Category Archives: motherhood

Postpartum Voice of the Week: The Outdoor Wife speaks up about Postpartum Depression

There has been some recent chatter between bloggers about Postpartum Depression. The focus? Whether or not some Mommy bloggers really do have a Postpartum Mood Disorder or if they were clambering onto the newest “trendy” wagon. (This should explain my post, “Are PMD’s the new Jimmy Chu’s?”) A few other bloggers have also chimed in on this topic. Of all the responses I read, the one by The Outdoor Wife struck a chord with me, which is why I have chosen her as this week’s Postpartum Voice.

The Outdoor Wife does not usually blog about Postpartum Depression. In fact, when she was struggling, she barely told anyone about the battle she fought. Her response is absolutely amazing and worth the read. Not only does she describe her experience but she includes tips on what you can do to help someone going through Postpartum Depression. Thank you, for chiming in on such an important subject!

Here’s a snippet of her post. You can continue reading by going here.

Now, I’ll offer what I know to be true in my own personal experience:

One of, if not the most overwhelming, feeling that comes with PPD is guilt. It’s perpetuated by the lack of sleep, irritability, loss of interest in favorite activities, detachment from the child, feelings of hopelessness and just general sadness. In my own experience, I wasn’t over-the-moon happy when Rowan was first born. In my mind, I believed I should have been… so the guilt crept in. Before I knew it, it had me completely incapacitated with irrational feelings of worthlessness. This led to suicidal thoughts and I danced a razor-thin edge of acting on those thoughts.

The key (in my experience) to understanding PPD as opposed to dissatisfaction with motherhood, or even just the baby blues, is the word “irrational.” I knew that something much more serious was happening when I was having irrational thoughts of killing myself, believing that my son and husband would be better off without me around. Now, as a person who has never struggled with depression or mental health issues of any kind, this was indeed an irrational thought process for someone like me… leading to an accurate diagnosis of postpartum depression.

Another thing that’s crucial to understand about postpartum depression is that for many women, it feels like we’re being attacked at random moments. It is not abnormal for a woman suffering from PPD to tell you what a great afternoon she had with her child, then literally 10 minutes later, be crying uncontrollably in a heaping mess on the floor, wracked with guilt, sadness, or even uncontrollable rage. PPD for many is not a 24/7 feeling. So, to translate this into the blogging world, that means that when one post is a glowing picture of their child and how much they love them and the next is how they have feelings of inflicting harm on aforementioned child, THAT is PPD, my friends. It’s not trying to cover it up. It’s not pretending that everything’s okay. Sometimes, there are okay moments! But the not-okay moments are crippling at best. And its in those hard, broken moments that the small victories are passed off as insignificant. Are you beginning to see the battle that’s being fought here? There is no rhyme or reason to postpartum depression, it seems. It strikes at will and sometimes, it’s all we can do to keep standing when it does.

The next thing I want to talk about is coping and healing. This is where everyone has an opinion and everyone is always happy to give it freely. Every woman copes with postpartum depression differently. For me, I played my cards pretty close to the chest. I can count on almost one hand how many people knew about my struggle. We didn’t even tell our immediate family! It’s not because I was ashamed, or that we didn’t trust them with the knowledge, but simply because it’s what I needed, personally. I knew that I needed a small community of people around me, who could come be WITH me in the flesh. I knew that answering questions about my depression on the phone every time I talked to my family would be too much. I knew that writing about it for the world to see was not something that would benefit me or my healing process. My goal was to separate myself from the depression, to see it as “other” or outside of myself. Something that I could look at objectively in the good moments and put plans into place for the bad moments. If I was asked about it every five minutes, I wouldn’t have been able to do that.

Are PMD’s the new Jimmy Chu’s?

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Six years ago, I woke up and wandered into my walk in closet. To my left, neurosis and psychopathy. To my right, temporary madness. I walked right past them to the very back of the closet and grabbed a pile of dusty boxes from the darkest corner.

Ahhhhh.

