How Postpartum Depression Changed Me For The Better
Prologue
I was inspired to write this post after watching one of the latest episodes of
ABC’s What Would You Do?, where they featured a segment discussing postpartum
depression and recorded the reactions of bystanders of a drained, depressed, and
hopeless mother, highlighting her newfound misery. So many of these people
(mostly women) lent a hand and comforted her, offering her the advice to see a
specialist and that she wasn’t alone. I wanted to tell my story and to
destigmatize the idea of postpartum depression. Having a baby is a gift that so
many wants, but not everyone can have.
Throughout history---particularly in the
Western world---we are taught that motherhood is the most gifted and privileged
adventure for a woman to embark on. Ideally, this is true, but for some, it can be
an obstacle too difficult to overcome. When I became pregnant with my daughter,
I had a very lukewarm reaction. I was 19-years-old with only a year of community
college under my belt, in a major that didn’t typically have much job growth
where I resided (I am from the Midwest). I had no idea where I was going to live
and generally a smidge of an idea of what I wanted to do. I had just gotten out
of one relationship and went fresh into another with a man I’ve known since
middle school who’s always had a major crush on me. We spent the majority of our
childhoods as best friends and, at this point, only a month as partners. He was
actually the first one to pick up on the signs---my breasts were sore, I had
weird cravings and I was moodier than usual. He suggested I take a pregnancy
test, and I did (for shits and giggles) because I didn’t actually think it would
come back positive. He had to take off for a third shift at a local factory and
told me to immediately text him with the results.
Then came back two lines---the
one on the right a bit faint. I called bullshit, but still gave him the results;
he promised to pick up a different brand on his way back at 6 in the morning and
come straight home for me to take it. Turns out, this one had also said
positively. He was incredibly happy---the most ecstatic I’d ever seen him. I, on
the other hand, didn’t really know how I felt. Apart of me felt content, but
then a different part of me felt remorse. From that point, we had to come up
with a plan---a strategy on what we were going to do. Abortion? Adoption? None
of those options sat right with us, so we decided to own up to our
responsibilities and keep the baby. It’s important to note that I am finally and
ultimately happy with this decision, but I would be lying if I said I was like
that from the very beginning.
In fact, I was the direct opposite: I’d never been
more miserable in my life. Was it really that bad? Well, most days, no. Besides,
it wasn't like crying about it was going to do anything significant. I'm having
a baby and that's that. Slowly, I had actually adjusted to the idea of being a
mom. It made me feel empowering---like I was capable of taking on the world.
Reality kicked in a few times when I was alone with my thoughts: what if I mess
up? What if she hates me? It didn't help that the spike in hormones made me feel
absolutely crazy.
The days went by as usual: the check-ups, the bloodwork, the
glucose test, the dilation tests... In one of the last appointments that I had,
my favorite OB-GYN (I went to a group office where there were multiple doctors)
pulled me aside, clipboard in hand. At first, I thought she was going to tell me
some bad news. She looked up at me and smiled. "Everything is okay... but I feel
like I need to address something to you since you're considered high-risk,
mentally."
Necessary background info: I've been dealing with cyclothymia
(an off-scale bipolar disorder with frequent manic highs and occasional lows),
depression, and suicidal ideations for as long as my adolescence progressed.
Between a divorce at 13, switching schools with only 2.5 months remaining of the
year (ouch), and generally having a disdain for life itself, I guess you could
say I lost myself. I was being treated for all of this with a healthy dose of
450mg of the antidepressant Wellbutrin, but had stopped cold turkey as soon as I
found out I was pregnant. So immediately, I knew what "high-risk" meant. The
words "postpartum depression" left her mouth like a dog whistle, and I couldn't
help but cock my head. She asked if I'd known what it was; I told her I knew of
it, but not enough to write a report.
Postpartum depression is… well, I don’t
even know how to put into words what it is, so I’ve decided to do a quick Google
search and it led me to the official website for The American Psychiatric
Association on in the article that talks about postpartum depression, or as it is
medically referred to as “peripartum depression”. For the sake of convenience,
every statistic I present is of the American population, but rest assured this
is a global issue. “Up to 70 percent of all new mothers experience the “baby
blues,” a short-lasting condition that doesn’t interfere with daily activities
and doesn’t require medical attention. Symptoms of this emotional condition may
include crying for no reason, irritability, restlessness, and anxiety. These
symptoms last a week or two and generally resolve on their own without
treatment.
Peripartum depression is different from the “baby blues” in that it
is emotionally and physically debilitating and may continue for months or more.
