Postpartum Depression

This weekend, The Band, we're hosting a carnival of posts about Mother's Day. Before you run away gagging, hear me out: these are the kinds of Mother's Day posts I wish I'd read years ago. Knowing that I was not alone in my struggles was a pivotal point in my life. Today, we celebrate the tables forever missing one. Today we celebrate the mothers we've lost and the mothers we've found. We're celebrating the mothers we wish we'd had while acknowledging the mothers we did have.

This year, The Band, I'm proud to celebrate a carnival of Mother's Day posts from perspectives that aren't always storybook. Perspectives like mine. Perspectives like Jana's. Perspectives like yours.

Today, no matter where you are in your life, whether you're missing your own mom, happily celebrating with family, stuck at a table forever missing one, wishing desperately that you were a mother, or wishing desperately that you had a mother, know these two things: you are loved and we are none of us alone.

-Aunt Becky

I've always been one of those girls that is jealous of, but happy for, women my age who have super-close relationships with their mothers. That's probably why I have an obsession with Gilmore Girls. I so wanted that.

Let me tell you about a special lady, today, The Band. A lady who helped shape the woman I am today. Why I am the way I am. There's this special lady in my heart. She'll always be there. Always. No, not my mother. My grandma - my other mother. The woman who taught me so much about life.

When you start reminiscing about your childhood, all of them with your grandmother (not your mother) in them, well, you grow up feeling like your grandmother was your mom.

I have talked about my Abuelita too many times to count, but I'll tell you this: she was spectacular.  She taught me so many things. I remember her talking and singing to her plants. She swore that they got brighter and livelier every time she did so. And you know what? It worked. I wouldn't be surprised if one day I found out she was a garden fairy.

When my daughter was a few days shy of six months old, my Abuelita passed away from colon cancer one very gloomy day in November of 2007. I will never forget stroking her feet as she looked up and took her last breath. My heart shattered. That day remains a nightmare.

The days after her death passed in a blur. The viewing was awful - that's when I lost it: I lost my mind thinking she moved in her casket. I'd thought I saw my sweet grandmother stirring, waking up.

The mind plays horrible tricks when you're coping with postpartum depression as your whole world is falling down around you.

I screamed and screamed that "she was alive, she was moving, her eyelids were fluttering."

I'm sure my family wished that it were true.

As horrible as this sounds, I don't think my world will fall apart when my mother passes away like it did when Abuelita passed away. You can't replace the person who cared for you as her own. The memories of her are irreplaceable.

I'll always remember her, holding my daughter in her arms singing sweet lullabies as she kissed her forehead.

She may be gone, but she'll never leave my heart.

Up to 20% of women report having bouts of postpartum depression following childbirth.

This is her story.

Medication isn't for me.

I've been on several antidepressants in my life, from St. John's Wort to the big boys. Each one has come with severe side effects. Ones that make me crazy.

I'm not talking a "fun" crazy; I mean crazy crazy. I was diagnosed as schizophrenic on one of these drugs. (FYI: I'm not actually schizophrenic.) Without maintaining a high enough dose to actually treat my depression, I wound up with most of the side effects.

I got crazy AND I couldn't pee. And? I was STILL depressed. Talk about a rip-off.

A few years ago, I went some medication to stop smoking. After two months, my boyfriend begged me to take up smoking again, because he couldn't handle me on the medication. It was an easy way to quit smoking, sure, but it made me suicidal. Kind of defeats the purpose.

I went to a therapist after my divorce, because I was having a really hard time coping with it. Great lady - I think we'd have gotten along well. She probably would've helped me considerably. Until she informed me that I'd have to go on medication. I cancelled my next appointment and dragged myself through that emotional wasteland alone.

I guess you could say I've been a "heal-thyself" kinda girl.

I've had some dark, dark times, but I've gotten through them. I may not have the best coping mechanisms, but they've worked.

I think I've got a bit of the old postpartum depression. 

Honestly, I don't know. My life has been turned upside down and shaken damn hard since I gave birth. (And moved. Next door to my parents. And quit my job. And started freelancing, because I'm still the breadwinner.) Maybe I'm just stressed out. Maybe all new moms feel this way. I have no basis for comparison.

I do know that I'm quietly losing my mind. Okay, sometimes not-so-quietly.

I wish I had someone to talk to. Someone who is not emotionally invested in what's going on in my head. 

I know the minute I plopped my fanny on a therapist's couch, we'd start talking pills. And I'm having a hard enough time coping without a chemical maelstrom in my head.

So I guess I just muddle through.

Over 1 million women each year experience postpartum mood disorders.

This is her postpartum depression story.

I know a lot of people don't talk about postpartum depression. And a hell of a lot less talk about needing medication to treat PPD. But, hey, I've already told the internets that (at one point) my vag looked like Mickey Rourke and that I poop with my feet on a stool, so why stop the self-humiliation there?

When I had my daughter, my postpartum experience was a shitstorm I never wanted to repeat. Not only was I extremely depressed (baby blues, my ass!), but I also had a cancer scare, developed a thyroid problem, got two bacterial infections, and found out my mom has Parkinson's Disease.