There they were. All the members of the Postpartum Mood Disorder line, their labels obscured by years of dirt and grime, left there by the previous generation of women just for me. Chills ran down my spine as I placed the boxes on the floor and plopped down beside them, dizzy with anticipation.

Postpartum Anxiety, Postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, and the most spectacular and rarest of them all – Postpartum Psychosis.

As I opened one, cobwebs covered my hands as stale air escaped.

I hyperventilated as the suspense of discovering my poison washed over me.

As I pulled the lid off, there it was, shining in all its glory.

Postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder! I clapped my hands with glee, grinned, squealed, and slipped my toes into the bejeweled insanity, strapping my heels in for the bumpy yet glittery ride.

As I returned the other boxes to the shadowy corner, the fun times rolled full force ahead!

Horrible traumatic thoughts about harming myself and my baby slammed into me. I shivered in sheer delight. My anxiety level shot sky-high as my daughter screamed and fussed in the next room. And oh yes, my favorite of all – my newfound fear of kitchen knives as they became central to the little shards of horrificly delicious thoughts.

Oh yes.

THIS is what I am talking about. This is awesomeness all wrapped up in a gorgeous pair of killer heels. Where on EARTH had they been my whole life? This rocked.

As I sat down in the living room to nurse my daughter for what seemed like the 50^th time in less than 3 hours, I admired my fancy new shoes. They were hypnotic, yet psychotically tragic at the same time. But dammit, they were mine. Bejeweled, beveled, and shining like gold, they clung to my feet with a grip that just would not quit.

Slowly the sun slid beneath the horizon as the house darkened and a loud silence filled the world, screaming at me. Yet here I still sat, pinned to the couch, nursing baby on my boob, on my gazillionth episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, shoes still strapped to my feet. My heels blistered, my toes horribly pinched, my arches swelled, and my cankles threatened to devour the straps.

I wanted to take the shoes off. Now.

But baby wouldn’t stop eating. Life wouldn’t stop moving forward, swallowing me whole, the thoughts wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to figure out how to undo the now almost buried straps beneath my cankles.

I pulled, I fought. I screamed, I wept, wailed, gnashed.

I needed professional help.

Had I waited too long? Had I done permanent damage to myself? To my marriage? How would I care for my baby if I could no longer function? What on earth had I really sacrificed to be so fashionable? Slipping on a PMD was the trendy thing to do, right? Why wasn’t this working for me? What the hell had I done wrong?

Turns out I had done nothing wrong.

And for the record, I didn’t really slip on a PMD. No, it crept up on me from behind, beat me over the head, and rode me like a drunken sailor rides a mechanical bull after one too many beers during shore leave.

I did NOT choose to have a PMD.

I do not claim to have a PMD so I can be like Dooce.

I do not claim to have a PMD so I can outdo your bad days.

I do not claim to have a PMD just because the cool kids are doing it.

I do not claim to have a PMD just because I want more traffic to my blog, dammit.

I started my blog to cope with an unexpected pregnancy AFTER two episodes of Postpartum OCD, one of which spit me out on my bed, rocking back and forth in the fetal position muttering “I don’t want to be Andrea Yates,” over and over to avoid grabbing a pillow and smothering my daughters. Yes, I said daughters.

My Postpartum experience couldn’t be solved simply by going home and calming my daughter down because even when she was calm, those thoughts still crashed against my shores, angry, unforgiving, and pushing me even further toward the overgrown jungle.

I for one, applaud mothers daring to be vocal about their experiences with PMD’s. As we raise our voices in a loud and beautiful chorus, more mothers are aware of what CAN happen after the birth of a baby. More mothers today know what to do, how to seek help, and have access to peer support immediately via the blogosphere, Twitter, Facebook, or other Social Media sites.