Getting treatment is important for both the mother and the child… Peripartum
depression can cause bonding issues with the baby and can contribute to sleeping
and feeding problems for the baby. In the longer-term, children of mothers with
peripartum depression are at greater risk for cognitive, emotional, development
and verbal deficits and impaired social skills.”[1]
Funny enough, I feel even that definition doesn’t do it justice. Causes of this
are generally chalked up to the drastic shifting of hormones and irregular
changes in a woman’s body after childbirth. I mean, think about it: you spent
nine months growing a human being, all the while dealing with mood swings,
cravings, crying, irritability, heightened senses (particularly your sense of
smell), etc. only for those hormones to be ripped out of you once the baby is
born. Anywhere between 10-20% of new mothers will experience this.[2] It is the
most common postpartum complication, with staggeringly high statistics of
diagnosis’, and yet you rarely see any of them come forward to talk about it
openly. This is because postpartum depression has always been, and continues to
be a controversial topic to bring to the table.
Nonetheless, I heard my doctor
out and though I wanted to believe I was essentially protected from this
dangerous mental illness, I kept it in the back of my mind. I took the pamphlet
from her and returned home; I think that was the moment I had an instinct. So,
how did you find out you had it? The second my baby came out of my womb and into
my arms. That’s how. They say that the feeling is supposed to be
euphoric---holding your baby for the first time. It’s supposed to make you cry.
It's supposed to make you feel joy. Instead, I looked down at her with an empty
stare. Like: “Really? Is this all that life has to offer to me now?” At first, I
thought it was just exhaustion. I had been up for 26 hours at this point, as
I had gone into labor late night/early morning Wednesday, May 29th, and delivered
her late night/early morning Thursday, May 30th. I figured just some rest would
put me in a better mindset.
I was exhausted and frustrated. My milk wasn’t
coming in; all I could seemingly get, no matter how much I practiced her
latching, was colostrum (the thick, clear stuff that comes out of the breasts
before the breastmilk sets in). I couldn’t feed her because I was so tired. I
was tired because she wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t sleep because she was hungry.
She was hungry because I couldn’t feed her. It was a vicious, never ending
cycle. I finally handed her off to the nurse and begged her to feed her formula
because I couldn’t do it anymore, and she set up a scheduled time for a
lactation consultant to come and help me the next morning. So with much-needed
rest and finally being able to eat something other than hospital food, I surely
would’ve felt better afterward, right?
Well, that’s what I thought.
Come time
for me to be discharged, we took her home and got settled in. Generally, the same
thing that went on at the hospital went on there, only I actually had milk to
give her (thank God) and was able to pump a good 6-7 ounces between both
breasts. This was decent in one sitting. Slowly, though, my milk supply dropped.
I didn’t see the cause for it but had pondered endlessly. My boyfriend took
notice almost immediately---that I was constantly sleeping, avoiding food, and
not keeping up with my hygiene. I brushed it off as being a busy mom, but I knew
better. Some of the symptoms of postpartum depression are as follows: constant
fatigue, hopelessness, tearfulness, fears of harming yourself or baby,
irritability, changes in appetite, sleeping too much/too little, trouble bonding
with baby and/or feeling anxious around baby, and more. I was feeling all of it,
right down to the letter. I wasn’t happy. I felt miserable. I felt trapped. I
felt completely in over my head---like, “I can’t handle this. I seriously cannot
handle this.” I remember thinking to myself: “it’s just baby blues. You’ll
adjust. You’re ok.” But after a month… then two… then three, I wasn’t feeling
any better. In fact, I was worse off than when I started.
Anytime she cried, I
felt completely overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to do, and I know that sounds
super cliche because, well, parenting really doesn’t come with a manual so
really, who does? But I mean… I really, really didn’t know what to do. When she
cried and I felt like I’d done everything in my power to take care of her---feed
her, change her, cuddle her, sing to her---and she continued, I wanted to jump
out of the window, run and never look back. There were days that I would sit in
the shower while she cried and cried, my knees to my head in absolute hysterics
wishing that I could have died right then and there. I would lay her down in her
crib, shut the door, and go to my room, lay down on my bed, and listen to music
through my earbuds.
Sometimes I’d even get pissed off when the crying wouldn’t
stop; most times, I was very tearful and felt like I was a horrible mother (this
is known as “postpartum rage” and it is a common symptom, yet not as widely
talked about, with postpartum depression). I pictured any other woman way more
deserving than me taking care of her, and I felt like a failure. On only one
occasion, I’d been asked to go out with friends and take a break. I declined.
