The shank

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In the past, when I thought about someone having postpartum emotional issues I always imagined some scraggly haired, bag eyed woman moping around her house in her bathrobe with a pacifier in one hand and a revolver in the other. 

What I have learned after Hadley was born is that post partum emotional issues can come knocking on your door in all shapes and sizes.  Most of us are familiar with postpartum depression (PPD) - some all too familiar.  But over the past 12 weeks I have been dealing with another form, called PIWTSASIYUF.  Postpartum I Want To Stick A Shank In Your Ugly Face.

Sure, after Ellie and Lila were born I had a little moodiness as my hormones settled back to their resting states.  But the past three months I have been a woman on fire.  No fuse.  No warning.  No taking deep breaths while I count down from ten.  A race car in the red.  Certified TNT. 

Me:  Excuse me sir, your circular said that Special K was on sale this week.

Stock Boy:  Oh, sorry no - that ended yesterd-

Me:  *round house to the throat*

One minute I'm fine - playing with the kids, thinking about life and how blessed we are, feeling like the queen of the world.  But then it's almost as if I can feel the fine slipping away and the next thing I know I'm switching the Time Out spot to our guest bathroom with the hope that a door will protect the lives of the disobedient.

And it is really an unfortunate time in history to have PIWTSASIYUF.  30 years ago, women who had it would simply think hateful thoughts about friends and family and by the time the hate passed no harm was done. 

But now... now you can spread your crazy around for all the world to see with just the click of a button.  Which seems like a really awesome idea at the time but then, just about the time your in-laws open their email, you're checking one way flights to Rio and gluing on a fake moustache.

Or you're, oh I don't know... say, calling your sister a religious hypocrite and comparing her and her friends to the anti-Christ on her Facebook page.  For instance.

I didn't know what was wrong with me - so many questions ran through my head.  Is it the hormones?  The stress of having three little kids?  Am I just a bitch?  Where can I buy a switch blade?     

On Friday Nick and I had a belated Valentine's Day date night. 

Me:  I've got a lot of hate in my heart.

Nick:  Yeah I noticed.

Me:  One minute I'm fine, then the next I'm cyber bullying my Grandma.  I'm scared I'm going to do something I might regret.

Nick:  Like accidentally send an email to one of your old co-workers or something?

Me:  Like kill you in your sleep. 

Luckily I had a doctor appointment this week to double check that this Mirena is in nice and good and nothing is going to slip past the goalie, because I can't even begin to imagine what pregnancy hormones on top of postpartum rage would do.  So I decided it would be wise to talk to J.T. my trusty OB about my PIWTSASIYUF.

I sat in the waiting room rehearsing what I was going to say.  I didn't want to say anything that might get me locked up or make me seem uncool. 

Receptionist:  Mrs. Mayer?  Can you come to the counter please? 

Me:  Sure.

Receptionist:  They wanted me to bring this to your attention - you have a balance due of 703 dollars.

Me:  But when your billing person called my insurance company before I had this thing put in they told me it would only be a co-pay of 20 dollars.

Receptionist:  Hmm, well all I know is what they tell me.

Me:  Can  you please double check?  I mean, I never would have had this done if I knew it was going to be 703 dollars. You're out of your mind if you think I'm paying that.  I will take it out right here and give it back to you. 

Receptionist:  Ummm, well... the service has already been performed.  Let me call the billing manager.

As the nurse led me to the exam room I plotted my escape if they were going to make me pay the 703 dollars.  I hadn't worked out all of the details but I had a sketchy plan involving me running through the waiting room pantsless screaming "they'll never take me alive."  As I sat on the table, pantsless and ready to bolt, there was a knock at the door.   

Billing Manager:  Well yes, this is indeed what you owe.

Me:  Your office told me it was only going to be 20 dollars.

BM:  If I were you I'd call your insurance company. 

Me:  You need to leave now please.  I'm getting angry.  And you wouldn't like me when I'm angry. 

BM:  I brought you an extra copy of the bill in case you need it.

Me:  I swear to god I'm about three seconds away from shanking your face. 

The good news is that I didn't need to worry about remembering a single word of my "I think need some medication to control my anger" speech at all.  Someone just slid a prescription for some happy pills under the door with a stick.

The bad news is that it takes 2 - 4 weeks to kick in.  I would advise steering clear of any and all mini vans you see on the road in the metro area for at least that length of time.


3 comments:

Beth Thomason said...

I think you should buy me something nice to make up for all your anger you've geared toward me-i'm just saying :)

michelle said...

#3, which is now my favorite kid, caused me to need a month's worth of Prozac. Lucky for your husband, he's not the only/primary recipient of your heart full of hate. Mine was. I hated his guts. The thing that sent me over the edge? He threw away rechargeable batteries. I really thought I might murder him. I tried taking deep breaths (typing this, I'm realizing how vividly I can recall all of these details 3+ years later), and he sounded amused when he asked if I was really THAT angry. That's when I knew I needed help. One month of prozac did the trick. #4 didn't give me any similar issues, but she's a big time pill. Good luck to you. I can relate, and I know your posts will be especially enjoyable over the next few weeks.

angel shrout said...

Totally relate, mine came after number 3 as well. I was a BITCH and toss in some major anxiety attacks, a screwed up gall bladder that had been overlooked for my entire pregnancy which had led to the anxiety attacks and you had the makings of a justifiable homicidal woman..