At the same time, I do agree that some might cry wolf. BUT – it is not my place to judge them. It is not my place to tell them to MAN UP. It is not my place to force them to a doctor so they can pop pills and become one of the “cool kids.” (By the way, if you go to a doc about a PMD and he/she immediately writes you a script, RUN. Run quickly. Find someone who rules out physical causes such as thyroiditis or anemia first. Please?) It is not my place to diagnose them. It’s not my place to compare their journey to theirs and try to one up them. It’s not my place to brag that my Motherhood Lane has more or less potholes. It’s not my place to blame them for feeling lied to if that’s what they express. It’s just not.

It’s my place to listen. It’s my place to show compassion. It’s my place to love them as they travel down their OWN Motherhood Lane. It’s my place to offer resources through which they will also find compassion, empowerment, and achieve the Motherhood Journey they so sorely yearn for as they lay curled in their beds, unable to get up because the thought of facing one more day has left them powerless. Or the thoughts racing through their heads have frightened them so much they want to sleep forever – because when you’re asleep, when you’re asleep .. those thoughts are quiet. But they’re there as soon as you wake up and when you have a new baby, let’s face it, you’re up a LOT.

Once again, disappointment creeps deep within my heart. I wish we could co-exist in our own spaces without offering critique. Without feeling like the grass on the other side is just a smidge greener and then offering suggestions on how to improve our neighbor’s lawn or gossiping with the other neighbor about how the problems we are having with our own lawn is SO much worse than the ones they are experiencing. Fire Ants? Yeh, well, I’ve got moles. Moles? I’ve got groundhogs. STOP IT. Just stop it.

Can’t we all just grab a margarita and tear down the fences between us without the competition? Please? Cuz that, that would rock.

Graham Crackers & Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part II

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Welcome to Part II. Today I’m sharing how I ended up in Part I. Tomorrow we’ll be at the doc’s office and then the ER. Read that section here.

Our daughter was 56 days old. She had spent just 15 days more at home than in the NICU at that point, having been born with a cleft palate, micrognathia, and glossotopsis. This is known as Pierre Robin Sequence. By the time we got her home, she had endured major surgery, been in a medically induced coma for a week, and had a feeding tube placed. More surgeries would be necessary to close the cleft of both her soft and hard palate. The cleft was complete and bilateral, meaning there was NOTHING up there but a gaping hole.

The day of her jaw surgery, I checked out. Curled up in the sleep room with Linkin Park’s Remix album and wanted to sink deep down into the chair. It was dark there. And safe. Oh so safe.

I cried, no, bawled, my body wracked with tears that I had muscle aches the next day. I wanted to leave her at the hospital. How the hell could this have happened to us? Why us? What the hell was He thinking? I pushed her away from the very beginning. Her cleft destroyed all of my expectations. Birth, breastfeed, go home. All of this in between NICU crap wasn’t in the plans. Formula wasn’t in the plan. abandonment just 30 minutes after a 2 day active labor wasn’t in the plans. My new daughter going to Atlanta without us at less than 24 hours old – SO not in the plans. My mom picking me up at the hospital – not in the plans. Our 23 month old daughter’s life being turned upside down – I felt guilty.

I didn’t take my pre-natal vitamins. Clefts can be a result of poor maternal diet, folic acid specifically. I had severe nausea and wasn’t able to eat most days. SO I didn’t take my vitamins. Ever. Looking back, depression flecked the entire pregnancy. And now this? I would have fared better in a ring with Mike Tyson.

No one told us anything. My mom did research. She got me in touch with an online PRS support group (Thank YOU, Nancy, for all you do to keep us connected.)

The NICU doctors and nurses were great.

I wasn’t.

The night of her birth, I woke up at 10pm to pee. I stood there and brushed my hair for 10 minutes. I didn’t see myself in the mirror. What I saw was a shell. I willed a spark to appear – but none did. Eventually I gave up and went back to bed, lying there, confused, exhausted, worried – slipping in and out of sleep only because physically I needed to collapse into bed!

The next day I yelled at our nurse when she tried to get us to sign consent forms for C to go to Atlanta. But she wasn’t supposed to go until later in the week. What do you mean this AFTERNOON? Where are you taking my baby? Why are we.. you can’t take her. You just can’t. you.just.can’t.

