Category Archives: Perinatal Mood Disorders

Are PMD’s the new Jimmy Chu’s?

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.

Request for Domestic Violence & Postpartum Depression Research

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I had a friend of mine contact me today asking if I’d spread the word she’s in need of some research about Postpartum Depression & Domestic Violence victims for a current project. She is specifically “looking for research that demonstrates victims of domestic violence are at a greater risk of developing perinatal depression and also for research that demonstrates a history of sexual assault being a risk factor.”

Please direct any links, research, further questions you have to tlawton@drshosh.com.

Thanks wonderful readers!

Warmest,

Lauren

Rabbi Shmuley, Breastfeeding, and Guilt

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Here at My Postpartum Voice, I strive to empower and encourage women to be educate themselves and then move ahead forward filled with confidence in the choices they make for their family.

Of course I have my own set of beliefs which have worked for my family and set of circumstances.

This post is a bit of a deviation from the standard topic but I am so disturbed by this article I feel I must speak up.

I believe in breastfeeding.

But I have also bottlefed.

One of the biggest issues I struggled with while nursing my first daughter was the shift from viewing my breasts as sexual objects to the functionality they now served. It is absolutely amazing that a woman nourishes life from conception until well after birth.

I remember not wanting my husband to touch my breasts while I was nursing.

Today, I read an article at beliefnet.com by Rabbi Shmuley, the host of TLC’s Shalom in the Home.

Beliefnet’s mission is to “help people like you find, and walk, a spiritual path that will bring comfort, hope, clarity, strength, and happiness.”

With said mission in the forefront of my mind, I am appalled they published the article, “Can Breastfeeding Hurt Your Marriage” by Rabbi Shmuley today. Nowhere in this article does he offer one shred of comfort, hope, clarity, strength, OR happiness. Instead, he tears women down, treats them as sexualized playthings and utterly disrespects the directives set forth by his OWN faith in regards to breastfeeding.

According to the good Rabbi, nurturing your marriage is infinitely more important than breastfeeding. Your marriage is more important than protecting your baby from diarrhea, cough, or colds. (The Rabbi’s words, not mine.) He also points out that women should cover up whilst nursing, even in front of their husbands to avoid de-eroticizing the breast. Oh, and that place where the baby came from? A mere birth canal if your husband watches you give birth. Mere? Mere? Only if that’s short for MIRACULOUS, Rabbi Shmuley, because I highly doubt you could do down there what WE sexualized playthings are capable of with our downstairs. Frankly, I’d like to see you give nursing a shot too.

Nowhere in this article does the Rabbi refer to biblical verses which support breastfeeding. Nowhere does he prove his reasoning. This type of article is absolutely reckless and stands to set several mothers up to fail in the already shaky realm of breastfeeding. And for that, Rabbi Shmuley should be ashamed of himself despite his barely there attempt toward the end to support breastfeeding as always being best for the baby. Even then he points out that nursing should always be subordinate to the marriage.

The first example he gives of how breastfeeding ruins a marriage involves a couple in Pennsylvania. The wife held onto an “obsession with breast-feeding well into the child’s eleventh month.”

Ok, Rabbi, Schmuley. Let’s talk about that, shall we? Based on the Old Testament, right?

Moses.

Baby Moses, rescued from the fanatical infantacide of Egyptian Pharoahs, nursed by his own mother as a wet nurse for the Princess (Exodus 2:17), was nursed for close to two years according to Section 1:31 of the Shemmot Rabbah, which is a rabbinic commentary on the book of Exodus. This same resource, Breastfeeding from the Bible by Larry G. Overton, goes on to point out an ancient Babylonian tradition in which babies were nursed until they were three years old.

