Recognizing My Depression Has Brought Me Joy

For the last five months I have been dealing with postpartum depression (PPD). And, oddly, I am extremely grateful for it. Mine is a mild case, for which I am taking medication. But its presence in my life has brought me to understand just how blessed I am and how wonderful my life truly is. I absolutely believe that God has allowed me to deal with this trial for my own benefit and to strengthen my family. I have an amazing husband, Werner, and three equally amazing children. Evie is almost five, Cliff is two and a half, and Vincent is five months. They bring me greater joy than I could ever have imagined. They also bring me headaches, frustration, fear, and tears. But that’s part of motherhood, and especially a part of PPD.

Since realizing I was once again dealing with PPD (yes, I’ve had it before), I’ve felt the need to share my experience with others. I have talked about it briefly with a few people as situations arose, but I felt more was needed. So here it is. I suppose there are really three things I hope to accomplish with this: First, I want to tell you what I felt. I honestly did not know I was dealing with depression.  I was told early on that I did not have PPD, that I was okay, and that whatever I was feeling would go away “in time.” I have since spoken with other women who were told the same thing and just “dealt” with their feelings. And in some cases, just dealing with it may be possible. But not in my case. I hope that by sharing my experience and my feelings, other women will read this, recognize their own feelings, and realize they are not alone and that they don’t have to “just get over it.” PPD is real. It is an Emotional and physical reality. No one should have to feel what I felt. Motherhood can be wonderful. It took me a long time to figure that out. So my second goal in writing this is to encourage women who have recognized their own PPD to get help. I urge any woman reading this who relates to my story to take a step and talk to her doctor. Get help. Find your joy. And that is my third goal: to share the joy that I have felt since getting the help I need. I would not now have the joy in my life that I do if I hadn’t asked for help.

When I was a child and a teenager I was constantly asked the question “What do you want to be when you grow up.” My answer was almost always the same: A mom. So when I became pregnant with my first child, I was excited. I was more than excited. I was achieving my life-long dream. I was becoming the one thing I had always hoped for. My belly grew, and my excitement grew. My ankles grew and my collection of pink baby clothes grew. My breasts grew and my stack of baby accessories grew!

And then Evie was born.

I should have been happy. I should have been in love. I should have been glowing with the pride and joy of holding this little bundle that finally made me a mom. But I wasn’t.

I was exhausted. I was starving. I was in pain. They gave me my baby and I smiled at her. I was happy she had come, but I was equally happy to let anyone else hold her while I slept. After two days in the hospital, the doctor told me I was ready to go home and I started crying. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to have to take care of the baby yet. I liked her. She was cute; she was sweet. But I couldn’t do it. My doctor asked me if I felt like I needed to stay, and I said no, because I didn’t have any concrete reason to stay. I just didn’t want to go. But go I did. My husband wheeled me out to my car, helped me awkwardly climb in, drove the three blocks to our apartment, helped me awkwardly climb out, and carried Evie up the stairs to our apartment. I followed. My mom was there for another few days. I’d be fine, I told myself. I just needed to give my body some time to heal, a few hours to sleep, and then I’d be happy. That love that I was told about would come rushing over me and I’d feel that excitement again that I’d had only three days before.

The excitement never returned. My mom went back home, my husband went back to school and work, and I was left sitting in our lonely apartment trying to nurse a baby I no longer wanted. And I was miserable. There were times that I was happy – usually when Evie had fallen asleep or Werner was holding her and I watched. I liked those moments. I knew that I loved her. But I didn’t always feel it.

The best way that I can describe my feelings is as the two Mes. There was Emotional-me and Logical-me. Emotional-me essentially ruled my life, but every once in a while Logical-me would win, and for that I am extremely grateful. Logical-me knew that I had a loving husband, and that I had been happy with him before Evie had come. Logical-me knew that I had a responsibility to Werner, to myself, and to God to take care of Evie and keep her alive. Emotional-me knew I was miserable, knew I hated being a mother, knew I was insecure  about my relationship with my husband, knew I wasn’t good enough for my family, and knew there was nothing I could do to change my situation.