More hustle and bustle. In and out. Charlotte seems to spend the entire day away from me. I spend the entire day away from her. But at one point, I am in the bathroom and she’s in her bassinet in the room. I hear a door open. A man walks in and I freak out. He prays with me and leaves. I’m scared and go to the desk to ask that no one be allowed in the room unless they are on a list I’ve scribbled up. On the list are our parents. No one else, no one else. I am not in the mood for random strangers to stop by. (I think he went to our church)

By that afternoon, we meet the transport team. They seem nice enough. Chris has bought a little lamb to ride in the incubator looking rig with her. She’s healthy, they tell us. Oxygen sats are good, breathing is good, she’s healthy. She’ll be fine. We’ll meet your husband there. We sign the first of a slew of paperwork.

Chris hangs out with me after she leaves and eventually he has to leave too.

I pace in the hospital room when I am alone. Pace, pump, clean, pace, pump, clean.

I am a caged animal blaming myself for my daughter’s issues. I caused this by not taking my prenatal vitamins. This hell is all my fault. I did this to my poor baby girl.

Later that evening, my in-laws swing by with On the Border and my daughter. They stay for a few minutes. It’s painfully uncomfortable, perhaps a misconception on my part. After they leave, I voraciously eat my now cold food as I watch Nothing to Lose, my go to happy movie. It doesn’t work.

By now, Chris is in Atlanta. I call him around 10pm and cry so hard he can’t understand a damned word I’m saying. We hang up and I wail myself to sleep. If I had given birth via c-section, I am sure I would have torn stitches. Again, I wake up to pee in the middle of the night. Again, I stand and brush my hair. But this time I straighten up the already immaculate room as well before going back to bed.

The following morning, one of the OB’s from the practice offers me Prozac. I decline, saying that I want to see how far I can get on my own before I go jumping into meds. I’m stubborn like that. The OB I hated came by to tell me we were doing a great job and everything would be okay. I wanted to believe him.

Later that day, my mother picks me up. We pick up Allison and head home. I collapse. We manage to get a rental breast pump delivered that night (oh sweet relief as my milk has finally started to come in). I double pump in front of my mother using a t-shirt as cover. Eventually I give up on trying to hide the pumps.

That Friday I went to Atlanta to see her in the NICU. I’m heartbroken. I don’t want to be there. We’re not supposed to be there. What do I know about NICU babies? Why am I mother to one? Who the hell approved this script change? I didn’t.

Over the next few days, Chris and I spend some time together at his Uncle’s house as we ferry back and forth to the hospital. We talk about having another baby (see how far gone I was!) and I quietly wish we could leave her a the hospital but don’t tell him this for a couple of weeks.

That first week the feeding team wants to get Charlotte up to speed but she’s not cooperating. So the Plastic Surgeon suggests a jaw distraction which gets the feeding team pissed and puts us in the middle. We go to the garden at the hospital and I cry on Chris’ shoulder.

We decide to go with the surgery. At 9 days, she’s prepped and we leave her for surgery downstairs. I cry – again. His parents are there. I don’t want them to be but he needs support and I’ve chosen to respect that. I get the Mp3 player and disappear into the sleep room. I’m safe there. Very safe and lost in Linkin Park.

She comes back up in a medically induced coma. A machine breathes for her, she’s swollen, shiny, and tiny. But she’s had a good surgery. She made it through.

That afternoon, my husband calls the OB for me. I’m not doing well. We make an appointment for the next day. I made it 9 days, I tell them. I need something. I need help. I want to function because right now, right now I am not.

Right now, I’m brushing my hair, changing my pads, washing my hands, washing my pump parts, and it’s all very routine and necessary but it’s also very comforting. Very very comforting. I use the same bathrooms at the hospital. I use the same sinks at the NICU. I don’t stray outside my comfort zone. I kept to this routine the entire time she was in the hospital. I got edgy if it changed. At all.

