Isolation and Liberation

I can't write on this. I'll sound crazy. Or depressing. Well, probably both. And maybe a little angry.

Chances are, if you're a mother and reading this, one out of ten of you has postpartum depression. Ok, I need to clarify that. One in ten of you has been diagnosed with PPD. I'd bet PPD occurs a lot more frequently, but we're just too scared to admit it.

"Postpartum depression is when you don't care about your kid." WRONG. I almost punched that woman in the face as she held her 3-day-old baby. If I had heard her judgmental misunderstanding before I was diagnosed, I might have continued to doubt that I had anything more than lingering baby blues. Ignorance like that is why so many of us are afraid to get checked. We get checked out BECAUSE we care.

I got evaluated because I was alone. Life was completely changed.  I had a whole life dependent on me.  I didn't get the stereotypical weepies.  I got angry.  I was miserable. Drowning. When I managed to get her to sleep, I would have mini panic attacks every time I heard our daughter, Amelia, stirring. My husband didn't know how to interact with a newborn-- or with me as we navigated parenthood for the first time. Amelia had latching problems, which made every feeding torturous and the thought of feeding her in public impossible. I ended up exclusively feeding her pump-expressed breast milk. That made matters worse for a while, as it consumed all of my time. I essentially fed my kid twice. One "feeding" to pump the milk out, and the second feeding giving Amelia the milk from a bottle. I was sleep deprived and when my husband came home, he wanted to de-stress from work and not go anywhere. I tried to plan my day out around pumpings and feedings, but I live in the middle of nowhere. Like my address isn't able to be googled, Amazon cancelled our "undeliverable" orders, my county just got a Walmart the Christmas season I was pregnant middle of nowhere.

In that isolation, I had the internet. I reached out. Other moms I had befriended in pregnancy had been brave enough to blaze the trail before me. They encouraged me to empower myself and helped me see that PPD only makes you a bad mother if you let it.

I got diagnosed.

It was liberating.

My psychiatrist called my husband and told him he needed to help me out more. She talked him through ways he could do that. Now he feeds Amelia at night while I pump. We're both a bit sleep deprived, but it helps bond our family. There's not much distraction from each other at 3 AM.

After a few weeks of therapy and extra help, I still wasn't feeling myself. I wasn't quite as alone, but I still felt angry and so much of the screaming-diapering-feeding-pumping-skipping nap routine didn't make any sense. I was put on Zoloft. The miracle pill of insomnia and lucid dreams-- until you wake up from them. I finally began to really bond with Amelia. I could look into her eyes and feel contentment instead of anger and resentment.

I have PPD. I am on Zoloft. I am a mom.

Cecelia

Mother of Amelia since 3/23/12