As I look back now, I wonder how I managed to hide my depression, especially in those first few months when it was at its ugliest. I do, however, know why I hid it. I hid my unhappiness because I had chosen my path. I hadn’t accidentally gotten pregnant. It was part of my plan. It was the thing I had wanted. I was too prideful to admit I hated the life I was living. And culturally I wasn’t allowed to. All of the mothers I knew were wonderful, happy mothers who adored their children and their lives. At church, I was expected to love motherhood. And if I didn’t, there was something wrong with me. At least, that was how I felt at the time. I know now how incredibly wrong I was, but as an unexperienced mother, I didn’t know any better. I assumed I was the one at fault. I assumed I just wasn’t supposed to be a mom after all. Emotional-me questioned every decision I had made that led me to this point. I questioned my degree. I questioned my marriage. I questioned my lack of an occupation.  But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything. Because that’s what depression does to you. It makes you question yourself over and over and over but leaves you feeling hopeless and useless and unable and unwilling to put forth the effort to fix any of your problems. I was also ashamed. I was ashamed of the feelings I was having and I was ashamed of myself for not being a better mother.

Two weeks after Evie was born, the hospital sent a nurse over to my apartment to check on me. She gave me a postpartum depression questionnaire to fill out and then scored me. I came in a single point underneath the cut-off. She said “well, you’re fine. Any questions?” Yes, I had questions, but no, I didn’t ask them. The people who made the questionnaire surely knew what they were looking for. There were several questions about me wanting to hurt myself or kill myself, and I had honestly answered that, no, those thoughts had never come into my mind. But there weren’t any questions asking how I felt about my baby. There were no questions asking if I ever wondered if I should just let her roll off the changing table, or if I should just walk away while she was in the bathtub. And no, I hadn’t acted on those things. Logical-me thankfully took over in each of those horrible, wretched moments, for which I thank God eternally. But as the nurse sat there with me, Emotional-me convinced Logical-me that those things must not be a part of PPD because they weren’t included. And Logical-me rose up enough times, telling Emotional-me that Evie really was a sweet baby when she wasn’t screaming at me. I had small moments occasionally when I was happy. I enjoyed dressing her up and taking her out on walks when the weather permitted. I loved when strangers oohed and aahed over her thick hair or her bright blue eyes. Those moments of emotional clarity led me to believe my results. I told myself that thoughts of letting my baby die were totally normal for a new mom (Note: THEY ARE NOT NORMAL!!!) I said nothing; the nurse left. What should have been a major red flag was ignored and I remained untreated.

Part of my struggle in the first few weeks of Evie’s life dealt with nursing. I don’t know if the trouble with nursing worsened the depression or the depression worsened the nursing problems. I don’t know if they were related or not. But nursing was miserable for me. And it was pushed. “You have to nurse your baby,” “breast is best,” “breast-fed babies are happier babies,” “your baby won’t be as healthy if she isn’t breast-fed,” “nurse nurse nurse nurse nurse!” So I struggled on and felt awful. I hated nursing and I hated that I hated nursing. I hated myself for not being able to nurse and I hated Evie for not being able to nurse. Evie hated that she couldn’t nurse. After several tearful weeks of trying and failing, I made the decision to switch to formula. This decision probably saved Evie’s life and my sanity. Honestly, my mother deserves almost all of the credit here. In one of many phone conversations that included me crying and her trying to help she finally said to me “Just stop. It’s okay to stop. She will be fine. She will get all of the nutrients she needs. It’s okay.” I never put Evie to my breast again after that phone call and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made in my life. Normally when a woman stops nursing cold turkey she experiences painful engorgement. I had zero. Apparently I just wasn’t producing any milk and my poor baby had been starving. As soon as we switched to formula she barely ever cried and she started sleeping through the night.

