Post-Wedding Depression is Real

When I first became engaged to my husband, I ordered all the wedding books, researched, and meticulously planned until I ended up in the ER with nerve damage. I was also pulled in all sorts of directions by my in-laws and family, who paid for the event. My planning season was an emotional rollercoaster, but I loved the planning part. I designed so many things and perused so many websites I can now call myself a wedding connoiseur.

After my wedding, in the 12 hour timeslot before I left for my honeymoon, I felt despair. I didn’t get exactly what I wanted. I didn’t even have a real wedding dress, but a white prom dress, because of low funds due to my medical situation. During this time I had become obese, and I felt I was no longer beautiful. I dreamt of being beautiful on my wedding day. Instead, I had a pixie haircut, a round face, acne and pale skin. There was, also, well, my new walking stick. During my planning season I had gone from abled to disabled.

The honeymoon provided another high, but immediately after coming home things turned south. Why didn’t I get to be gorgeous on my wedding day? Why had my husband never told me he thought I was beautiful during the wedding? Where was the romance? And most importantly, why couldn’t I walk on my own?

Growing up I was the little girl who played wedding in diapers. I was the ultimate wedding dreamer. But the bubble popped and here I was, married, unemployed and disabled. I was going to grad school in the fall after having to drop out due to developing lupus three days before my wedding. I felt worthless as a housewife.

When COVID hit I had a giant brain worm: a wedding planner for disabled couples. I wrote about 100 pages of it in two weeks, then fleshed it out with interviews from the community.

In trying to cope with the post-wedding blues, I turned back to weddings (one of my favorite things) to try to help people. It works best when I’m coming hard at it on the weekends or discussing it with my professors, who have taken an interest in the book.

The beauty, purpose, and creativity involved in weddings lit my brain up like a live wire. To see it POOF out of thin air, after its most important culmination, drove me to writing more seriously. I wrote about fashion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and my experiences as a newly disabled wife facing an unknown world.

If you found this because you’re feeling guilt about the post-wedding blues, you aren’t alone. You’ve definitely got a friend in me.

2 Traditionally Bridal Things I Didn’t Care About As A Chronically Ill Bride

Bride with sequin shoes. sign overlay 2 Traditionally Bridal Things I didn't care about as a chronically ill bride spoonielifestyle.com

When I was engaged to my husband, I was in the process of being diagnosed with lupus and fibromyalgia. During what should have been my time of joy, I was ridiculously sick. Therefore my wedding, although I tended to it the best I could, did not have all the typical girl-things most brides obsess about.

To most women, your wedding day is your most beautiful day – and that means your physical self. I had some radical self-acceptance when it came to my appearance. There were just some things I couldn’t control, some things I had no energy to control, and some things I knew would pain me to control to the point where the gain wasn’t worth the cost.

I wondered if other chronically ill brides had similar experiences, so I wrote this short listicle.

1. Losing weight

At the time I was a vegan, swimming for 2 hours each day, and doing 45 minutes of yoga. By the time the month of my wedding had rolled around I had astronomically gained weight from pain meds. I was also bed bound and couldn’t walk like I used to. When you’ve gone from standing unassisted to needing a cane, you’re gonna nope out of doing crash dieting, binging, and sacrificing your hate-selfies to the weight loss gods. I bought WalMart spandex to get into my dress and got on with my life.

After the wedding, almost immediately after the honeymoon, I was also diagnosed with hypothyroidism after about six months of looking for it. Chuckee darn, y’all, I could’ve guessed that!

Now Pinterest and any other god awful website (I’m looking at you, Instagram) shows me body shaming, hateful things that I wish I knew how to tell the website to block, because back when I was thin I didn’t have these problems. I wonder if it’s looking at me through the camera and going, “Oh, look, a fat girl. We have to make her hate herself so she’ll use the site more.” Kinda like the time Pinterest kept sending me suicide notes while I was starting therapy. Who writes these algorithms? Yeah, I don’t know either. I only use Pinterest to pin Chronic Illness Business stuff.

In all, I gave up on sweating for the wedding, because I couldn’t move. I don’t regret it. During the time I still had a gentle yoga workout regimen, but the cards weren’t in my hands.

2. Having perfect skin

I was super stressed out and so sick I couldn’t communicate to my doctors I didn’t deem essential. For my doctors I deemed essential, such as my rheumatologist and neurologist, I would create PowerPoints on my tablet. When it came time to talk, I would pass the tablet over to them. So when it came time to see the derm, I didn’t create one. I figured he’d look at my skin and be done with it.

Unfortunately I was expected to talk at the derm, and I was not coherent due to the pain I was in. I remember the smirk on the doctor’s face. Not to mention when I was prescribed an acne cream, I couldn’t remember to use it due to brain fog and constantly being on the go with doctor’s appointments sometimes at 8AM. I lived 45 minutes out from the city.

During this time, I was also watched for developing a lupus rash, which the derm didn’t seem to understand, and proceeded to tell me what allergy shots were and how they worked like I was in 5th grade.

Are you a fellow spoonie bride?

Don’t worry. You’re still going to be beautiful whether you labored over your appearance for months or years or not. You should be yourself on your wedding day. Whatever form that is, just is. Nobody owes the world a physical beauty that is strictly theirs to keep, not even on their wedding day. Sometimes we are all forced to be who we are. If you fall in that boat, don’t worry.

National Mental Health Awareness Month: Trichitillomania

This month is National Mental Health Awareness Month, and I’ll most likely be posting quite a bit about mental health, as I typically do.

I entered the mental health world when I was 12 – I was being bullied at school and my parents didn’t believe me. Eventually I developed trichitillomania because I was being bullied for my hair, which I grew to hate.

Trichitillomania is compulsive hair pulling. My self-hatred and misery led to a golf ball sized bald spot on the back of my head that I covered by gathering what I had left into a ponytail.

I never particularly cared that I was depressed, angry at my parents, or that I had trichitillomania – I just wanted someone to do something about the bullying. My boomer parents expected me to punch somebody in the face and be done with it. If I had done that, I would have gotten into a melee with the entire school. Besides, it wasn’t in my nature to throw hands.

My mom noticed the pile of hair by my bed growing ever higher, and took me to the GP one afternoon. He promptly referred me to a childhood psychiatrist, who barred me from therapy until I was on stable medications.

I just wanted someone to talk to. I didn’t perceive any of my so-called friends at the time understood what I was going through, and if they did (they most likely could but were unable to articulate, this is middle school here) and would have happily opened up to a therapist. But Dr. Whatserface? No.

Over the course of two years I would come to take 13 different pills a day… all for my mental health. Within four years I would receive a bipolar diagnosis.

Ten years later I developed chronic pain, which has been linked to bipolar meds I can’t get off of for the sake of my functionality.

Eventually the docs would tell me that all the chemical grief I went through as a child and teenager was unnecessary, but hindsight is 20/20. You live with what you are and what you become. Own it.

I hope this article helps a teenager or parent before hauling off their moody but normal kid to the psychiatrist.