It also further points out this passage in reference to a woman named Hannah in the book of 1Samuel:

21 When the man Elkanah went up with all his family to offer the annual sacrifice to the LORD and to fulfill his vow, 22 Hannah did not go. She said to her husband, “After the boy is weaned, I will take him and present him before the LORD, and he will live there always.” 23 “Do what seems best to you,” Elkanah her husband told her. “Stay here until you have weaned him; only may the LORD make good his word.” So the woman stayed at home and nursed her son until she had weaned him. 24 After he was weaned, she took the boy with her, young as he was, along with a three-year-old bull, an ephah of flour and a skin of wine, and brought him to the house of the LORD at Shiloh. [1Samuel 1:21-24, NIV]

Correct me if I’m wrong but I would think that an infant would be fit to present to priests at a Tabernacle for lifelong service, thereby implying the child was nursed longer than a mere few months. (According to this same resource, Breastfeeding and the Bible, further reading into 2nd Chronicles reveals this verse: Besides those males from three years old and up who were written in the genealogy, they distributed to everyone who entered the house of the LORD his daily portion for the work of his service, by his division, [2 Chronicles 31:16, NKJV], implying that Samuel, the child from the above passage, would have been at least 3 prior to making said journey to the Tabernacle, having just been weaned)

Another resource, The ILCA Conference Reviewed: The Benefits of Nursing By: Yaelle Frohlich, Posted: 8/24/08, states the following in one of the last few paragraphs:

Breastfeeding is discussed in Jewish texts. Arthur I. Eidelman describes the positive impact of Jewish culture on breastfeeding rates among the orthodox in his article in “Breastfeeding Medicine” Volume 1 Number 1, and notes that the Talmud puts minimum nursing length at two years. Yevamot 12B even discourages a widow from remarrying if she has a baby under 21 months, lest she get pregnant, lose her milk supply and become unable to nourish her existing child. Additionally, according to tradition, biblical figures such as Isaac, Moses and Samuel were also breastfed for two years or more.

Breastfeeding and the Bible ALSO points out the following passage from the Apocrypha, the book of Maccabees specifically:

My son, have pity on me. Remember that I carried you in my womb for nine months and nursed you for three years. I have taken care of you and looked after all your needs up to the present day. [2 Maccabees 7:27, Today’s English Version. Emphasis mine., (Larry G. Overton)]

And yet here Rabbi Shmuley is tearing a woman down for daring to nurse well into the child’s 11th month as he freely admits, “I told the mother that in being so devoted to her son, she had committed the cardinal sin of marriage, which is to put someone else before her spouse, even if that someone is your child.” Wait. It gets better. “Furthermore, I said, her obsession had turned one of her most attractive body parts into a feeding station, an attractive cafeteria rather than a scintillating piece of flesh.”

Say what?

Let’s go there. Yes, let’s.

First and foremost, breasts are functional. Their sexuality is icing on the cake. Again, back to Pharoah and Moses. A wet nurse provided sustenance for little Moses so that he might live. Why? Because breasts are MEANT to feed infants. In fact, it’s the very attitude of the sexualized breast which Shmuley presents which has contributed to the difficulties mothers face today as they nurse in public.

Next up: “If breast-feeding gets in the way of the marriage—if it means that a husband and wife never go out on dates, or that the mother is so tired from always waking up with the baby that she has no energy to ever be intimate with her husband—the child will probably end up worse off, however many colds or bouts with diarrhea he now avoids.” – Rabbi Shmuley

Now, if Mom today had half the amount of help available to her ancient counterparts, she might just be willing to go out on a date with her husband. If her husband or other family members would help with the baby duties at night by changing baby’s diaper and bringing baby to her so that she may get a few extra moments of sleep, she might just feel up to being sexual with her husband. Of course, there’s also the very real fact that Mom just gave birth to a baby from her “mere” birth canal. THAT may have something to do with not wanting to get busy. Just as with any other physical change or “injury”, it takes time to heal from birth. Some women take longer than others, even if they formula feed. I wonder how long it would take Rabbi Shmuley to bounce back after giving birth.

There’s simply no excuse for Rabbi Shmuley’s atrocious article. There’s no scientific basis. No faith basis. Nothing.

As you read the article further, clicking through to the second page, you’re suddenly clued into why Shmuley feels this way.

“When I was a young boy, all I wanted to see was two parents who loved each other. A daily vitamin also would certainly have done me a world of good. But only my parents’ happy marriage could have provided me with peace at my center and the more secure personality I sorely lack. I would take the diarrhea and cough any day over the permanent sense of brokenness that affects children of divorce.”

So if I’m reading this correctly, Rabbi Shmuley seems to think his parents divorced because breastfeeding destroyed their marriage. Wow.

I am SO sorry if that’s the case.

Sorry your mother was not supported in wanting the best for her children.