With the benefit of sleep and the ability to let other people take care of Evie, my depression lessened. It didn’t go away, but it definitely got better. The biggest change was that I no longer hated the sights and sounds of my child and thoughts of allowing her to die no longer plagued me. I still struggled to find the motivation to get up every morning. I still regretted my decision to become a mother. But my life was no longer horrible. It became bearable. My good days became more frequent as Werner finished school and family came into town. I had more pleasant things to occupy my mind.

That uplifting break didn’t last long. Werner got two internships that summer which had us living in spare rooms at each of our parents’ houses. Because all four of our parents worked at the time, I was again left alone with Evie. I watched a lot of television and read a lot of books as a way to escape. In general, things were better than they had been before, but I found myself easily overwhelmed. I accepted every offer of babysitting that my parents or in-laws offered. Any chance to get away from my mothering was a blessing. We even left her with my in-laws for a weekend trip when she was just four months old. And yet, I enjoyed showing off my beautiful child to my high school friends or the women I had gone to church with as a teenager. I enjoyed showing Werner’s friends what a cute baby he and I had created. I enjoyed watching them give her love, and I was inwardly jealous. Logical-me knew she was a great little baby. Her laughs made me smile. I loved watching her play happily in the bathtub (one of her favorite activities). I liked watching her grow and learn. But as soon as she started crying, Emotional-me took over and I wondered again what I was thinking to become a mother.

When we moved to my in-laws’, Evie shared a room with us. It was fine at first, until Werner’s alarm clock started waking Evie up and she refused to go back to sleep. With my sleep again being broken, my depression levels ramped back up. And because my in-laws were sleeping just down the hall, I felt like I had to get up with her before she woke them. Cue the depression-induced frustration and anxiety. I resented Werner for waking her up and then being gone all day. I resented Evie for being awake. I resented my in-laws for making me keep her quiet. I know now that they didn’t. They loved having their granddaughter there. They were happy to play with her, to feed her, to rock her to sleep, to take her out on walks. I resented that they were able to find joy in her. In my depressed state I felt like every bit of help they offered was a judgement of me. If they fed her, it must be because I hadn’t realized she was hungry or I was feeding her wrong. If they took her out on a walk, it was because I wasn’t paying enough attention to her or I wasn’t keeping her quiet enough. If they put her to sleep it was because I didn’t know what I was doing. I realize now how completely absurd I was. They were honestly trying to help and enjoying spending time with the granddaughter they rarely got to see. But I couldn’t see that because my depression twisted everything into a gnarled, ugly lie.

As these months passed, my relationships with my family suffered. Strangely, what should have brought us closer, made me more frustrated. Every little thing that I did, I assumed made them think badly of me. I was relieved when we left both places. I have since been able to talk with both my mom and my mother-in-law about the depression I experienced, and both of them told me they did not know what I had been dealing with. My mom said she figured I was “just tired and learning how to deal with a new baby” and my mother-in-law just thought I was a quiet person. Living in different states, we hadn’t spent much time together before we moved in with them. She simply didn’t know. This has brought to my attention another one of the huge issues with PPD. Unless you are raving mad or suicidal, people often don’t notice that you are dealing with depression, and this especially applies if you have just had a baby. If you get easily frustrated at silly things (me!) they assume you have a short temper. If you refrain from participating in conversation because you think you’ll make a fool of yourself (me!) people think you are shy. If you cry because your husband ate the last banana even though you hate bananas (yeah, that was also me!) they assume that you are over tired or your hormones haven’t settled or PMS is setting in. They don’t see everything and they don’t know your unexpressed thoughts.

