My children are 5 and 3 years old. They are my greatest joy, my greatest frustration, and almost all my fears in life center around them (can I keep them safe? can I teach them what they need to know? can I raise a good adult?) Only time will tell. I can say this, however: their first years on this world were pretty messed up because I had something that needed attention and I didn't tell anyone.
I had moderate to severe Post Partum Depression. For nearly 3 and a half years.
Recently Brooke Shields wrote and published a book about her PPD. I haven't read it, although I have read plenty about it. Some of what I've read I can relate to, some of it not so much. But I realized that I have never really spoken of my experience with PPD and that is a disservice to me and to just about any pregnant person with whom I come into contact (and there are a lot of them.) Keeping the secret means fostering shame. No longer. Not for me. This is my coming out party and you're all invited.
During my pregnancy with my oldest child, I went through some serious life changes that really had nothing to do with my pregnancy at all, but believe you me, it effected everything that went on in my life. I was in a relatively new relationship (I'd only been with B for about 3 months when we got pregnant,) after just exiting an on again off again relationship that had taken up nearly 7 years of my life. I was feeling totally out of control. I seemed to think that I could control 1 thing - how my child was born. Man, I was such an idiot! That's neither here nor there, but the point is that when my child was born surgically, it tore me up. I felt (and still do feel) that I had quite possibly the best cesarean possible and felt totally empowered during the whole thing (honestly, I think some folks must have broken some rules because I've never heard of a cesarean before or since that was so respectful and holy.) Still, however, I felt like a failure as a woman. I felt broken. I felt less than whole. And if I couldn't give birth to my child, how in the hell could I possibly be good enough to raise a child?
When my child was 6 days old, I had to go to pay a bill. My mother drove me and my new little peanut to the local grocery store. I flipped out in the parking lot because I couldn't get the car seat to work in the shopping cart. I mean, I felt that there was some conspiracy going on to keep my car seat from working in the damned cart! (Okay, see what an idiot I was? I had a sling and didn't / wouldn't use it!) We eventually made it inside and something happened in my head. Suddenly,
everyone was out to get my child. People would look at my newborn, as folks are want to do, and all I could think was, "These people are trying to find a way to take my son." I thought the fluorescent lights would hurt him, I was convinced that the off gassing of the cardboard boxes and Styrofoam and all the Freon from the freezer section were slowly poisoning him. That stuff on the top shelf was going to fall down and crush my child. Someone was going to turn around the corner and spray him with cleaner. These were not "What if" thoughts. No. They were "THIS IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW" certainties in my head. I ended up grabbing my child and my mother's car keys and I ran SCREAMING from the store. I made it to the car and sat inside with my sleeping child and cried and said over and over again. "I'm so sorry I took you there. I'm so sorry I put you at risk. I'm such a terrible mother, I should have known better. I'm so sorry." My mother was so concerned that she called my husband home from work. After I cried some and talked a bit about it, I felt better. I felt it was a one time thing.
I was wrong.
Over the course of the next year or so, I had those thoughts frequently. I wouldn't let my in-laws take their grandson to Wal-Mart. I wouldn't let anyone come over unless I had known them for at least 4 years and they, too, had kids. I was working 20 hours a week at the local public library and I had to know where my child was every second of every day. My Mother In Law watched Duck 1 afternoon a week and my husband watched him the other hours I was working. Honestly - if they went outside, I had to know. If they went for a walk, I had to know. If they had to go to the grocery store or anywhere, I had to know. I probably called home 20 times during an 8 hour shift.
Someone was going to hurt my child and I was the ONLY one who could prevent it.
I told no one about these thoughts. To this day, this is my first speaking of it in detail.
We got pregnant with our second child and the pregnancy was traumatic. I had a disorder that put me in the hospital for most of the pregnancy, off and on. I was told that I had to wean my oldest child, and so I ignorantly did so abruptly. Again, I felt my body was failing me and therefore, I would fail my children. But, eventually, I felt well enough to move forward and I eagerly planned my VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean.) I was proactive. I researched like mad, spoke extensively to my care provider about what I would and would not be willing to do in order to have a VBAC. We hired a doula. And, sure enough, I had a VBAC. A wonderful, glorious VBAC and there was my beautiful son. I went home less than 24 hours after his birth on cloud nine. I had my baby, I had my VBAC. Everything was perfect, eh?
No. Not at all.
There's something strange that happens when you achieve the biggest goal of your life. You work so hard for it and when it happens, you think, "Hey, I did it. Everything should be perfect and rosy. " But it isn't. And then you feel, "Hey, why am I upset? I got what I wanted, didn't I?"
When my son was 2 days old, my Dad and his wife arrived from Ohio. I remember letting them hold him while he cried for probably 20 minutes while I checked my email, cleaned the toilet, whatever. I could hear him crying. I knew that he just needed me. But I let someone else just deal with it. Almost immediately, he became not urgent.
The thoughts started coming. But they were different this time. No one else was going to hurt my child -
I was going to hurt him. I had visions of smothering him with a pillow. I thought I could just leave him outside in the hot sun and close the door. I imagined leaving him somewhere. I thought about throwing him out the window. Would a baby roll down the stairs or would he bounce?
And the whole time, my head was also screaming - WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME??? I'm NOT going to hurt my child. STOP THINKING THAT WAY! I'm a horrible mother, what kind of person would imagine these things?
Soon, within a year or so, I stopped spending so much time thinking about hurting my child. I had to - I had new thoughts taking up space in my head. Thoughts of killing myself. We live close by train tracks and I would often think that maybe I could sneak out in the wee early morning hours and jump in front of the train. I looked around the house and local areas for places where I could hang myself. My favorite phrase became, "Yeah, I'm glad we don't own a gun."
I don't remember what the turning point was, but somehow along the way, I came to the end of the line. I couldn't handle it anymore and I knew that I was in serious danger. So I went to my doctor and he prescribed an anti-depressant. And slowly, I started to live again.
I stayed on the medication for 6 months and then weaned myself off. The time gave me a break to think clearly for the first time in nearly 3.5 years. The thoughts started to leave and I started to talk more. I started asking for help. I started trusting more. I made time for myself (I had long since quit my library job to be a stay at home mom and doula.) I met new women friends.
I started living. And I'm still living day by day. Some days are easy and breezy. Some days are much harder. But it's no where near where it once was.
I felt so ashamed of what was going on with me that I didn't tell anyone. Certainly nothing in detail. What if someone found out I wasn't perfect? What if they took my children away? If someone knew it, then it was true.
That's just self-inflated bullshit ego talk.
I know now that there was chemical issue going on in my brain. I wasn't in control of those thoughts. I didn't really cause them and I couldn't really stop them. It happened to me, folks. Somehow, I got out of it with minimal medications and therapy. We all managed to come out relatively unscathed, although I'm sure that there has been some emotional damage done as a result. We'll work through that, day by day, together.
It's not shameful. You've done nothing wrong. You didn't cause this to happen. You don't like it, you don't want it. You cannot help it. Well, not alone anyway. Don't keep it a secret. Tell someone. TELL ME! There is hope, there is help, there is life after PPD.
Our life now is pretty amazing. I love my children with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. I trust them and I trust myself. I allow us all to make mistakes. I allow life to be sticky and ugly and complicated and beautiful and funny and easy. It's life. It's not perfect, but it's okay. We're all loved. We're all safe.
Monsters hide in the dark. Turn on the light, send them away, and live.