Beginning of April I sprain my ankle as I get up from pumping. It’s the day we’re supposed to learn how to place an NG tube so we don’t have to have more surgery for a G-tube. I wrap up my ankle, bag up the ibuprofen and tylenol and go. There’s a grown up hospital across the street if it gets bad, I tell my husband.

I can’t place the NG tube. I officially suck, I tell myself. I suck. She’s angry at me because I suck. I can’t take care of my daughter. What the hell kind of mother am I? She’s my daughter. I should be able to do whatever I need to care for her. But I can’t. And so I have failed. Again.

We decide to go with a g-tube. It’ll be easier for me. I feel guilty for making her go through a surgery because it’ll be easier for me but easier for me means better for her. So that makes it okay, right? Right?

Right.

At 21 days old, she comes home. The ride home we can’t figure out how to get her pump to work. That night we can’t get it to work. I stay up with her because I can sleep the next day. Chris has to go to work. I don’t sleep well. I pump, I feed, I care for our 23 month old daughter and two dogs. A vicious cycle has begun.

Within two weeks, I ask for my meds to be upped. They’re not working. I’m stressed. My thoughts are getting more and more intense. They need to stop. The meds will make them stop. Make them stop. MAKE them stop.

Within three weeks, the thoughts are firing so rapidly at me I wonder if I’m in front of a death squad. I’m disgusted and repulsed. Pillows, visions of death, horrible deep dark secrets slam into me every few minutes. They’re like contractions on speed, really, waves that don’t ever seem to stop.

Within a little over four weeks, I’ve broken down. Irretrievably.

Follow me to Part IV

This week’s Postpartum Voice: Miranda of Not Super Just Mom

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Miranda of Not Super Just Mom, is sharing as this week’s Postpartum Voice. She’s been hosting guest bloggers on the topic of PPD/PPA over at her place this week as part of Mental Health Month and the D-Listed Blog Hop. Miranda and I met via #PPDChat at Twitter (I’ve been meeting SO many new moms there lately!) and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know her.

Miranda’s story starts out with disappointment after delivery didn’t quite go the way she had planned. I’ll let her tell her story in her voice now….

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you one thing. I am an over-achiever. I expect my best from myself in all things. I do not settle. I never have. Slowly, however, I’m learning to accept that sometimes my “best” has to be “good enough.”

I began battling depression in late high school. I fought with anxiety and depression off and on for years. Once I got to college, I had pressure to keep my scholarships, to not disappoint my parents, to make sure I paid my mortgage and car payments and insurance and utility bills on time. To maintain a social life and find the person with whom I was going to spend the rest of my life.

I finally got help during my junior year of college when I broke down and realized I couldn’t continue to live the way I’d been living. What I was facing was something bigger than me. The clinicians and psychiatrist who helped me were amazing and I owe them a debt of gratitude for teaching me how to “deal.” While I was in treatment, I met a wonderful guy, got married, and set out to suburbia. Eventually, we decided to expand our family.

I knew I was meant to be a mother. I knew that I would be good at this. It was my destiny. How could I not be a natural?

So imagine my shock when, two days after having my beautiful plans of a natural, vaginal, med-free delivery shot down due to “failure to progress,” I found myself crying into my meatloaf. Apparently, someone having an “inappropriate response to meatloaf” has become code-language in my doctor’s office for “watch out for this one. She’s on the fast-track to medication.” Or something like that. But see, that wasn’t normal. And I didn’t know it.

And when I wrote that post, the anger over my C-section was definitely present. I was angry. I am angry. Even now, 14 months later.

And that’s how my PPD/PPA started. With anger. And bitterness. And resentment.

And then the anger and bitterness and resentment turned into sadness over how things didn’t go the way I planned.

And then I heard the words “you’ll have to supplement” at my son’s first newborn visit after being discharged and that’s where the no-no “F” word started creeping in.

FAILURE.