Of all of the people that I spent time with in the two years that I suffered from my Evie-PPD, only two people ever even mentioned that I had changed. The first was a college friend. After I had Evie, Collette came to visit me. I’m not entirely sure what tipped her off to my state, but she noticed I was not myself. To my memory, she never directly suggested that I may be dealing with PPD, but she made an effort to help me. She came over to my apartment frequently in the weeks between Evie’s birth and our move. She came just to listen. She didn’t come to see my baby or to accomplish a project. She came for me.  The first time she came, Evie was asleep in her swing. Collette came in, made a comment about how sweet she looked, and then walked right past her and sat down on the couch next to me. And then we talked. She asked how I was doing, how I was feeling, if I was sleeping, if I wanted anything. And then she told me what was going on with our friends. She updated me on the trivial aspects of our common life. All the while Evie slept and I was free. It was a small return to the normalcy of my pre-motherhood life, but it was exactly what I needed. Every time Collette came by it was the same. I truly believe that God sent her on those visits. He knew that I needed that grounding wire to my former happy reality, and Collette provided it. It wasn’t a huge burden for her, but it lifted an immense burden from me.

The other person who noted my change was Werner. Again, like Collette, he never called it depression. He just knew that I was unhappy about having Evie. There were several very tearful nights in which I confessed a portion of my hopelessness to him. I never said outright what I thought – “I wish we hadn’t had her” – but I told him I wasn’t loving motherhood. I told him I sometimes wished I could put her in daycare so that I could get a job and be around people, but that I was scared because I didn’t know what job I could have. I told him I wished we could have more alone time. I didn’t tell him everything, because I didn’t want to hurt him more than I already was. I internalized my feelings to protect him. It didn’t work. How he managed to stick with me through those months I couldn’t tell you. I am so grateful that he did. I know it couldn’t have been easy for him.

When the internships ended we moved again, this time to the San Francisco area of California. I don’t know if it was the near-constant perfect weather, or relief at being on our own again or just time, but California brought the biggest relief from my depression that I had experienced. It didn’t go away entirely. I still got frustrated easily and I still didn’t love motherhood, but I began to like it. This was huge for me. At the time, I even thought I was beginning to be myself again. Evie was sixth months old and beginning to show a personality. Emotional-me had mostly chilled out and Logical-me was taking a more major role. I made friends with two women who had daughters near the same age as Evie. We got together usually once or twice a week, which gave me the conversation I craved. With Werner gone most days (he was doing graduate school and working a part-time job), they were sometimes the only adult conversation I got. They were peers, both first-time moms, and similar to me in interests. We had a lot in common and it was wonderful. I felt freer and happier than I had in months.

I still had some really bad moments. On more than one occasion I considered running away. Emotional-me thought if I just left Werner and Evie I could find some way to be happy again. I didn’t have to be a mother. I could start over somewhere where no one knew me and no one knew the thoughts in my head. But then, I knew that I couldn’t be happy anywhere. I would feel guilty about leaving them. Werner would hate me. My in-laws would hate me. My family would hate me. Everyone at church would hate me. All of my friends would hate me. Logical-me would whisper that I really did love Werner and Evie and that I wouldn’t be any better off without them. Thankfully, I always stayed.

As Evie grew, I found moments of enjoyment with her. She was silly and playful. She made me laugh when she rolled around or tried to wear my hats or clapped her hands when Werner got home. I liked my time with her. But I still looked forward to naptime and bedtime. Those were my moments of peace. And every once in a while Emotional-me would creep back in and throw me off my guard. If Evie played with outlets, I got angry. If she threw her food on the floor, I would be furious. Once she started walking there was a lot more yelling. I couldn’t even tell you what caused my anger a lot of the times. Silly things like not eating all of the corn on her high chair tray or pulling something off of a shelf at the store. Simple things that every one year old does would send me into tears or fuming. I could usually control my temper if we were in public or if Werner were home to talk sense to me, but if we were alone the tears would come and I struggled with calm. I learned that in those moments, I could put Evie into her crib where she would be contained and safe, give her a bottle, and shut the door. Logical-me knew she was little and didn’t know what she was doing. But Emotional-me couldn’t handle having her around. So Logical-me took Emotional-me out of the situation until I could be a nice mom again.

