Post-Partum Depression

I have three beautiful children who I love and who are the light of my life. Each of their births and my pregnancy experiences were totally unique and wonderful and with two of them the after-period found me happy, light and confident. With my middle child however I found myself suffering from postpartum depression. It was totally unexpected, didn't match any of the descriptions in any of my books, and it scared me, every aspect of it scared me. I was terrified of feeling so out of control of my body, scared of taking medication, scared of not taking medication, scared by the stories in books, scared to tell my friends and family. It was a dark time literally and metaphorically.

A little background for my story here. I have the poster family for happiness. I am intelligent, educated, confident and secure in my faith. My children are beautiful and well behaved, treasures to everyone they meet. My husband is handsome, smart, helpful, supportive and involved, truly the ideal man. My parents live close and are involved in our lives (which we love) always eager to help in anyway possible and I am surrounded by an active friend and church group who are of the dinner and babysitter providing genre. I tell you these things reader not to brag but to make it clear that my community did not fail me, my depression was not the result of being overworked and abandoned, it was truly something in me that became unbalanced and required intervention.

My son was born on November 6, 2007 by planned C-section. Everything went smoothly, there were no complications. About a month later I still felt over-tired, which didn't surprise me, after all I had a newborn and a two-and-a-half year old requiring a lot of attention. What did surprise me was how stupid my husband was being. It seemed like no matter what he tried he could not please me. He wasn't helping enough around the house, he wasn't available to be with the kids, his cooking was sub-par, his attentions inadequate, he was failing me in every way and I was angry about it. Soon after I noticed this I began to realize that my until now perfect daughter was becoming a thorn in my side. She was "mouthy", dawdling, needy and I found myself less and less able to be patient with her. I was yelling more often, smiling less and slightly irritated all the time.

It was at this point that I thought, "maybe I'm depressed," but a search through my pregnancy books and online gave me a list of symptoms that didn't match, sleeplessness or nothing but sleeping, withdrawal from life, suicidal thoughts, appetite changes, fears, etc. None of these fit what I was experiencing so I chalked it up to being tired and soldiered on. After another couple weeks of feeling a little bit angry all the time I found myself actually thinking things that shocked me because they were spontaneous and unlike me. I remember rocking my son in the middle of the night looking down at his little face and thinking, "You are all that's holding me together right now." A few days later I was driving to our regular playgroup and contemplated (for less than a split second) driving into oncoming traffic, with both of my precious children in the car. I made it to playgroup and was blessed to find that only three of my closest friends were there who I immediately pulled into the kitchen and blurted out, "I think I'm depressed" and started bawling. Up until this moment I had not felt sad or any other emotion that I readily associated with depression but the tears were uncontrollable. I will forever be grateful to one of those girlfriends (who has struggled with anxiety/depression herself) who gently told me, "I've been worried about you" and hugged me, it was exactly what I needed to hear. I was still in denial though. To me depression may as well have been labeled "failure." That's what the list of symptoms said to me, I wasn't ready to admit that I couldn't "handle" the natural consequences of my life choices. Later that week I stood in the doorway of the nursery watching my husband and daughter play with the baby, all of them full of smiles and laughter. I steeled myself and said, "I think I might be depressed." What I really wanted was for my husband to affirm what I was feeling and tell me that it wasn't as bad as I thought, that I was doing a great job and that all this negativity was in my head (no pun intended). He instead immediately looked back at me and replied, "I agree 100%. You are for sure depressed." I went and called my doctor.

I started taking meds January 4, 2008 and on January 5, the sun came out for the first time in two months. I literally thought that. I used to laugh at those commercials for anti-depressants that talk about the sun being gone but I now know that is an incredibly accurate description. Over the next couple of days I continued to feel better and more like myself but now I had a new set of things to stress about. How long would I take the meds? How would I know when I didn't need them anymore? I also found out after sharing what I was going through with my mom that I was the third generation (that we know of) of women in our family to suffer with PPD, now I felt guilty that my legacy to my children, especially my daughter, would be one of mental illness. I hated feeling so dependent on that tiny green pill but I was petrified at the thought of what I might be like without it. I took the meds for about six months and then thought that I was ready to wean myself off. I was not. Within a few days of reducing my dose my husband and I both noticed a return to irritability and an apathy for the daily aspects of our lives so I went back to my regular dose. Eventually I knew I was really ready to stop because I rediscovered joy in tasks and hobbies that had been abandoned for nearly a year. I was excited to cook again, I felt up to the task of cleaning and organizing my home, I wanted to have people over. I found myself again, it took 10 months of medication and a lot of support from my family but I can now proudly say that I survived that time and that I think my closest relationships are stronger for it.

Something that I was initially frustrated by and ashamed of has now become more of a badge of honor to me, much like my c-section scar. I am reminded of the amazing ability God has given us to heal, of the incredible people I have been blessed to call family and friends. Much of that time will be burned forever into my memory and even as I type this, I cry, recalling how painful it was for me and imagining how painful it must have been for my family. I am so thankful for God's grace and redemption of me through that time, for my husband who stood by me and loved me through it and who would have even if I had never been treated. Thankful for my doctor who walked out of an appointment to talk to me on the phone and who didn't even make me come in, just called in the prescription. Thankful for my friends who didn't look at me weird or handle me with kid gloves. I'm thankful that my next pregnancy and delivery were depression free (and boy were we on high alert watching for it). But above all those things I am thankful that God gave me that precious little boy, who held me together when my world was falling apart.