Out of all of the “friends” I had, only one true one texted me frequently to
check on my mental state, and even that true friend didn’t have kids, so she
wouldn’t understand. I had to lie… and I hate lying. How can I explain these
feelings without sounding crazy? I don’t even know if there is a way to describe
what postpartum depression feels like. Here is my attempt at trying: Go into
your bedroom at night and shut all of the lights off. Take out your phone and
play depressing music, preferably an instrumental. Just a very somber,
orchestratic type of music. Take a minute or so to think about all of your
fears, darkest thoughts, self-loathing comments, and anxious worries and let
them boil to the surface. Toss your phone any ol’ direction, then begin to feel
around in the dark until you find it. You’ll probably notice that the longer you
take, the worse your mindset gets. There is no “glow”. You can fixate a smile
and nod your head when coworkers, family members, or friends ask how the baby is
doing (and typically only the baby). On the inside, however, you’re screaming to
your maximum lung capacity while sinking further and further down underwater.
Everyone else just watches from the surface. During all of this, I’d give more
than anything for a friend to sit me down and really ask me: “Are you sure
you’re okay?”
I wanted someone to vent to, but none of my friends would
understand. My boyfriend (bless his heart, as he has his own demons to battle)
wouldn’t understand. Worst still, “friends” that knew about my condition would
use it against me. “How could someone ever think about hurting their own child?”
“You’re acting crazy.” “At least I’ve never dreamt of shaking her or smothering
her.” “Just snap out of it and get some fresh air. You’ll be fine.” “You’re just
going through ‘the blues’. You’ll get over it.” (I was six months in at that
point.) Despite being on medication, which I had been prescribed only two months
postpartum, and going to extensive talk therapy (which did help ease some of the
symptoms), I was still dealing with the stress of being a college student,
working full-time, adjusting to medication, taking care of baby/myself, all the
while spiraling from a hormone crash. It felt like the more I talked about it,
the worse it got. I stopped being present with others.
I spent a lot of time
forcing---yes, literally forcing---myself to hold my daughter and find other
ways to bond with her, which had gotten easier when she turned 4-5 months old
but I still had trouble dealing with her crying fits. My mindset shifted between
nonchalance of her passing away to anxiety in fear that she really does (likely
from crib death), which made me even more upset, paranoid, and hysterical. All
the while, the only question that I could ask myself even with a dead stare and
tears rolling down my cheeks as I snuggled my baby was: “What is wrong with me?”
I think of other mothers I know in my life, and they seem way more put
together---way more present. A former coworker of mine, who was pregnant at the
same time I was and had her baby over a month after---seemed way more invested
in motherhood. She was smiling and giggling… She seemed so normal. She never
stopped talking about her daughter. She couldn’t get enough of her. When someone
asked me about mine, I practically winced and recited the same rehearsed answer
I’d always given: “Eating good and sleeping deeply.” I wanted to be done with how
I felt. I wanted to disappear. Everyone around me was happy and it made me
absolutely sick. I hated my life and I hated the mood that I was constantly in.
I dealt with self-harm---something not even the divorce drove me to partake
in---because I felt in a sense that I had to “punish myself” for inadvertently
wanting to hurt my child---physically, emotionally, or mentally. I spent a lot
of days not caring about my well-being and just rolling out of bed to go about
my day.
My appetite was still poor; my sleep almost nonexistent once I’d hit the
5-month mark. To follow were other traumatic and emotionally damaging personal
matters, which made me even crazier than I already was and had caused me to
spend even more time seeing a therapist. Between the psychiatric visits,
filling prescriptions, paying for sessions, paying for college textbooks, paying
for rent, utilities, food, stuff for the baby, and my god, was this getting so
expensive.
And then just like that, the anchor’s rope was cut.
Are we here? The
homestretch?
Yes, and I seriously couldn’t have been happier. Once my daughter
was close to a year old, a lot of the aforementioned symptoms had diminished,
though partially present. I was able to get back on my Wellbutrin as well as
continuing to take a prescribed 150mg SSRI Zoloft and I finally felt balanced.
When the COVID-19 pandemic came around, it made it difficult to keep up with my
therapy appointments, but I promised my therapist that I would chart as many
entries in my journal as possible when drastic changes came about and to
practice the breathing techniques and relaxation methods she’d gone over with
me.
I wouldn’t say that I’m “full of life” like other mothers are, but then
again I’ve always been different in terms of authority. I’m very lax---the kind
of mother that wants sleeves of tattoos. I still struggle sometimes with keeping
myself together, but at this point, it’s a lot more regulated. Like, my
14-month-old toddler won’t leave me alone while I’m taking a dump and it’s
annoying me. I’m not falling apart when she cries or throws tantrums; I tell her
no and walk away, though she typically waddles after me and reaches up towards
me. I find myself smiling a lot more in terms of frequency and authenticity. I
take pleasure in going on walks with her or taking her to the park.
