Reflecting on Postpartum Depression
Ugh, postpartum depression is such a sad topic. I try to ignore its existence so everyone doesn’t have to feel uncomfy but being in quarantine has reminded me often of those very hard times, and I think it’s time to write about it.
I was blissfully unaware that life could feel so horrible after having a baby when I only had one. Lawrence came out knowing how to eat and sleep, and I didn’t have anything to compare him to so I assumed we were all doing fine and that life with babies was tiring but great. (Everyone who said “you should feel so lucky — he is SO good” made me furious; does this mean we can’t complain if we’re tired?!
We got pregnant again when Lawrence was only 9 months old and ultimately miscarried — which is another post for another day — but it set me on the course of knowing I needed another one of these magical humans. We tried again and got pregnant with Amira shortly thereafter. She tried warning me from the womb that she would make some noise with my incessant vomiting, exhaustion, and gestational diabetes. But I figured once she was earth-side we’d settle in to our sleepy routine and life would be happy.
The outcome was different and a combination of unexpectedly blowing up my world, fatigue unlike anything I’ve ever dreamed about, and chemical imbalances that can’t be helped led to a sad, hard, and isolating 14 months of my life. When I look back, I have no idea why and how I went so long without doing something to really change what was happening to me, but when you’re standing in the middle of a dark cloud, it’s so hard to know that you are.
Our daughter was born with allergies and acid reflux that would give her stomach aches and lead her to screaming and crying for those first several months for hours and hours on end everyday. She would sleep no more than 40 minutes at a time. She needed to be held literally all day long for months. Nights and days blended together. And we had a one-year-old.
I spent weeks or maybe even months wondering what had happened to my life and questioning every little move I would make. I was obsessed with figuring out why she was crying and planning for ways in which I would get 1 or 2 hour stretches of sleep. We were in the thick of ginormous-for-us growth for our business, and it felt like the perfect storm to hate the world. I cried constantly. I binged on bread and chocolate all day. I didn’t move my body but for walking to my kids’ rooms and up and down the stairs. I remember seeing my friends call and text my phone but knowing I could never answer and try to explain what was happening in my house and in my head — it would make me feel like I was complaining to share how hard it all felt, and it would make me cry to try and be realistic about what was unfolding.
After months of what felt like the hardest time of my life, I found new things to blame. I convinced myself that I just needed more help. Of course, babysitters make everything better (in this house), but no, that wasn’t the end-all solution; half of the time I would stay when the babysitters were at my house in case I could be the only one who could possibly help Amira feel comfortable. I convinced myself, too, that I had thyroid issues from having been pregnant, and that my diabetes never went away — I felt sick from what I was eating and I was losing hair in handfuls. I demanded blood work. My (poor) doctor had to give it to me straight one cold and snowy afternoon: I had postpartum depression, not the other issues, and I needed to deal with it right away.
Life got better immediately once I had an understanding of what this was. It’s like the book Grumpy Monkey that my kids love: on the last page, the monkey shared that he’s already feeling better after just admitting that he’s having a grumpy day. I ended up trying antidepressants and seeing a therapist. I joined a gym and got some help from a personal trainer. I stopped eating chocolate for every meal. My kids both grew, and the truth is, time does heal a lot of wounds. I have a newfound, humbled respect for the demands of having infants — and I know that all experiences and children are uniquely different. I spent a lot of time mourning what I had hoped would be another exemplary experience in having a baby who does all the things the way you dream of them doing when you’re opening gifts at your baby shower. Having a kid, or two kids, or two kids less than two years apart, or any other combination is just dang hard and I know now that moms just need reminders of how truly wonderful they are at raising their children and to give themselves grace in how challenging it can feel. Looking back on pictures of this time I have saved on my phone, I see that we had good days or uneventful days and we captured those moments, for which I am grateful. The joy that your children can bring you is unmatched, but that doesn’t mean you feel that way everyday. I always remind myself now, no storm lasts forever!