I read somewhere recently that May is Postpartum Depression Awareness Month. I’m not sure how accurate that is or who decides that, but I am taking that as my sign that it is finally time to talk [write].
Lila was born via C-section after almost 60 hours of labor. I went into labor on Super Bowl Sunday right before the coin toss. As far as my birth plan went, I really didn’t have one, but 2.5 days of laboring in the hospital was not part of it. My expectations were that as long as I had a healthy baby at the end of it, everything would be just fine and our perfect little life as a new family would begin. Little did I know that the pain and exhaustion that 60 hours of labor naturally brings would be nothing in comparison to the pain and exhaustion I felt in the days, weeks, months, and year-plus to come. Lila is now 15 months old and I am just starting to feel “like me” again. I’ve been really good at acting “like me,” but I have not been me for quite some time. Thankfully, I have a few close friends who were/are experienced enough, real enough, and not-quite-nice enough to let me keep that game face going. By the grace of God, to them I probably owe my life. I think sitting around with the two of them one night in my living room, the words of one of them went something like this: “OK, Ali. You are too good at this new mom thing. Even if Lila is good, it can’t be this good. How are you really doing?” And that was that. They weren’t going to stop asking until I was honest. My act was up.
It didn’t start right away. I truly had the “baby blues” for the first few weeks and then was in a state of total sleep deprivation. Then I had to go back to work. I didn’t have postpartum depression. I didn’t have anxiety. I was just a mom who had to go back to work; spending more time with other people’s kids than I was my own. I also had a baby who was just really good at being baby. Nothing was wrong with me. I was just a tired mom, working full-time, with a baby who literally spit up ALL DAY LONG [even while sleeping]. All of my “symptoms” were justified by just that. Thanks to my friends who called my bluff, I recognized the stuff I had going on was "not ok" and that it was definitely not ok to be going through alone or untreated.
I had to come to the realization and call it was it was/is: depression and anxiety. I think the anxiety set in first. I frequently worried that I wouldn’t put Lila in her car seat correctly and would get in a car accident, so I avoided going places for as long as I could [it snowed a lot after she was born so nobody was suspicious]. I would be carrying Lila in from the car to the house and would envision that I would drop her on the stone outside our front door and her head would split open and pour out blood. I had repeating dreams that I was in my loft bed from my dorm in college and Lila would fall out of it and hit a concrete surface, once again blood spilling everywhere. These thoughts continued and then were joined by depression.
I was having mood swings that would change in a split second from quite content to totally enraged [I never realized anger could be a sign of depression]. My husband [Jeff] was always the main target and I had perfect aim at his heart. I would then hit hours of complete weepiness, which just worsened tenfold when I went back to work; therefore, I blamed most of my symptoms on my job and started to believe the lie that “work makes me so unhappy”. Trips to Target or the grocery store alone were often accompanied by some sort of “Oh SH** this I my life now moment” and I would either come home extremely happy and recharged or extremely sad/mad at everything. When I went back to work, there were mornings that I probably should never have driven Lila to the sitter’s [my wonderful MIL] because I would just cry the whole way to the point where I wouldn’t remember getting to where I was going. One morning, I remember just sitting in the driveway with tears pouring down my face as Lila sat in her car seat behind me. Jeff thought I had left minutes ago, but to his shock when he came out to leave for work, I was still there. Needless to say, he drove Lila that day. I became obsessive over cleaning everything- friends with children laughed because I made Jeff sanitize the bottles and pump parts every night. When Lila would go to sleep for her long-night-stretch, I couldn’t just sit on the couch, I needed to repack the diaper bag, pack up my pump to take to work, clean up the house, pack my lunch, pack her milk for the sitter’s house, fold the laundry I started earlier in the day, and when all of that was done, I made something up for me to do. I was constantly picking fights with Jeff [eventually learning it was because I was jealous that he was able to truly relax]. If Lila woke up too early from a nap, especially if I was trying to take one too, I would look at the monitor and become angry, then I would cry because I was angry that my baby was simply being a baby. So then, I would go in and get her out of her crib and put her in my lap and cry while she hopelessly stared back at me. We’ve spent many hours crying with each other. I often felt like I was damaging her by my mere presence.
I often thought that Jeff and Lila would have a better life if I just left them or if they left me. I often wondered how I was going to wake up and do this all over again the next day. I often cried out loud and screamed for help when I was home alone. I often laid on the floor in our room in the fetal position staring at myself in our closet-door mirror watching myself “ugly cry”. I often pleaded with God [more like yelled at him] to take all of “this” away. I even punched a wall one time and occasionally threw things behind closed doors. This was/is nothing like how I pictured motherhood to be.
I finally sought help. Those same friends who called me out also held me accountable. They pseudo-harassed me until I made an appointment with a counselor and they followed up to make sure that I actually went. I never really did find a perfect fit [I’m still searching], but it did/does help [unless they pick their nose and eat it during the session, but that is a story for another time]. I also went back to my OBGYN and was prescribed medication. One type helped; one type made me sick. I still have the medication that helped just in case.
Jeff went with me to the counselor one time and is willing to go back. I’m so very thankful he’s still here and that he never let me leave. He was/is collateral damage. He’s been my punching bag for 15 months. There are a lot of mental bruises and emotional broken bones, but fortunately our relationship is still alive. He’s told me this whole time that I will get back to “me” despite the number of times that I told him that we were all going to have to learn to live with the “new me.” I’m glad he’s never accepted the “new me” and has continued to encourage me to seek help and to listen. Just recently we were at a friend’s wedding and I danced my heart out and even made up a dance that everyone on the dance floor followed. That night shined a little light on the “old me” and encouraged both of us that I was on “the up and up.” It’s been those little glimmers and a whole lot of prayer that have kept me afloat [which takes a lot because I am not a great swimmer].
So, am I healed yet? No. Far from. The “old me” is making a comeback, but I will never be that same person again. Postpartum depression and anxiety are and always will be a significant part of my life. They have taught me so much about who I was, who I want to be, and who I am meant to be. I’ve learned to recognize that I manifested a lot of my values in pride and perfectionism [a deadly combination when paired with a new baby]. I’ve also learned that I also had a control problem and needed to let go, stop giving so many directions, to recognize that there is more than one right way to do something, and to let others help. I’ve learned a lot about accepting my imperfections and the importance of authenticity. I’ve learned a lot about perseverance, patience, and the power of prayer. And finally, I am learning to relax and be still. This is all still a work in progress, but aren’t we all? I WILL come out on top of this.
The Mother’s Day service at church a couple of weeks ago hit me like a Mack truck. The pastor opened with an excerpt from a book a woman had written about her own experience with postpartum depression after having three children [like me, a trip to Target broke her down]. The words the pastor read could have been my very own words. I cried uncontrollably in the pew. It was an ugly cry [I’ve also learned that I am a very ugly crier]. It was the words he said next though that I needed to hear and had been needing to hear for the past 15 months. He said it was his gift to all of the mothers in the service. It was a gift to me. It was the answer to the prayer I had been praying for what felt like too long. It was the courage I needed to start to talk openly to others about my journey. It is why I can write this today without worry or shame, disgust or defeat.
“And God is able to bless you abundantly so that in ALL things at ALL times, having ALL that you need you will abound in every good work.” 2 Corinthians 9:8
Can I get an AMEN to that?
And finally, just remember that depression and anxiety don’t characterize themselves by a certain look or quality. There are so many signs, symptoms, and side-effects. For me, depression and anxiety looked like a young, short, blonde mom with a smile pushing her beautiful baby girl around Target. Yep, that basic.
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