I had only been a mom for five days and already I was a failure. I’d failed to get him here the way I’d envisioned. I’d failed to keep him from losing 10% of his birth weight because my stress and anxiety over the surgery (and the pain! Sweet baby Jesus in a manger the pain) kept my milk from coming in.

And I just KNEW that supplementing would be doom for breastfeeding for us.

And then I’d be failing at yet ANOTHER thing and I was BARELY EVEN A MOTHER YET AND HOW CAN I ALREADY BE SO BAD AT THIS?!?!?

When my one-week postpartum check-up came around, Peggy-the-PA and Dan and I discussed my “inappropriate response to meatloaf” in the hospital while Joshua, ever the little stinker he is, slept peacefully in his carseat. A carseat that he HATED for the first four months of his life (which effectively trapped me in the house because the sound of him screaming would send me into what I now think were mild panic attacks…WHILE DRIVING).

While we were at that visit, Peggy wrote me a prescription for an anti-depressant. She thought it’d be a good idea for me to go ahead and start taking them.

But I didn’t. Because I wanted to believe that I was stronger than that. I wanted to believe that this was just the “Baby Blues” and that they’d go away and I’d realize that I was a natural at this. That I was a PERFECT mother.

But I wasn’t. I’m still not. And the “Baby Blues” didn’t just evaporate.

It didn’t help that a mere seven days after giving birth, I was flying solo with this tiny bundle of lungs and poop. I couldn’t drive because it still hurt to sneeze, so I still needed to take pain medication. But I couldn’t take pain medication and be home all day with the baby because what if he needed me and the medication made me drowsy and I was sent a baby who wouldn’t sleep so there was no “sleep when baby is sleeping” in this house for at least three weeks.

I resented my husband. I resented the fact that he got to leave every day and go to work. He got to get out. He got to see people. If I tried to leave, even to go to Target, I’d have the baby screaming his tiny baby lungs out the whole way there. The whole time we walked around the store. The whole time we drove home. It just wasn’t worth it. So I didn’t leave. And when Dan left for work, I’d cry.

And because I was so mired up in my own grief, I didn’t feel connected to my son. I’d read blogs written by women who would gush and gush about how when they saw their baby it was love at first sight and they knew instinctively what to do and what their baby needed and part of me screamed “THAT IS BULLSHIT” and then part of me cried.

Because that’s what I wanted. I wanted that instant bond. That connection. That look from my baby that said “You are my mommy and I know this because I have heard your heart for 40 weeks and 5 days and it is the greatest sound in the world and I love you, Mommy. And I promise to sleep all night long and save all the poop-splosions for Daddy.”

And I didn’t get that. Even close to a year out, I still didn’t feel that. Even now, there are times where I look at my son and go “WHAT PLANET ARE YOU FROM!?!?” because he and I just don’t seem to understand each other very well.

The times that I felt most at peace were the times when my mother came down to spend the day with me. She’d get here early in the morning and do a load of laundry or dishes or sweep my floor. And then? Then she’d hold Joshua while I napped in the bed. It was glorious. But it was brief. My reprieves from the resentment were short-lived. I knew she’d leave soon, so when it would be time for her to leave, I’d get all anxious in the pit of my stomach and I’d feel the lump forming in my throat. And then she’d walk out the door and I’d be choking back tears and trying to hold it together.

And in the midst of all of this, Joshua was diagnosed with reflux and a milk protein allergy. Which meant mixing up little packets of Zegerid twice a day and me cutting out all yummy dairy goodness for as long as I planned to breastfeed. Me and Oreos became BFFs because they are totally, completely dairy free. And some days, I’d eat Oreos. All day long. That’s almost all I’d have to eat. Maybe I’d sneak in a graham cracker and some peanut butter. But I didn’t have much of an appetite, despite the fact that I was a dairy-free dairy cow.

(I think the fact that we finally got breastfeeding worked out is the only thing that helped me keep it together. It’s the only thing I knew I didn’t totally suck at, even though it had its own set of drawbacks…like growth spurts, and nursing every hour, on the hour, all.night.long. AND GIVING UP CHEESE AND COFFEE CREAMER.)