Sorry your mother was not supported in what YOUR OWN faith states is expected of mothers in sustaining their children.

Sorry you were raised in a broken household in which there truly was no integrity, respect, accountability, or compassion.

I am sorry.

It’s possible to nourish a child and your marriage. There’s a fine line. There ARE decisions to be made, with that I agree whole-heartedly. I made that decision as I pumped exclusively for our second daughter. I had to choose between giving my daughter breastmilk or my relationship with my family and my own mental health. As I drove home with formula, I wept. Openly. But I gave it my all. Had it not come down to it, I would have kept on pumping. Had I had more support, I would have kept on going. I would have given anything to have had an infant like a limb – anything!

Rabbi Shmuley – please. Please heed the words of those within your own faith. Those within the medical community. Those of the mothers struggling to do the best they can for their own families. Words such as those published at beliefnet.com are damaging at best. Do you believe breastfeeding is best? I dare you to prove it. I dare you to support nursing mothers. I dare you to support the family dynamic intended by God from the very start of our existence. I dare you.

Graham Crackers & PB series will return on Monday

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It’s been an emotionally draining week to share my story in such intense detail.

I need to take a few days to myself before wrapping up my story.

The feedback from all of you has been absolutely amazing. It’s thrilling that so many people have found such power and beauty in my words.

It has been such a relief to finally get all of this out in the public eye. I feel free from PPD. Finally. I’ve taken the last step and kicked it to the curb.

I hope you’ll stay tuned and check back in on Monday for the wrap up to my story!

(Once the entire series is published, I’ll create a new page that will link to all the posts for easier navigation.)

Graham Crackers and Peanut Butter with a side order of crazy: Part IV

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The part in which the title finally makes sense:

I rested my thin pillow against the cold glass of the medical transport window, snuggled down into the blanket, and dozed off as the wheels of the van propelled me toward the psychiatric hospital 45 minutes away. I kept shivering despite the blanket. Every time I shivered, I woke up. Then I would fall back asleep. Then I’d wake up again. Finally, the van came to a stop. Ahead of us, bright red brake lights glared into the dark, illuminating stark pine trees lining the isolated country roadway.

About that time, the transport driver said something about a traffic jam. She turned the van around to head the other direction. What should have taken us just 45 minutes quickly turned into an hour and a half. During that time I woke up. The driver and I started talking. She was the first non-medical professional with whom I shared everything I had gone through. And you know what she told me? She told me any other mother in my shoes would have been hard pressed to keep it together. I quietly thanked her and pulled the blanket closer as the shivering had started again.

We finally pulled up to the psychiatric hospital. I sat quietly as I waited for the driver to open the door and unbuckle me. (That’s right – I had to wait to be unbuckled. At 29 years old, I had to wait for someone ELSE to unbuckle me. If that’s not humbling…..) She carried my bag and breast pump for me (again, I wasn’t allowed to do so) to the doorway. A security guard met us there and walked us down a long hall to a small room. As the transport driver stood there, the guard went through my bag, checked me over, and went over me with a wand. We then walked down another hallway to the Acute Flight Risk Ward. The driver said goodbye as the nurse from the ward took custody of me.

We sat at a table and filled out paperwork. The nurse asked question after question. I was cold, tired, and shivering. I wanted to sleep. I wanted a warm blanket. My teeth chattered. I sat there and answered best I could. I remember a lot of “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” It was not me that sat there that night. It was someone else – a shell of myself. A shivering shell nonetheless.

As we filled out paperwork, another patient meandered into the main area. She had wild salt and pepper hair, wore a large plaid pattern flannel shirt and sang at the top of her lungs as she shuffled about. My first thought? Dear Lord. Please don’t let her be my roommate. I asked the nurse about private rooms. She told me no, honey, there are no private rooms here. It was right then and there that I knew this meandering woman was my roommate.

We wrapped up paperwork and I asked if I could pump. I was let into the medical supply/clinic room to do so. A nurse checked on me every five minutes (and I thought topless double pumping with a hospital grade pump in front of my mom was embarrassing!) Once I finished, I went to my room.

(An aside here: Lemme tell ya people – the pillows at a psych ward? Wow. They suck. I didn’t know Aunt Jemima made a line of pillows – they were that damned flat.)