Overall I was content. I had figured out how to deal with life. I didn’t hate being a mother. I got frustrated, but I could handle it. I thought life had reached its new normal, and it was a normal I could handle. And then not long after Evie turned a year old I realized Evie needed siblings. It was a blow. I didn’t want more kids. I was only just beginning to be okay with one. How could I have another one? I didn’t want to go through childbirth again. And I was far enough out of my deep depression to realize that’s what it had been and that I didn’t want to go through it again. I was scared. Werner didn’t want to have more kids either. He had just gotten his mostly-normal wife back and didn’t want to risk losing me again. But with time, a lot of prayer, and another move, we decided God probably knew better than us after all and we started trying for another kid. Apparently God really didn’t want us to change our minds, because I got pregnant after only one month of trying.

I was not excited about being pregnant. I was in a new state (again), with new people, awful weather (who moves to Texas in June?), and pretty much constant nausea. The decision to have Cliff was made completely on logic: I didn’t want another child – Evie needed a sibling. It wasn’t until I was seven months pregnant with Cliff that I had my first thought of “oooh I want a baby.” Not exactly a good sign. But emotionally, I was still fairly stable. My temper with Evie got shorter and shorter as my belly got bigger and bigger. I was anxious about having another traumatic induced-delivery, and I expressed my fears to my OB, but she waved me off. “Your body will know what to do this time. Don’t worry about it.” She wasn’t much help in the comfort department. But I made friends with women from church and I joined a book club. Overall I was okay. People would ask me how we were doing and I’d answer “I’m fine” or “We’re surviving” or “Evie’s still alive.” That was about as positive as I got. Once I hit my eighth month of pregnancy I finally started to feel excited about the new baby that was coming. I was still anxious about childbirth and recovery and having to raise another kid, but I was finally looking forward to having him (mostly so that I wouldn’t be pregnant anymore).

And then Cliff was born.

I am probably one of the minority of women who celebrated upon realizing they were in labor. My body had, indeed, figured it out, a single day before Cliff’s due date. I was still scared of what was to come, but at least this baby was coming on his own. And his birth was a completely different experience for me. I was immediately in love. He was the most precious thing I had ever seen. I simply wanted to hold him and love him and feed him and love him. It was, for me, that glowing miracle that I had been told about. Suddenly I felt amazing. Well, my body hurt, but my mind was free. It was as if I had been suffocating under a thick blanket of emotion for 28 months and suddenly someone had removed it and I could breathe again. It was such an intense change for me, that I was scared. In the middle of the night, I held Cliff in my arms, nursing him like we were made to do it. Werner was asleep on the little couch/bed a few feet away from me, and I got scared that this wonderful feeling wouldn’t last. So scared, in fact, that I called the nurse in and asked her when I should expect the depression to set in.

It never set in. Something about giving birth to Cliff switched the right chemicals on or rewired my hormones or did something. I am not a doctor. I couldn’t tell you the medical terms or explain what happened. All I know is before I gave birth, I was clouded by depression and after I gave birth, it was gone. It was completely gone. I was finally able to see the depression that had still hung over me. I had thought that it had dissipated nearly two years earlier. And I realized for the first time, that my feelings about motherhood were so wrong.

Cliff’s birth changed me. I loved everything about raising that little boy. I loved watching him grow. I loved watching him smile. I loved nursing him. I loved watching him learn. I even, oddly, loved those mid-night nursing sessions. I relished the opportunity I had been afforded. I finally loved my lifelong dream. I had become what I wanted to be, and, this time, it made me happy.

Not everything was perfect, though. I found where I had a natural, immediate, and overwhelming love for Cliff, I lacked that for Evie. I did love her. I knew that. But I could see and feel the difference. I still got frustrated with Evie, but now I was able to discipline her bad behaviour and move on. I no longer lost control. But I didn’t have that deep, amazing, overwhelming love for her that was so natural for me with Cliff.