Needless to say, I went down and went down hard. I never really recovered.

Queue the after-effects of having a baby in an already-depressed person, throw in the obstacles thrown in my path, take away all things that resemble sleep, and add an infant that cried from 3 to 8pm every day, and you had me: one hot mess of a mama. Let's just say it was not pretty.

I lost friends, alienated the ones I loved, lost all sense of self-worth. The only thing I managed to do right was to be a good mom. But that's ALL that I was. Outside of being a mom, I was a shadow of my former self.

I started therapy right before I got pregnant again. I didn't want to start medication since we were planning another baby and the jury is still out on the effects of being on anti-depressants while pregnant. Therapy helped and things evened up a bit when I actually got pregnant, but I was never really there. I participated in my life, but didn't have an active role in it. I didn't realize it then, but I hadn't experienced true happiness in years.

I decided to take control before The Crazy Train of postpartum depression even left the station. I started anti-depressants in the hospital right after I had my son and had a prescription filled for when I got home.

So far? Best. Decision. I. Have. Ever. Made.

Now that I am actually receiving effective treatment, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time: happiness. I didn't know how far out of control my depression had gotten until I actually did something to address it. Now, not only does the medication not sap me of all emotion, but it has actually helped me feel real emotion again. I actually feel like I AM someone again. I feel joy, sadness, relief, anxiety, love. I feel everything. I'm not just a passenger on the back of the bus of my life. I'm actually driving again and it feels fantastic.

Now, are medications an easier choice for me because I am a formula mama? Sure as hell are. Is there something you can do even if you are not? Yep - talk to someone: a friend, your doctor, your priest, your mom. Hell, talk to me!

Having a baby is hard. Having a baby while struggling with depression feels impossible. It's not your fault and you are no less of a mom for having it. Just get help. I did this time and I feel real again. I feel whole. I feel strong.

I feel like me.

“Eucatastrophe” is a word coined by J.R.R. Tolkien. A eucatastrophe is when things in a story should go terribly, horribly wrong, and yet they don’t.

It pretty much describes my last year.

I’m lucky that we chose to spend the extra money on the maternity rider for health insurance three years ago, just in case.

I’m lucky that I found out I was pregnant right away, so I could stop taking my medication right away.

I’m lucky that after I went off my medication, I didn’t become depressed. Two months previously, I had weaned off everything to start a new medication with a clean slate, and that hadn’t gone quite so well.

I’m lucky that I found a doctor who would take my high-risk pregnancy, and that he would turn out to be the best doctor I’ve ever met. His name was the last on the list.

I’m lucky that I made it three months without so much as a scare – not everyone is so lucky. At Easter, we announced our baby’s due date; my husband’s birthday.

I’m lucky that pregnancy hormones kept me from my annual Spring Depressive Episode.

I’m lucky that my husband could take off work to come to every one of my many more than normal prenatal appointments, both because I wanted his support, and because my eyes aren’t good enough to drive.

I’m lucky that when we found out our baby was a girl, we also found out that she didn’t have any major defects they could see. One of the medications I had been on could cause neural tube defects.

I’m lucky that when they sent me for a prenatal echocardiogram of the baby, they only found one item of concern; a leak in her mitral valve so minor it might repair itself as she grew.

I’m lucky that I had air conditioning while I doubled my weight this summer.

I’m lucky that when I went for twice-weekly non-stress tests (and boy, is that name a lie), she never quite showed enough distress that they needed to deliver her early. We came close a couple of times. One time, the only reason they didn’t induce was that they didn’t have any open beds. By the time they did, her heart rate had gone back down and the contractions slowed.

I had contractions fifteen to twenty minutes apart every day for two months. That wasn’t so lucky.

I’m lucky that my insurance covered everything. By the end, this was a ten thousand dollar pregnancy.

I’m lucky that I got the birth experience I wanted – caesarean at four-thirty in the afternoon. I’m tiny, and she was eight and a half pounds with a fourteen-inch head. Not only was that going to break some laws of physics (and maybe a few bones), I was in labor for twenty or so hours first without actually progressing.

I’m lucky that the worst part of the whole birth experience was getting the epidural.

I’m lucky that the heart murmur had disappeared by the time she was born. She had no major, minor, or even detectable birth defects. They checked.

I’m lucky that my husband has a good job, one that let him take a whole week off after she was born. One that can support three people, so I can stay home with our daughter. I’m lucky that I can stay home with a baby all day and handle the isolation.

I’m lucky that those first six weeks, despite the colic and the sleep deprivation and everything else that goes with a new baby, I never showed any sign of postpartum depression. I never needed the support network that I was so lucky to have.

And I’m lucky that once the postpartum hormones wore off, the depression still didn’t return. It happens, the doctor says; pregnancy hormones rewire a person’s brain and the depression doesn’t come back. It’s rare, but it’s documented, and I’m one of the lucky few. One day, I may need to go back on medication, and I will without a second thought, but right now I don’t have to.

I wouldn’t recommend this particular cure for depression to anyone, and I still have to live with my PTSD. But for a long time, I thought that while I wanted children, I wouldn’t be stable or sane enough to take care of them. It turned out, though, that I needed to have a child to be able to be a mother.

