post·par·tum de·pres·sion
depression suffered by a mother following childbirth, typically arising from the combination of hormonal changes, psychological adjustment to motherhood, and fatigue.
That is the textbook definition of what Postpartum Depression (PPD) is. It is so complex that to even give it an inclusive definition or explanation just can’t be done. So rather than tell you all about the signs and symptoms of the mental illness, I will tell you my personal experience with it.
I have had Postpartum Depression and Anxiety twice now. I had it with my first born son but it wasn’t diagnosed until he was 8 months old. I thought it couldn’t get any worse than what it was with him. I was irritable, irrational, anxious, incredibly irritable, I was a wreck. I thought that I had certainly seen the ugliest of the ugly that PPD had to offer. Boy, was I ever wrong.
November 3, 2016 at 9:10 am I gave birth to my second son William via c-section. The first day was somewhat of a blur, mainly filled with pain killers and visitors. My oldest son Benjamin came to the hospital to visit us and meet his new baby brother. But he wouldn’t even come into the room. He wouldn’t go near me or William. He spent the entire visit crying in the hallway. I felt like I had failed him and made the biggest mistake and ruined his little life. That’s when the first wave of guilt and regret hit.
The second wave of guilt and doubt hit when no matter what we tried, William just would not latch. Even with the help of all the nurses on the ward and multiple visits from the lactation consultant. I ended up pumping off and syringe feeding him, while still trying to latch him every 30 minutes or so. I felt so unprepared. Benjamin was a pro breastfeeder right from the start, from his first latch onward, we never had an issue. So the feeling of guilt and regret was almost like cemented in stone, I was NOT meant to have a second child.
The second night was when PPD finally reared its ugly head and unleashed its wrath like some sort of mythical creature that was locked away in its cave of darkness, just lurking and waiting for the perfect time to re-enter the world and wreak havoc. At 10 pm I broke. I started crying and sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t explain what was happening, but I knew what it was. I was not prepared for the absolute dread and helplessness that I felt. My fiance did everything he could to console me, but nothing could help to calm the beast within my mind. PPD had wrapped it’s horrid arms around my brain and was consuming all of sanity.
I cried for 6 hours straight. I cried so hard that I actually bruised the on my eyelids. My eyes were so puffy that I could barely see, but I couldn’t help it. I felt like everything in my life was wrong. Like I was stuck in a horror film that I myself had produced.
When the nurses came in to take William to weigh him at midnight, I looked at my fiance and I said “If they didn’t bring him back, I wouldn’t care.” I didn’t want him. He was the reason that all of these horrible feelings were happening. My eldest son resented me. I had failed him. I had taken his safety, affection, attention and confidence and threw it all away the moment that William was placed in my arms. I felt like he hated me. Like having a second child was the most selfish thing I could have ever done.
But even though I felt selfish for having a second child, I also felt deep regret. I didn’t want him. I couldn’t possibly take care of two children and raise them into the kind, caring, loving people that I wanted them to be. I wasn’t meant to be a mother. I felt like I was thrown into this position without an interview. Without any field training. I was suddenly responsible for two humans. I could not do it. I was not equipped.
The next morning I asked the nurses to get my doctor ASAP. I knew I needed help. He started me on anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications immediately. And against his recommendation, I was discharged from the hospital on Sunday. Things started to get better, William finally latched after 7 days of hard work and endless trying. I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Until the Postpartum Anxiety came on full force at 9 days postpartum.
I started obsessively checking William’s breathing. I checked to see if his monitor was on up to 30 times a night. I started visualizing him blue and dead, even though he was only 10 feet away sleeping in his swing. I would dream of being at his funeral. The worst dream I had was when I dreamt that I was in the morgue and he was on the table, completely blue, dead, and having an autopsy done. There was no escaping my morbid intrusive thoughts.
There was no relief, awake I was a mess of depression and anxiety, and while asleep I was plagued with horrid dreams of my infant son dying. About 6 weeks later the medication FINALLY started to work. The depression lessened, but the anxiety just got worse.
At 3 months postpartum I finally began therapy through the mental health department. Which has been helping. But I still have bad days, days where I don’t want to get out of bed. Days where even getting a sippy cup for my toddler is just too much. But I am trying. I am still here, and I am still struggling with my journey. But I know that I will come out stronger than before, and I am hopeful that sharing my story will help me heal while also giving others the sense that they are not alone.
I will be back to write more. I will go more in depth with my day-to-day struggles and my current struggle with switching medications, but that’s another long blog for another day.
