(Un)Happy Mother’s Day

May 13, 2018

I see a rainbow and I want to paint it black – Mick Jagger

Before I get into painting rainbows black, here I am basking in my sunshine(s)…

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there. New mamas, OG mamas, pregnant soon-to-be mamas- I salute you all. Because I know each and every one of you is hustling every day to make the best life you can for you and your babies (no matter how old they are). But this year I want to give recognition to a specific group of mamas: those who have fought, and survived, post-partum depression (PPD). I give this shout-out selfishly as I, too, am a part of this group; in many ways I wish I wasn’t, but it’s just another part of my story. I want to share my PPD battle with you- not because it’s unique or profound, but because the more we talk about PPD, the more normalized it becomes.

The Mayo Clinic classifies PPD as a “very common” disease and estimates there are more than 3 million women diagnosed each year. That’s a lot of ladies. Why, then, does it feel so breath-takingly isolating when it happens to you? I don’t know. I can say from personal experience a big factor was guilt. I had two healthy children, a stable home, loving partner, and supportive network of family and friends. What right did I have to feel so pitiful?  Another issue was the fact that it’s an invisible disease. No one could look at me and know something was amiss. Instead, people complimented me on my ability to “bounce back” after birth and marveled at how well I was managing life. Part of me was relieved I was pulling off the charade; the other part just wanted to scream, “No! I am NOT okay!”

I can’t pinpoint when the PPD started. But I can look back and see little differences between when I had my son versus when I had my daughter two years earlier. As soon as I gave birth to my daughter I was ready to walk out the hospital. Despite having a scheduled C-section, I was anxious to get home and on with my new life. With my son, another planned C-section, I was in no hurry. I convinced my OB to let me stay a third night and would’ve happily stuck around for a fourth and fifth. I didn’t think anything of it then (I wasn’t thinking much of anything those first few days), but already my body was signaling something was off.

Before I left the hospital, I had to complete a Post-Partum Depression Risk Survey. Apparently, this is a state-wide requirement in Virginia, but I had given birth to my daughter in Texas so it was all new to me. My results came back “very high risk.” I was told to follow-up with my OB and discharged home. I took my son to his pediatrician a few days later and they had me fill out the same survey there. The results came back even worse than before. Our pediatrician was shocked the hospital released me without setting me up to see a counselor and told me to see my OB ASAP. I tried, but he was booked solid so they squeezed me in with someone else in a different town. Given that my son was so “fresh” I had to take him with me and, of course, he cried during the appointment. You can imagine how effective it is to discuss your mental state while frantically trying to get a newborn to latch. I left the appointment with a card for a therapist in the area, but of course she didn’t accept my insurance. So I called around, left a lot of voicemails, and finally had ONE clinic call me back and set me up for a consult. This whole process took a few weeks and, honestly, would have taken much longer had my parents and Fox not kept pushing me along. I will admit to dragging my feet. I had a new baby; how did I have time to take care of myself?

I got into therapy and things did improve initially. We talked a lot about “embracing my new self” and setting realistic expectations. Things were still very foggy, but I was starting to see some improvement. Once I hit the 6-week post-partum milestone, I was able to start exercising again which definitely helped clear my head and control my anxieties.

But there was still a nagging feeling of not being good enough for my kids. Some days I would just look at my son and burst into tears. Other days I couldn’t shake the guilt of not being able to spend as much time with my daughter now that baby brother was here. I was genuinely convinced that my kids and Fox deserved more than I could give. So, I started to think about leaving. I didn’t know where I would go or what I would do, but I just felt everyone would be better off without me around. Sometimes, especially in the middle of those never-ending newborn nights, I would try to mentally plan my escape routes. I would think about things like cashing out money from our savings and leaving during the night so the kids wouldn’t be left alone. Thankfully, I was able to stay grounded enough to never act on these thoughts.

After 3 months, I started to go back to work. My job at the time was very flexible, so I started out just working once a week. Working definitely helped me feel more like myself again, which, in turn, helped me feel more capable. The thoughts of wanting to run away were lessening and my therapist was very pleased with my progress. I was, too. I found myself wanting to work more, but we weren’t ready to put the baby in daycare just yet. At this same time, my younger sister found herself in a situation where she had to take a quarter off school and asked if she could come live with us for a few months and take care of the kids as her “rent.” We were only too happy to agree. It was a match made in heaven. But it quickly turned into my personal hell.

Before I continue, I want to make something very, very clear: my sister was NOT the reason things got worse. She was a wonderful addition to our home and I am so grateful for the time we had together. We had and have a fantastic relationship and I love her like only a big sister could. Got it? Good.

I started working more, 2-3 days a week (bear in mind these are 12-hour-shifts so 3 days a week is considered full time). I was also still breastfeeding exclusively, which meant I was nursing before and after work and during the night and pumping multiple times during my shift. Any working/pumping mama will tell you that’s no easy feat. But the good lord blessed me with “cups that runneth over” and I was determined to put them to good use, even if it meant running myself into the ground.

