Post-Partum Depression Part 1: Being Vulnerable

Before I wax philosophical I’ll stick to my new favorite format.

TLDR wrap up.

Post-partum is real. It sucks. It doesn’t just go away. Because it has to do with mental processes and chemicals and hormones and history and everything else that makes us individual people, it is an extremely intimate and different wound for every person that has it.

I have two kids now and I’ve gone through this both times. I had peri- and post-partum both but I didn’t know it during the first pregnancy.

Knowledge interjection:
Peri-partum happens during pregnancy while post is the one that people are familiar with that occurs in the weeks/months/years after having a baby. It can start at any time and rebound at any time. It’s comprehensive and quite common at least in part for a lot of women. Having a history of anxiety and depression can increase the chances of developing post-partum depression but doesn’t mean you will develop anything.

With my first baby I had severe anxiety that I was too humiliated to admit. I would go to my appointments and quietly sit while not really listening to what the doctor said. Then I would go home and lock myself in the bathroom so no one could see me break down. I couldn’t admit what was happening or that I was terrified of everything that could go wrong. I couldn’t deal with people asking even the most normal questions like, “Aren’t you so excited?” or “When are you due?” I would answer vaguely or shrug it off.

No, I wasn’t excited. I just wanted the entire thing to go away. But how could I tell anyone that? More than anything, I was afraid of being judged. Of people looking at me in disgust because I couldn’t be “just like them.”  

I couldn’t even prepare because that would mean admitting that I was going to have a baby. Even today, I force myself to write those words and it was four years ago! Issues much? My husband knew something was off but any time he tried to talk about things I would bite his head off. I couldn’t ask for help and he didn’t know how to figure out what I needed so communication almost completely deteriorated.  He registered for things he thought a baby might need and if anyone would ask what we needed he had to be the one to decide. We attended no classes or toured the hospital or talked to a doula. I just couldn’t handle it.

Fast forward to after we got home from the hospital. Things seemed ok as long as I had someone around to help/pretend for. But then family left to go back to their life and my husband went back to work and the anxiety and stress came right back. In addition, there was anger and resentment toward this helpless creature that I was 100% responsible for. I had days when he would cry and I had to go plug my ears and curl up in a ball and try to control the feelings of rage that my brain knew didn’t make any sense.

The day of my six-week check, after another late-night freak out, my husband told me that I had to either tell the doctor something was off or he would. I resisted but I knew he would make good on his promise, so I followed through. Inside my brain I was just making everything up and I just needed to get over myself. I was the problem not some condition that other people had. I was making a big deal out of nothing.

After I talked to the doctor I was started immediately on Lexapro. I wasn’t sure if that was the answer, but I knew I needed to fix something. Being so angry at a baby just wasn’t rational. And I wanted to be there for him. I also wanted to fix things with my husband.

It took time but after nine months I weaned myself off the meds. Temporarily. That was only the first child.

It’s a strange experience putting this all down. I’ve never actually looked at the long term and tried to find all the connections. Hindsight is definitely a game changer because in the thick of things I would have never admitted any of this. That’s another problem with mental issues. When you’re in the thick of it, it’s almost impossible to recognize yourself and when other people point it out it’s…. I don’t know. You’re humiliated someone noticed, angry you can’t function, sad that you haven’t done something about it, embarrassed that you needed someone’s help… It’s a nasty tangled mess.