As Cliff grew, Werner noticed the difference and commented on it several times. “You know, if Evie had done this, you would’ve been furious,” or “that’s not how you would have responded if Evie had done that,” or “you would have been much harsher on Evie.” He was trying to be helpful. But it hurt. It was a continuous reminder of my faults and the lack of control that I had exhibited during my depression. It was hard on me, knowing how much I had missed and how much Evie had missed. She didn’t know what she was missing, but I did. I had to work actively to give Evie the love that she deserved. It was there. The love had always been there. But it had been smothered by my depression, and I had to work to bring it to light. It took a lot of time, and honestly, a lot of practice. It took prayer and concentrated effort. I know it sounds strange to have to work to love your child; it’s not natural. But it was real. I cannot change what happened, no matter how much I wish I could. All I can do now is share my story, in the hopes that it will encourage even just one other woman to seek the help she needs so that her child can receive her full love.

It took time, practice, love, and more time, but eventually I was able to love Evie freely and openly. Somehow, with a lot of help from God, I was able to heal. We were able to heal. I was happy again. My life was wonderful. Werner, Evie, Cliff and I had a great life. We’d figured out what we were doing. We had a good balance. We were all sane individuals. I don’t mean to say that our life was perfect. We are human. Kids disobeyed. We got mad. We had disagreements. Kids got sick. Life happened. But I was finally able to handle it.

Eventually we agreed it was time for another child. We were both scared of what it could mean for us. For me. There was no way to know how my body and mind would respond this time around. We were finally happy with our lives, and another childbirth could ruin everything. But God has a way of letting us know His plans for us, and He did just that. After lots and lots and LOTS of prayer, we decided once again to trust Him. And we agreed that, since we now knew what PPD looked like, we would watch out for it and talk with a doctor if we saw any indication of it, no matter how much I protested.

My pregnancy with Vincent wasn’t great. It wasn’t horrible, but I wasn’t thrilled to be pregnant. Physically, I wasn’t thrilled. I am not one of those women who gets all sorts of extra energy when she’s pregnant. I just get fat. And gassy. And emotional. And smelly. And apparently allergic to the air. But I knew our family needed Vincent and I was truly excited that he was coming to join our family. I was very nervous. Again I was nervous about being induced versus having a natural labor. Cliff had been a big baby, and the doctor who delivered him suggested I be induced a week early if I had another. But I had had such a horrible experience with Evie’s induced birth and my subsequent recovery and a wonderful experience with Cliff’s birth and recovery. I wanted everything about Vincent’s birth to be like Cliff’s. It wasn’t. At 36 weeks pregnant I had an ultrasound that revealed Vincent was already over 7 pounds, bigger than plenty of full-term babies I had known. My doctor and I decided that if he didn’t come on his own, we would induce at 39 weeks. And, of course, he didn’t.

And so Vincent was born.

Although he was induced, the labor and delivery were both much better than they had been with Evie because my body had already done it twice before. This time around my body was prepared for birth – it just needed a little extra help getting there.  In the hour before he was delivered, I had a bit of a nervous fit. I was tired and scared because the induction wasn’t working as well as we had hoped. I was in pain because the epidural was only working on half my body, and that scared me more. I was scared that being induced would have some emotional effect on me. I saw a correlation between induction and depression, and though I knew logically that they were probably unrelated, I couldn’t shake my fear. I started balling and I think I rather frightened Werner. He was worried enough about me getting postpartum depression again, and then I just started weeping out of the blue. He went out to find a nurse and found my doctor instead. We both expressed our worries to her and she listened as she checked my status. I wasn’t insane. I was just in the end stages of labor. Apparently it is completely normal for women who are three pushes away from holding a baby in their arms to be in immense pain and more than a little emotional.

