The thoughts and feelings expressed are mine. The route in which I chose to receive help was a personal choice. This post is raw, honest and I am hoping no judgement will be placed here.
I have always been the emotional type. I mean, if I'm being honest, you could give me a compliment and I would cry. My last principal always referenced emotional jokes towards me at faculty meetings. I would go in her office and cry for things that were happy and things that were sad. I would cry thinking about crying. I mean, it was just ridiculous. And all this was before me ever being pregnant. My mom and aunt are both diagnosed with anxiety disorder and forms of depression. I suffered through depression early on- starting in high school- and although I wasn't consistently depressed, I always felt like I was on the edge. Along with that, I was quick to become angry. I always felt short tempered and that began to escalate once becoming pregnant. It was as though I was always looking for an argument. I would make myself heated at the thought of coming home from work and there being dishes in the sink. All the while, I knew this wasn't the real me. I knew there was something wrong. But, the truth is that years before, I had tried anxiety medicine because of when I moved away to college (a huge life change that brought out a lot of anxiety). None of them worked and if they did, I had wacky side effects. So, I cut myself off medicine and used skills from therapy I had learned years before to get through any episodes.
With all the being said, what I went through after having Lincoln was no shock to me, or my husband. But, it was one hell of a struggle. The postpartum, or baby blues at the time, began the day after he was born. Lincoln was born at the wee early hours of Monday morning and by Tuesday, my hormones were already giving me a wild ride. I cried majority of the time I was in the hospital - so much so, that I stopped accepting visits from friends. I didn't want them to see me unhappy in such a joyous time in my life. All of the nurses kept telling me that this was the baby blues and that this was all normal. But I knew it was more than that. All of the nurses, but one, kept insisting I should feel better shortly after getting home... except Sheree. Sheree reminded me of a native Californian surfer girl with her chill demeanor and "yeah dude" persona, although she was native to Baltimore. She gave it to me real and did shit like grab my baby and burp him real hard when I had no clue what I was doing, and I appreciated that. Sheree was our angel and the light I needed to get through those first couple of days. She equally liked us and even requested to stay with our family throughout our hospital stay. Sheree even made sure that I got all the "nice" nurses to help me out and banned the insane lactation nurses from coming near me - knowing it would set me over the edge. But what I appreciated about Sheree was her blunt honesty with me. I'll never forget her sitting down on my hospital bed, grabbing my hands and saying, "This is totally normal right now," in regards to my hysterics, "but if it doesn't go away soon, that's not normal and I want you to get help." She knew me. She just did. I remember leaving the hospital on Lincoln's due date - August 31st. I remember having a coming home outfit planned for myself - and instead I left wearing old, baggy grey sweats and a nursing tank top. My face was swollen from not only pushing two days prior but from crying two days in a row. I was sore and weak, exhausted and confused. Sheree wheeled me out to the car for me to go home with my new baby. She held me with tears in her eyes and said "You got this kid. You'll be back here before you know it for number 2." And I sobbed. I sobbed the whole way home.
The night we got home from the hospital was a disaster. Darius had this beautiful night planned. He bought us champagne, we had Jersey Mike's (which I craved and couldn't eat during pregnancy). He put Lincoln in his swing and sat us down to eat - just like normal. And that was the issue. It wasn't normal. Nothing was normal anymore. My world, my house, my life had just been turned upside down. And what most people with rational thoughts would consider in a good way, I was desperate for a way out. I don't use that word, desperate, lightly either. The panic slowly made its way in - but how could I let my husband, the father of this beautiful baby see that? I couldn't. I was texting my friend, Liz, in hysterics. "What do I do? Why did I do this? How will we survive? I just want my life back!" I begged Darius to let me go stay at a hotel. I wanted to leave. I needed to get the hell out of that house. I wanted nothing to do with my baby. I didn't want to hold him, I was afraid I'd hurt him. I didn't want to see him because I knew that meant that this whole situation of having a baby now was totally permanent. Darius was shocked when I hysterically crying, not being able to breathe, begged him to take me to a hotel. The crying continued - from both Lincoln and I. Which looking back on is pretty funny but in the moment was pretty horrible. I had no clue what to do. He hated being swaddled. He hated his pacifier. He hated his bassinet. My milk wasn't in. I hated nursing. But if I fed him formula I'm the worst mom ever. I was exhausted and so sore and an emotional mess. Before I knew it, I was calling my aunt begging for her and my mom to come up, and they did. I am forever thankful for that. My mom stayed with us for a week and my aunt for the weekend (and then the following weekend). I am so thankful for their help, letting us sleep, cooking us meals, taking care of Lincoln, taking care of ME, and just guiding us through this most life changing process.
Two weeks postpartum, I went back to my OBGYN requesting help. She denied my help (and by help, I mean medication) saying that I was still going through the usual baby blues and it would pass soon. The thing was, the baby blues never went away. They kept getting worse. Night time was the worst for me. The anticipation of not sleeping and hearing Lincoln cry made me sick with anxiety. I wasn't feeling connected to my baby. Thoughts of how can I put him up for adoption ran through my mind. I knew it wasn't normal or rational but I couldn't help it. I wanted things to go back to normal. I wasn't adjusting well. I was doing my best to wear this happy face, to be elated with my new life and I just couldn't budge from this horrible, sad place. I cried thinking about leaving Lincoln and cried when I had to take care of him. It wasn't that I didn't WANT to take care of him, but that I didn't know how. I didn't think I was good enough. I thought he deserved better.
Darius was struggling to take care of both of us. He wanted me to rest and get better while also trying to take care of Lincoln. He was balancing all of the hardships that I should have been sharing with him and I could tell he would crumble soon. Weeks passed. I began to develop a bond with Lincoln and after about three weeks the anxiety of the day-to-day passed. But I wasn't myself. I wasn't connecting with Darius. I was angry and upset all the time. It wasn't until two weeks before I went back to work (ten weeks after my first attempt) that I went and received help again. I wasn't able to see my typical doctor and this one also insisted that I was still going through the baby blues and it would pass soon. She said all my fears as a mother were normal (mind you she's saying this as I am hysterically crying in her office). But, some humane part of her decided to give me medicine until I was able to see my primary doctor, a month later. I noticed a change in myself almost immediately and have never looked back.
My hopes are that someone out there has or is struggling through something similar and this post may be helpful to them. Maybe it will get them to receive the help they so badly and desperately want. Thoughts of wanting your baby gone, feeling a loss of connection, crying for all of the things were not normal parts of motherhood - for me. And I knew that. I knew about the baby blues and expected that, but I also know myself. Trust your gut. If you know something isn't right, speak up sooner. Getting help does not make you a failure, it makes you someone who wants to be the best for their self, their baby and their family. Speak up. This crippling illness effects 10-20% of mothers. Don't wait like I did. I regret it. I feel like I wasn't present for the first precious weeks of Lincoln's life, and that's something I will never let happen ever again.