At my six week postpartum visit, I finally admitted to Peggy, and my husband, and my mom, and myself, that I needed to fill the prescription she’d written me six weeks earlier. I knew that this was not something I could do alone. So, I drove to the pharmacy, filled the prescription, and started taking them that night.

And I didn’t feel instantly better. I still have days where I don’t feel better. I have days where I just want to cry. Or where it physically hurts to move my body because I’m just so weighed down with my thoughts. And there are times when Joshua screams (um..hello…he’s a Tiny Terrorist. That’s pretty much all he does is scream) and I feel my heart start to beat faster and I kind of lose my train of thought and I become robotic. GET.DIAPER.ON.NOW.PICK.UP.BABY.NOW. And I just sort of “do” it.

One of the things I’ve come to realize through my battle with PPD/PPA is that I have to take every day as it comes. I’ve also had to abandon the quest for “perfection.” Nothing is perfect. Especially not me. Which is the purpose behind this blog. I’m not perfect. I’m never going to BE perfect.

I’ll have perfect moments, and moments where I go “Hey, I don’t suck at this!” but I’m not going to have those moments all the time. The “perfect” world of mommyhood that I envisioned for myself prior to actually being a mom doesn’t exist.

And slowly…slowly, I’m becoming more and more okay with the lack of perfection in my life. And I’m finding something kind of perfect in the imperfection. I’m finding me.

Miranda can be found at Not Super…Just Mom. She’d like everyone to know that she is not, in fact, a Supermom. But with a cape and a tiara she could probably save the world.

@karma_D finds her Postpartum Voice

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@karma_D, Lisa, found me via the #PPDChat at Twitter. At this week’s Just Talkin’ Tuesday, she expressed a desire to share her story but said she wasn’t ready to do so on her own blog yet. Lisa wanted somewhere to share her story anonymously in order to help other moms. I offered her a place here at My Postpartum Voice. This is truly what I want this site to be about – the power of sharing our stories to help one another find our own Voice as we journey through recovery.

Lisa’s story is powerful. Her NICU start reminds me of my own postpartum after the birth of my second daughter. It’s a rough start for sure and I hope Lisa finds the same strength as I have as she journeys towards recovery. Please don’t hesitate to send @karma_D some love. And if you’re a mom in need, you can follow me by clicking here. You can also visit Postpartum Support International to find a Coordinator near you. You are not alone, you are not to blame, and you will be well.

I have post partum depression. That might be a shock to friends and family, but no one was more unprepared for it than I was. My pregnancy was incredible. I felt amazing, better than I have in years, both physically and emotionally. I felt strong, hopeful, like a dream a lifetime in the making was finally coming true. Those months were full of planning, anticipation, expectation, all culminating in the beautiful instant my son was born. It was the best moment of my life, euphoric almost in the sudden absence of pain and joy of meeting him.

Within hours of his birth, he was taken to the NICU for breathing difficulty, and so began the downward spiral, full of broken expectations. Instead of bonding with a newborn in the hospital room surrounded by adoring guests, we shuffled back and forth to the NICU to stand around a helpless baby attached tubes and wires.

The night we came home from the hospital without our son was horrible. Pulling into our neighborhood late that night I vividly remember looking out the car window and feeling like I was witnessing life from another person’s body. Reality seemed unrecognizable. We arrived home to flowers and hospital bags dropped off earlier by our parents, mountains of gifts and food cluttering the house. In that moment I couldn’t see this wonderful outpouring for the blessing it was, but instead as anxiety inducing clutter. Exhausted, my husband went to bed but I stayed up and cried. I felt alone, scared, not myself. It was not at all the homecoming I had anticipated.