When Vincent arrived, I felt the same amazing love for him that I had felt for Cliff. It was wonderful and Werner and I were both immensely relieved. My doctor asked how I felt and I told her the truth. I had no worries. I was completely in love with my baby, and I was excited to see how my older children responded to him. I was a little nervous about the change that having a third kid would bring, but I was ready to deal with it.

Life with three was harder than I had expected. Evie was older and did more things that required adult supervision. Cliff was a more active, aggressive, and dependent two-year-old than Evie had been. Vincent was a very well-behaved baby, and probably the world’s best natural sleeper, but he still required what seemed like constant nursing. Each one individually was fine, but put them all together and I was overwhelmed. The first two weeks were manageable. Werner got time off from work to be with us, and spent most of that time playing with Evie and Cliff while I nursed Vincent. Both of our moms came to visit and helped out with the housework, the cooking, and the creation of a quiet house by taking the older two out on adventures. But they eventually had to go home and Werner had to go back to work. I settled in to life with three. I was still totally in love with Vincent, but I found myself wishing Evie and Cliff would just go upstairs or just go outside. I wished someone could just take them for the day or that Werner could stay home and entertain them.

It took me several weeks before I recognized that I was once again dealing with PPD. It was a very different and much much much milder form of PPD, but that doesn’t mean it was any less real.  I found myself once again answering the “how are you” questions with things like “fine” or “we’re surviving” or “the kids are all still alive.” When I realized I had given those answers, I started to wonder. After Cliff’s birth, I had said “good” or “great” or any other number of life-loving answers. Those weren’t there anymore. But it was something so small, so seemingly trivial, that I didn’t want to accept it as a sign of PPD. I was just “adjusting,” right? That’s what I told myself, because that’s what you do when you have depression – you tell yourself that you are fine. However, I wasn’t fine.

The truth of my situation hit me when Vincent was nearly six weeks old. I had told Evie and Cliff to go clean their room while I nursed Vincent. When he finished, I went up to check on them and no progress had been made. They were 4 and 2 years old. One should not expect much progress to be made in a room full of fun toys and no adult supervision. But I was having a rough day and it got to me. I tried directing their cleaning with more attention. They didn’t listen. They, being the happy children they are, played. And I lost my temper. I yelled in a way that I hadn’t done since before Cliff was born. It shocked both of them and it shocked me. As soon as I realized that I had lost control I left them in their room and walked out. I called Werner in tears. Balling once again, I asked him if I had postpartum depression. He was quiet. I told him what happened. He asked when my next doctor’s appointment was. It was in two days. He told me he had wondered briefly if I was dealing with it again, but since it was so different, he hadn’t said anything. He suggested that I talk with my doctor when I went in two days later. He talked to me until I was calm enough to go back to my kids.

Two days later I did talk with my doctor. I told her what I was experiencing and what I had experienced before. I told her the worst parts of what I had thought and felt, and I explained that I wasn’t sure what was going on now. I was afraid that I was overreacting to my current situation. Surely, I was just fine. But I had promised myself over and over and over that if I thought I was experiencing PPD again, I would get help. She asked me questions and I answered as honestly as I could. This time, I didn’t hold back. I told her everything that I thought might matter and even a few things I didn’t think mattered. I knew this time around the doubts that depression caused, and so I let her be the judge for me. I didn’t trust myself, because I knew that Emotional-me could easily be the one in charge, and she’s not a very nice or honest person. One of the things that my doctor said that really stood out to me was “If you’re wondering if you’re dealing with postpartum, you probably are.”

