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.