The thing that made me feel like I could manage working and mom-ing full time was the fact that my sister provided an extra set of hands.  Now that we were a household of 2 children and 3 adults, I figured a good number of responsibilities would be taken off my plate. But here’s the thing: they weren’t. They stuck like burnt barbeque sauce. It’s not that my sister wasn’t helping; but it wasn’t her house or her kids, so I still had to tell her what needed to be done. Fox was pulling his weight, too, after I divvied up and assigned his weight to him. Even if they were physically doing the work, I felt like I was mentally responsible for balancing everything and making sure it got done. This is not an unusual phenomenon. The phrase “mental load” keeps popping up all over social media and alludes to the specific feeling many women/mothers face of having to be the ones that mentally keep everything on track. That, in itself, can be daunting, but when combined with my PPD it became downright dangerous.

The realization that, no matter how many extra hands I had or how many tasks I delegated, I was still going to ultimately be responsible for everything caused something to snap in my brain. I was so burnt out and all I could think was, “The only way for me to get any rest in this world is for me to leave it.” That became my omnipresent thought. On “good” days, I could rationalize and tell myself I was being dramatic- that it wasn’t me but the depression speaking those words. On bad days, the lines between me and my depression became so blurred I had no idea what was real.

I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept trying to push forward as the thoughts got louder and more violent. I started having dreams about putting a gun in my mouth and ending it all. I would wake up still tasting the cool metal in my mouth. The scary part was that it didn’t scare me. It intrigued me, lured me in. I started to fantasize about how the barrel would feel with my lips around it and daydream about the tension of pulling the trigger. Like many soldiers, Fox owns a gun and I thank God I had a moment of clarity to ask him to hide it from me. I would be lying if I said there weren’t days I tried to look for it.

In a great twist of irony, I continued to work in an ER, where I often took care of suicide-attempt patients. Around this time, I specifically remember watching a teenage boy try to strangle himself in front of me and caring for a patient that had shot himself in the chest but survived thanks to bad aim. Seeing how the hospital staff and family members rallied around and supported these patients only heighted my desire to become one myself. Killing myself, or at least making an attempt, seemed like the only way for me to get a break.

And where was my therapist in all of this? Well, at first I tried to hide what was going on. Honestly, I was afraid if I told her I might get hospitalized or my kids taken away from me. But it finally came out during one of our sessions. And this was where I learned that it’s not always best to choose your therapist based on who’s in your insurance network. I told her it felt like a river was washing over me and, instead of fighting against the current, I just wanted to lay down and let it sweep me under. She told me that she didn’t really think I would do anything to harm myself. That only made me all the more determined to prove her wrong. I asked if it would be appropriate to consider starting an anti-depressant, but she said I was “strong enough” to work through this on my own. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

I started sharing with Fox and my parents some of what was going on and they encouraged, ok- begged, me to talk to my OB about starting medication or seeing a different therapist. Again, I dragged my feet, because, honestly, who wants to admit they have that much of a problem? Part of me wanted to be as strong as my therapist thought I was and part of me really wanted to stop trying to fix everything and just end it once and for all. The turning point was when I realized I hadn’t cried in months. And not because I didn’t have anything to cry about- because I had gone completely numb. I wasn’t feeling joy or sorrow. I just felt empty. I couldn’t take it anymore and called my OB. He prescribed Lexapro immediately.

I was ready to start the meds, but nervous about potential side-effects. Like any good nurse, I consulted my Davis Drug Guide to know what to expect. It said that the first week was usually the worst and could cause nausea, lethargy, anxiety, and/or increased suicidal thoughts. I was worried about experiencing any of these while also trying to care for my kids at home and my patients at work. Fox had to spend a few days in Norfolk for work the next week and suggested I go with him so I could start the meds in an environment without any responsibilities. He arranged for my sister to watch the kids, but I was scheduled to work one of those days and I didn’t want to appear flaky by calling out sick when I wasn’t actually unwell. My sister pointed out, “Your mental health is just as important as the physical. You are allowed to take care of yourself.” She might be a decade younger than me, but in many ways, she is far wiser. So, I went to Norfolk and spent 3 days in an Air Force hotel room popping antidepressants, eating pretzels, and watching Law & Order and Keeping Up with the Kardashians.

Did I come home cured? Definitely not. Nothing is a quick-fix when it comes to depression. But it was an important bridge to cross on my road to wellness. As for what happened next, I will have to save that for the next post. Honestly, talking about depression this much is starting to depress me. But if you are struggling with PPD in any of its many forms, know this: You are not alone. You are not crazy. You are not a bad mother. And you are not going to feel like this forever. Your kids don’t need a better mom; they just need the best version of you and it’s okay to admit you need help in becoming that.