severe, I would say my postpartum “depression” was an 8. That’s pretty bad if you consider that my drug days would be about a 10. I will never forget the pain that I was in back when I was younger and doing drugs. I wanted to end it all. My drug days and then the days of the postpartum are two times in my life where I could honestly say that people around me really had no clue what I was going through. Only a small percentage of people have been hooked on really bad drugs to the point where it threatened their life. But a lot of people have been through the severity of the postpartum that I had. I have had the unfortunate experience of going through both. But both times, I survived.
As I’ve said, Hank isn’t a therapist. I didn’t expect him to be one and I’m not going to treat him like one. I don’t expect him to give me the right answer and that’s not his job. If you are a wife or a mother and you have problems, don’t expect your husband to be able to fix them; go to a therapist. But one thing my husband and I were able to come together on is the conclusion that next time, for baby number two, I will definitely get help. I’m not going to be ashamed about getting the help that I need. I’m not going to be scared to ask for help. I will take the time and I will hire a therapist during and after pregnancy. Men do not understand these things and we shouldn’t ask them to. You better go to a professional when you can, during and after pregnancy, and that is what I’m going to do.
Chapter 8
Getting Back to Kendra
S ometimes in life you just check out. Maybe you’re buried in work, maybe you are dealing with personal issues, or maybe (like in my case) you just had a baby. I had checked out of real life for a couple of months. Calls went unreturned, messages went unanswered, priorities shifted. It’s kind of like a temporary leave of absence from life. I wasn’t consciously avoiding the outside world, but there was no way I had time for anything other than breast-feeding and changing diapers. I knew at some point it was time to reemerge, but it wasn’t something I could control. I’d get back in the swing of things as soon as time allowed me. For me, that was getting my body and my brain in synch. My eating habits were horrible, my workouts were nonexistent, and my mothering skills were average at best. If I couldn’t do the “normal” things in my daily life, how would I have time to socialize, work, and be “Kendra” again? It was just going to take time. Time not only heals wounds physically from birth, but it also heals mental wounds.
For one reason or another, things always work out for me. It’s not because I do anything right or make any of the right moves, but as always, one day things just changed. One day a long time ago I woke up and luckily got off drugs. One day I met Hugh Hefner, one day I met Hank, one day I had a baby, and one day I went to the doctor’s office for my six-week clearance, and when he told me I could go to the gym I came alive again. For me it always seems like I just need to make it to the next step and survive. It’s always about survival, whether it’s drugs, adolescence, depression, or scandal. All too many times I’ve been in situations where I could have given up and ended things, and yet, as long as I keep on pursuing that light at the end of the tunnel, things seem to work out. I know for me, quitting is never an option. In fact, I somehow end up better off because of it all.
I was still stuck at 140 pounds at my six-week clearance, thirty-five pounds more than my comfortable pre-pregnancy weight. I was all layered up because I wanted to sweat off the fat. I remember it exactly: I was dressed in three sweatshirt hoodies, spandex, and a couple pairs of sweatpants. I wanted to sweat those pounds off. But the second the doctor said I could work out, I had my moment of clarity. Green light! I headed right to the gym straight from the doctor’s office. I
As I’ve said, Hank isn’t a therapist. I didn’t expect him to be one and I’m not going to treat him like one. I don’t expect him to give me the right answer and that’s not his job. If you are a wife or a mother and you have problems, don’t expect your husband to be able to fix them; go to a therapist. But one thing my husband and I were able to come together on is the conclusion that next time, for baby number two, I will definitely get help. I’m not going to be ashamed about getting the help that I need. I’m not going to be scared to ask for help. I will take the time and I will hire a therapist during and after pregnancy. Men do not understand these things and we shouldn’t ask them to. You better go to a professional when you can, during and after pregnancy, and that is what I’m going to do.
Chapter 8
Getting Back to Kendra
S ometimes in life you just check out. Maybe you’re buried in work, maybe you are dealing with personal issues, or maybe (like in my case) you just had a baby. I had checked out of real life for a couple of months. Calls went unreturned, messages went unanswered, priorities shifted. It’s kind of like a temporary leave of absence from life. I wasn’t consciously avoiding the outside world, but there was no way I had time for anything other than breast-feeding and changing diapers. I knew at some point it was time to reemerge, but it wasn’t something I could control. I’d get back in the swing of things as soon as time allowed me. For me, that was getting my body and my brain in synch. My eating habits were horrible, my workouts were nonexistent, and my mothering skills were average at best. If I couldn’t do the “normal” things in my daily life, how would I have time to socialize, work, and be “Kendra” again? It was just going to take time. Time not only heals wounds physically from birth, but it also heals mental wounds.
For one reason or another, things always work out for me. It’s not because I do anything right or make any of the right moves, but as always, one day things just changed. One day a long time ago I woke up and luckily got off drugs. One day I met Hugh Hefner, one day I met Hank, one day I had a baby, and one day I went to the doctor’s office for my six-week clearance, and when he told me I could go to the gym I came alive again. For me it always seems like I just need to make it to the next step and survive. It’s always about survival, whether it’s drugs, adolescence, depression, or scandal. All too many times I’ve been in situations where I could have given up and ended things, and yet, as long as I keep on pursuing that light at the end of the tunnel, things seem to work out. I know for me, quitting is never an option. In fact, I somehow end up better off because of it all.
I was still stuck at 140 pounds at my six-week clearance, thirty-five pounds more than my comfortable pre-pregnancy weight. I was all layered up because I wanted to sweat off the fat. I remember it exactly: I was dressed in three sweatshirt hoodies, spandex, and a couple pairs of sweatpants. I wanted to sweat those pounds off. But the second the doctor said I could work out, I had my moment of clarity. Green light! I headed right to the gym straight from the doctor’s office. I
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