically stressed out were starting to become more worrisome than the possible effects of Prozac.
I picked up my prescription Friday evening and read the pamphlet of drug information (I'm sure doctors hate it when you do that). To my surprise, I discovered Zofran works on serotonin, the same neurochemical that Prozac affects. I did more research (thank god for Google) and discovered Zofran is used to treat depression, OCD, bulemia, all kinds of things besides nausea.
I didn't take it because I didn't want it to interact with the Prozac, but called the psychiatrist and asked if I should go back up to my full dose of Prozac. We decided I should.
Within two days I stopped puking and within a week I was back to being myself. I never took the Zofran.
With such stark evidence staring me in the face that my depression is a physical disease with distinct physical effects, I am forced to admit that I can't change my chemical makeup. I'm stuck with it. And so's my kid.
Those of us who take anti-depressants beat ourselves up at times. Why do I need this? Why can't I just learn to be a better person? What's wrong with me that I feel like this? Why can't I just be grateful for my good life? If I were stronger I could do this alone. I'm just giving into the American ideal of the happy, productive, extrovert. I wish I could just be me. Which is fine to do if it's just you, but you really need to get over that when other people are involved.
But because of my horrible weeks of stress-induced morning sickness, I've finally realized I have the mental equivalent of diabetes. It's a physical disease. It has to be managed. If I were diabetic, I wouldn't beat myself up for it. I would try and make behavioral changes that could make me healthier but chances are I'd need to take some sort of medication for the rest of my life. Maybe it's genetic, maybe it's brought on by outside factors. But it's here and I'm stuck with it.
The physical change has been remarkable. I've gone running or biking every weekday for the last two weeks. I'm hungry again. I'm not too tired to get out of bed in the morning. My stress level is markedly decreased. All of this has convinced me that my decision is best for the baby. We'll deal with the third trimester issue later, but for now, I'm happy, I'm running, and I'm convinced my baby is better for it.
Though I've been miserable for a few weeks, I'm glad I've had this experience to teach me that I can manage this physical condition, and I don't need to beat myself up. I can let go of all of the anxieties I have about not being a good enough person to be someone's mother. Just take the medication, go to therapy, and with a little help, and a few good runs, I'll do just fine. Yes I'm flawed, but that's ok. Prozac doesn't mask those things. It just releases the bonds of gravity to get me off the couch to run. Or to feed my screaming baby. And if I bequeath my genetic legacy of depression to my child, then I know how to deal with it, and how to tell them that the person they are is just fine, no matter what.
posted by Bon @ 3:04 PM
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