The day I held my newborn twins was supposed to be perfect, and a lot about it was. But if I'm being honest, mostly it was the day that ushered in seven months of pain. 

I've battled depression and anxiety my whole life. I'd also been through the death of my brother and my first son in a span of three months, one year before I became pregnant with the twins. 

My pregnancy was the product of fertility treatments, which I'd been undergoing for two years. I was on bed rest for the last ten weeks of my pregnancy - I should have seen the PPD and postpartum anxiety coming a mile away. 

I didn't see it, but it ran me over with haste and determination. I had exactly one day of happy. One day of enjoying my sons trying to breastfeed. One day of watching in awe as my husband changed diapers and paid rapt attention to what the nurses taught him.

Then, even looking at my babies made me panic. I would never get them fed. I could not possibly keep them growing. They were so little. They cried loudly. At the same damn time. 

I cried that second day when visitors showed up. My nurse scolded me for letting myself get tired. But I wasn't tired - I was devastated. I'd changed my mind. I was not up to this task. This wasn't joyful at all. I could not find any happy about it.

Then, just for fun, I got really sick. 

I had a bowel obstruction that put me in ICU where none of the nurses gave a crap that I needed to pump my milk or my breasts would explode. They were mad that I was taking a bed because I wasn't really "that sick." I was told to be my own advocate and demand help. Sure. I couldn't even keep my brain from repeating the same dire thoughts over and over.

The day we took the boys home felt like a mistake. I wasn't ready. I had no idea what to do to keep them happy and healthy. I couldn't even put together the breast pump that day. 

None of my friends who have children seemed to have felt like this, so I put on the brave face. I really thought I was being ridiculous and crabby. I had no idea I was in such a bad place.

I never wanted to hurt my sons - I do feel for the moms who did have intrusive thoughts that go along with postpartum psychosis. It's very tough to have your brain betray you like that.

My intrusive thoughts consisted of telling myself I wasn't doing this well; I was failing to be a good Mommy. Screw perfect; I hadn't even reached acceptable. 

I thought that if I got sick enough to go to a hospital, I could get some rest, then I'd be back on track (Because we all know how restful hospitals are). I wanted just one good night of sleep, then I'd think clearly. I'd be able to make a plan to be the best mom ever.

When I was away from the boys, I felt like I needed to get back to make sure my care instructions were followed. Not because I felt like the babies' grandparents or my husband were inept; I just needed to know what was being done. 

If things went wrong, it was all downhill for my sons. One wrong decision would ruin them for life.  And by "wrong decision," I mean feeding them pears two days in a row. Or having the air conditioner blow on them too much and ruin a nap. I can't even tell you the number of hours my husband and father spent trying to make our air conditioner completely silent.

Many new moms, especially moms of twins, keep a written record of feedings and bodily functions the first few weeks when sleep is elusive. I recorded all of that for six months. Every food. Every nap.  Every diaper change. I really thought it would show me a pattern so I could get them to nap and sleep through the night. I also wanted to be able to have all the information for the pediatrician for the day something went wrong.

When people offered help, I had no idea what to ask for. My brain could not put together a to-do list. Tasks whirled around in my head and only stopped to freak me out before moving on and letting another task become the Most Important Thing Ever. My mom would come over so I could nap. I'd lay in bed and think dirty towels, dirty towels, dirty towels, dirty towels.

I'd watch my husband fall back to sleep after a night feeding and hate him. He seemed to not care. 

In reality, he knew that to make this long journey, he needed rest. He knew that we had many days ahead to do right by our boys; it was not today or never.

I had horrible feelings for my twin with reflux. We had to hold him upright after feeding, so he was always the last to be put back to bed. The times it was my turn to feed him, I was so angry that he was keeping me awake. When I fed the other twin and had an issue I got mad at him, too. 

Why was I always stuck with the one who was harder?

One morning, my husband announced he would stay home from work - I should go to bed. I'd been cursing and muttering under my breath since I had woken up. I'm not sure what else he saw, but he sensed I needed him to be home. I begged him to go to work. I promised to try harder. I sobbed. He stayed. I couldn't rest - I was too concerned he'd throw the whole daily schedule off, and I'd never have a good day again. I didn't think he was a bad father; I thought any change would lead us to disaster.

The night before any outing I would make a list of supplies for the diaper bag. I would check it all night and all morning. Needless to say, I did not get out much.

For seven months I dreaded being alone with my kids, but when I was without them, I could not get them out of my mind to rest and recoup. I would give almost anything to have that time back. What a waste. My sweet, awesome boys were such good babies. 

I see video of that time, and I sound okay. I hope my boys felt loved. They look happy and secure, so I can only assume they made it through okay. They are certainly normal kids today. 

I still make mistakes, but I know I can say, "I'm sorry," and move on. I no longer fear every decision.  I enjoy watching them just be. This is thanks to medicine, therapy, and time. I also have a great husband, involved parents, and my Twitter PPD Army. 

When things get on a downswing, I find a way back up. And there, at the top, are my boys as they really are instead of the way my depression draws them. They always welcome me. 

And for that, I am eternally grateful.