My body collapsed into bed and I was out. They did checks almost every hour so I kept waking up. My roommate finally came to bed a few hours after my arrival, bursting into the room with her loud personality and voice to boot. Between the flat pillows, the loud roommate, and checks, I did not get a lot of sleep that first night.

The next morning, at the break of dawn, my roommate prayed to Jesus at the top of her lungs. She was praying for sunshine because if it was cloudy or raining, she wouldn’t be able to go smoke her cigarettes and then He knew what she was like if she couldn’t smoke her cigs. I didn’t want to find out what she was like if she didn’t have her cigs so I prayed – quietly – that she’d get her precious cigs.

I got up after she left the room and went to shower. A long, hot, shower. Except the water wasn’t hot. It was cold. But it still felt relaxing to shower without worrying about having to take care of the kids.

Once I showered, I went and pumped. I had no idea what time it was but asked the nurses to please make sure I pumped at least once every three hours until 10:00p.m. They were pretty good about making sure I kept on schedule.

I had several conversations with the nurse who checked me in. During those conversations, we discussed ideas for taking time for myself. But she also told me I did not have to tell anyone where I had been that weekend. (You see how well I followed THAT advice!) Even then, I knew that didn’t seem right. Why would I hide what was happening to me? Where would I tell people I had been?

After I pumped, I walked out into the common area. There were crayons, paper, a TV, a radio, couches, and a phone. I spent a great deal of time on the phone. I called my parents, Chris, my brothers, just to reassure them that I was okay. Kind of funny – here I am in the psych ward and I’m calling folks to tell them I’m okay.

One of these conversations included my father. He told me in no uncertain terms to not let anyone tell me I’m crazy. With everything we had been through with Charlotte, it was no surprise I had collapsed like I had. It was amazing I hung on as long as I did with no support.

I asked Chris to please bring me a book. The other patients, to be honest, scared the crap out of me. They were angry, blank, scary people. My heart broke for them even in the midst of my own trauma.

We all lined up to go to breakfast. The food sucked. I realized I could get food delivered to me from the cafeteria and stayed away from the cafeteria for the rest of the stay.

A couple of times a day, a snack room was open and available to us. We were to eat the snacks in the main room but I snuck them back to my room. My favorite snack? Milk, Graham crackers, and peanut butter. I had never put peanut butter on graham crackers before but for some reason, I found it comforting. And energizing. I’ve not eaten it since. I can’t bring myself to do so. I know I’m better but I just can’t do graham crackers and peanut butter anymore.

While I was there, my charming roommate and I scored another roommate. This woman came in not talking, almost catatonic. I always asked her if she wanted something to eat when I would go get something for myself. She answered once and I brought her some food. It was the first time she had spoken since arriving. First time she ate anything since she got there too. Later that afternoon, as I woke up from a nap, I heard her talking with one of the nurses. I lay there, still, quiet, bored out of my MIND but knowing that if I moved, she might stop talking. I knew she needed to talk. I knew she needed the help.

Once the nurse left and my roommate went back to sleeping, I stared out my window. I saw Chris arrive. I tried desperately to get his attention but he didn’t see me. I rushed to the phone to try to call him to tell him where my room was but I couldn’t – someone was talking. Out of the entire weekend, the one thing that made me feel the most trapped was that – seeing my husband and not being able to hug him.

While I desperately begged my husband (telepathically of course) to look toward me, the psychiatrist came in to talk with me. I repeated my story, including how I broke down. We agreed a med change might be in order. I had not taken any meds in over 24 hours. That night, I was given a new med and another one the following day before leaving the ward.

My mother had come down again to help Chris with the kids. They wanted to release me in the morning but Chris would not be able to pick me up until that afternoon and I did not want my mom to pick me up from yet another hospital. I wanted it to be Chris. Plus if he came to pick me up, I’d get to stay longer and sleep longer.Sneaky, I know.

After a weekend of solid sleep, relaxation, and time to myself, I was feeling much much better. Definitely not the vacation every new mom day dreams about but hey, it worked for me.

As I sat in the car with Chris on my way home, the sky was grey, the world was bleak, and although I had survived, I could not help but wonder what was ahead of me as we drove home, together, yet so very far apart.

Click here to read Part III