Sad vs Happy

As of late I've found myself riding the border between writing something sad or writing something funny. All readers beware: sad won. I think this played a big factor into why I've delayed writing anything for so long---it's so easy to be the funny mom with the children covered in poop and absolute chaos bursting from the seams. It's also easy to be the sad and overwhelmed mom that can't seem to find the funny in things like she used to (with chaos still bursting from the seams). The latter is harder to talk and be open about. So please understand that writing this is not what I call enjoyable or the slightest bit easy. It is necessary.
Being a parent is tough! Hard work doesn't even touch on the effort that is put into raising your children. The transition from taking care of only myself to taking care of two little people had a major adjustment period---as in, I think I finally got adjusted as of a month ago. Leo is almost two. Let that sink in. In a world where we see the highlight reel of everyone's lives with everything being picture perfect, introspection and self judgement can be a hell of a thing to deal with. I found myself in a downward spiral of not feeling good enough and not feeling like I was enough of a mom to my kids. I didn't do crafts, I didn't take my kids to the library, I didn't have the house cleaned and clothes folded. I didn't keep my temper in check and I didn't keep my patience with my children when things went awry. This spiral of self deprecation plagued me after having Asher. I found myself becoming more and more upset with myself and those around me, that I started to become more and more of what I feared: a bad mother. I lost my temper in front of my children. I didn't take them outside or engage with them in fun activities. I didn't clean. I didn't cook. I saw myself pulling away from everyone and what genuinely scared me was that I found myself not caring about it. My days started boiling down to sitting on the couch, feeding my children, and my meals consisting of toast and peanut butter (although delicious, I definitely wasn't helping myself in the health department). It wasn't until I came across an article that finally put my thinking into perspective. (Click here to read the article) 
It hit me like a brick to the face: I had convinced myself that my children would benefit from not having me around. I genuinely thought that by not being here, I would make the lives of my children and my family easier. If my poor health only impacted myself, that would have been easier to deal with. Unfortunately I saw how it affected everyone around me and it managed to make me feel worse. To make me feel like I would be nothing but a mother with shortcomings and anger. I didn't realize that I wasn't using normal logic until I read what these other mothers were going through. That they thought exactly the same as I did. That what I was thinking and how I was behaving was wrong. It's hard to accept that you are wrong; it's even harder when you feel like you've messed everything else up too. 
So off to the doctor I went. I am two months into being diagnosed with postpartum depression and taking medication to combat the imbalance of emotions in my brain. Being a person who hates taking medication (which is ironic coming from a person with T1 Diabetes and MS), I finally accepted that I needed help. More than the help my family or myself could do on our own. I am two months into my diagnosis; I am also two months into feeling better. I have finally felt that I've found my stride. I am taking care of myself and my children better. I am doing more and engaging more with them. I am on the road to being the funny mom covered in poop. The road that leads to genuine good feelings and happiness. Am I perfect every day? No. Hell no. But I'm doing better, and that's what matters.
There will be more funny to come, folks. I swear!