My doctor recommended medication. I expressed my anxieties about taking meds – I didn’t want to become dependent, I have had negative side-effects to hormonal drugs in the past, I was scared of the stigma that would come with it. She explained to me something that Emotional-me couldn’t see. Anti-depressants are not a high. Many people who take them for PPD are able to come off in less than a year and continue their normal life. The medication is not hormonal. PPD is caused by a chemical imbalance in your brain. The meds simply help your brain remember how to produce the right amount of the right chemicals. And the stigma was silly. No one should look down on a cancer patient for taking medicine. No one should look down on someone with pneumonia or bronchitis for taking medicine. Why should anyone look down on someone dealing with a mental health problem for taking medicine? And if it helped, who cares what other people think? I once had a conversation with Claire, my sister-in-law, in which she had said something similar. Cliff was just over a year old, and Claire had a five or six-month-old daughter. She told me very openly and without any shame or hesitation that she was on medications for postpartum depression. At the time, her frankness surprised me. Nobody admitted something like that. It was taboo. But now that I’m in Claire’s place, I completely understand and I am so glad that she did share her experience with me. It helped me have the courage to recognize my own PPD and get help. And being in a healthy place has made me want to share my story. There is no shame in getting medical help! I don’t want anyone to suffer. I want you to be whole.

With this memory and my doctor’s reassurances, I agreed to try the medication, but I was still nervous about the situation. My mother-in-law was visiting again and I waited to pick up my prescription until she was out with my kids, because I didn’t want her to know that I needed medical help. Once the medicine began to work, I noticed an improvement. It was slow at first. I had a good day, followed by a few bad days. I was up and I was down. Some days I would go back and forth by the hour. One day, after about three months of taking medication, my sister – one of the few people I had then confessed my PPD to – called me to check on me. It was a down day. I detailed to her all the problems I was dealing with, all the things I had to get done, my worries about not finishing things on time, and my frustrations that so much had been heaped on me at once. I was a mess. I accomplished next to nothing that day because I was so overwhelmed. The very next morning I woke up and laughed at myself and then sent her a text. “Depression is weird.” I had much more to do and less time to finish it all. I had been up several times during the night with Vincent, and Cliff was sick. But I was in a great mood and had no worries.

I have now been taking my anti-depressant for four months, and I am so incredibly grateful that I had the courage to speak up. I still have down days occasionally, but they are far outnumbered by up days. I am now able to look back on myself, even only a few short months ago, and see clearly the problems I was having. That wasn’t me in charge – it was Emotional-me.

With this new-found clarity I have been able to look back at my experiences over the last five years, and oddly enough, I am brimming with gratitude to my Heavenly Father for allowing me to have them. If I had not experienced such a deep depression after Evie and then such an incredible happiness after Cliff, I never would have recognized my after-Vincent PPD for what it was. I would be living under the burden of PPD still, perhaps for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I would ever have been able to overcome it on my own. Perhaps I could have. But I wouldn’t have known that I should. I would have assumed that life with three kids was just plain hard. And don’t get me wrong, it IS hard. Motherhood is hard work. But it is wonderful, blessed hard work. I would have missed out on all of the joy that I get from these three beautiful children. I wouldn’t have loved them as well as they deserve to be loved.

As I have been struggling with this journey through my current postpartum depression, the topic of Joy seems to be constantly brought up to me. “Men are that they might have joy.” Joy is the very purpose of our existence. That is why we were sent to Earth. That is why we were given the families we were given. It is why we are allowed to struggle through the trials placed before us. It is why we wake up each day. It is why we cry. It is why we have laughter. It is why we breathe. So that we may have joy. There is an opposition in all things, so that we may know and appreciate the good by knowing and appreciating the bad. I could not have this amazing, overpowering joy, this gratitude for my life and my family, if I had not experienced the trials of depression. I would not appreciate and love my motherhood as much as I do if I had not been through that fire.

I can’t promise you that all of your problems will go away if you get help. But I hope that your burden may be lightened as mine has been. I hope that if my trials resonated with you, or you feel the smallest glimmer of hope from what I have shared, that you will act on that hope while Logical-you is still in charge and that you take the steps you need to become the mother you want to be. If you think you have postpartum depression, please see your doctor. I pray that God will give you the clarity of mind you need to know whether you need a little help. I pray that He blesses you and your loved ones with patience as you deal with this trial. I pray that you are able to find joy. Depression doesn’t have to own you. Beat it.