When I see
her, I feel like my heart literally sets on fire. When she laughs, I melt. When
she trips and falls, my stomach drops for a split-second. I’m not forcing myself
to have feelings anymore; they’re just there and they’re intense. When I see
another mother in need, who looks more than just “tired”, I lend a hand and tell
her everything is going to be alright. Some mothers, like me, who deal with
postpartum depression are lucky to find the help that they need to heal.
Others
aren’t so lucky.
According to statistics from the American Psychiatric
Association, as many as 1 in 7 mothers deal with postpartum depression. This
compares to about 600,000 out of 4,000,000 births. Within that, only a fraction
will seek help from a medical professional (about 15%). Though it’s easy to
judge someone for that, I completely understand why. Lack of treatment can boil
down to many factors: insufficient funds, circumstantial situations,
pridefulness with the fact that they feel like they can handle it on their own…
but mostly, it relates heavily to fear. These mothers are terrified. It is not
that we don’t love our children. It is not that we want to hurt them.
We are
struggling to find that balance, and the feelings that we have been so much more
intense than just being ‘down’. We are scared that if we vocalize what we are
thinking---what we are feeling---that we will be seen as a threat. We are scared
that our children will be taken from us and that we will never see them again.
They don’t need to be undermined; they don’t need to be told to “just breathe”
or to “snap out of it”. Take it from me---they would if they could.
What they
need is to be listened to. Even if you don’t understand; even if you can’t offer
them advice. Offer to look after the baby for an hour or so while they shower, take
a nap, or take a walk around the block to get some time for themselves. Offer
them comfort and allow them to confide in you, and just listen. Make sure that
they know that they're doing a great job, that they are important, and that that
little one needs them. Lastly, I seriously urge you to research what postpartum
depression really is, how to notice the signs of it, and what you can do to help
your loved one out. Please, please don’t let her go through this thinking she’s
alone and can’t talk to anyone. I think reaching out and finding the help that I
needed, as well as integrating myself into a mom group on Reddit that had many
users that suffered from postpartum depression, was really what turned
everything around for me. And for the love of everything, please don’t make her
feel bad for the thoughts she vocalizes. She really doesn’t mean them; she
really doesn’t feel that way. She loves her child. She just needs help.
And you,
Mom---jot down these very vital, imperative notes.
- Know that you are NOT alone. Seriously. That’s the first thing I will say right off the bat. What you are feeling is so common, far more common than anyone would clearly like to admit. These feelings of overwhelmingness, devastation, disdain for your baby/trouble bonding, hopelessness, wanting to fade into the background, constant anxiety… you are not the only person feeling it. Trust me.
- You are not a bad mother. None of us actually know what we’re doing, even the joyous mothers. All of us are winging it and just doing what we feel is best for our child(ren). Don’t ever tell yourself you’re a bad mom. If that child has clothes, food, fresh diapers, and a roof over their head, you are far from it.
- Make some time for yourself. This seems like a given, and I know I’m kind of contradicting myself since that’s one of the things “friends” would say to me, but seriously, dedicate time for yourself even if it’s just an hour. If there are any friends or family members who are great with children and are willing to watch the baby, use that to your advantage. Take a bath, drink some wine, go out to a bar with friends, or do something simple: stay in the house in your sweatpants and read a book. No matter what, it’s super important to reconnect with yourself after pregnancy. You will be so focused on caring for an entirely dependent and helpless person, so you’ll sometimes forget to care for yourself.
- No one is going to take your child from you if you get help. It’s hard sitting across from a stranger or acquaintance and telling them that you sometimes feel like shaking your baby when the crying becomes too much, but remember that it is that fear that brought you here. You don’t want to hurt your baby; that’s exactly why you’re doing it. This means you recognize the problem and you want to treat it.
- Join mother groups and participate in as many “mom activities” as you can. As I mentioned before, I went on Reddit and went to the subreddit “r/PPD” and I read stories of tons of different mothers, sharing their struggles and seeking advice from others. You can also join mom groups in your area. Surround yourself with people that get it, and if anyone makes you feel shameful for going through what you are, they are not worth keeping around.
- Know that what you are feeling is not permanent. It’s the same song sung, but it’s really not going to last. I promise. Research states that most women diagnosed with PPD see drastic improvements in mood and dissipation of symptoms anywhere between 6-12 months. Of course, this depends on the person, previously diagnosed mental illnesses, history of treatments, etc. Ter That feeling is not one that anyone should feel alone. I’m writing this article to tell you that you don’t have to. What you need to do is seek medical attention if you think you may have it, and once you get a formal diagnosis continue to seek regular treatment---be it medication, talk therapy, or a combination. Find a group of other moms who have also struggled with this to vent to and get advice from. Believe me---we aren’t afraid to lend an ear. We have to help each other out. We have lost too many mothers and babies to PPD; we don’t need to lose more.
Sources:
What Is Postpartum Depression? | American Psychiatric Association
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