When we finally did bring our son home a week after his birth, things didn’t get better. Breastfeeding difficulties often left one or both of us in tears. It was not at all the bonding experience I had hoped for. I pushed through because I wanted so desperately to do the right thing, to act like a good mother even if I didn’t feel like one. I was tearful and scared because I didn’t feel like myself, and when I did manage to communicate this to my husband all I could muster was, “It’s so hard.” He did his best to reassure me and I tried to reassure myself it was just “baby blues” and sleep deprivation. I minimized my symptoms to the OB and Pediatrician, who screened me for PPD but didn’t pick it up early on. I tried to will it away and hoped things would get better, and kept acting like everything was fine.

Months went by and it never did get better, and the mood swings actually got worse. One moment I was okay, the next agitated or enraged, then crying and despondent. I yelled a lot, mostly at the dogs or my husband. One afternoon when my son was crying I yelled at him to “SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” The guilt of yelling at him was awful. I believed it was going to be burned in his psyche forever and he’d always think I was crazy. Still not wanting to think the mood swings could be PPD, I blamed it on my IUD. Eventually I did tell my OB about my symptoms (though admittedly I glossed over them again), and she said she “wasn’t getting a good read on (me).” She agreed it could be the IUD but convinced me to give it some more time, and encouraged exercise and DHA supplements. Finally I demanded the IUD removed as I wasn’t getting better, but even then no one diagnosed me with PPD.

I spent 6 months of maternity leave waiting for things to look up. I kept hoping to turn the corner but never did. Instead, the mood swings continued, and intrusive thoughts began. I pictured horrible things happening to me and my baby and felt helpless to prevent them. I often lacked motivation – even the simplest tasks seemed too much to manage. Once I went an entire week without leaving the house because it was just so overwhelming. My mood wasn’t always down. There were lots of times I felt fine, happy even, and capable, but they never lasted long. These moments of calm made me think I was okay. I never wanted to harm myself nor my baby, I got up and dressed every day, and I didn’t really feel like what I believed depression to be, so I never admitted what was happening in my head and never asked for help.

Returning to work was a blessing and a curse. It gave me a much needed break but the guilt was crushing. The mood swings got progressively worse until one night (Valentine’s Day), I got so worked up over my son’s difficulty going to sleep that I exploded. After slamming the door to his nursery I went and hid under the covers, my body buzzing and feeling like I might explode out of my skin. My thoughts raced and I just wanted to go away. I didn’t want to die but I didn’t want to exist either, at least not then. Later that night I had another fit when the baby woke up. My husband asked, “What is wrong with you?” in a tone I’ve never heard from him, one that suggested disgust. That was my rock bottom. I couldn’t hide it anymore. The next day I finally told my husband I thought I had PPD and made an appointment. I saw a different doctor and started treatment.

The improvement has been rapid. I feel hopeful again, motivated, more clear headed. I can reason rather than shutting down. The anger is better, the crying is better. The anxiety still creeps in and I do have setbacks. On those days I just try to survive until tomorrow. I’m learning to recognize triggers and figuring out coping mechanisms – Blair’s STOP has been helpful, as has reading and chatting with other moms who’ve experienced PPD. (At the same time, I feel the need to control what I’m exposed to so I’m careful about following blogs and such and limiting potentially upsetting material.) I’m trying to let go of expectations and enjoy the moment more. My bond with my son is growing and I am starting to appreciate those wonderful Mommy emotions I had hoped to experience immediately. I wear a locket every day and inscribed on the back is “Before I understood your words, I understood your love.” I have an amazing son and I know he understands the bond, too.

I think a lot about what it will be like next time – the “do over” as I call it. In the darkest moments of PPD I swore we would be “one and done” – I couldn’t fathom ever going through this again. Now, I am hopeful. Things will be different. Per my doctor, I’ll likely start meds immediately. I’ll make a strategy for how I’m going to get support, something like a birth plan but for postpartum, and share it with my “team.” I am almost certain I won’t breastfeed. The stress of nursing was a huge trigger, even after all the initial issues as I worried about pumping and supply. I’ll also know I’m not alone. I wish I had believed that months ago.