I can't believe I am diving this deep on my first post, but with recent messages I have received from other women and new moms, I figured now is the best time to take this on since my mind is still fresh with my thoughts. Side note: if you are not a new mom, or a mom, I promise it's worth a read because we all know one, and we can all resonate with this.
The above text was inspired by a recent post I saw circulating that used this style. The words that are left intact are my words that I used in text exchange with friends recently, while the scratched out words are the ones that i wish I were brave enough to use. Not brave enough to tell my closest friends, but brave enough to write a public post? I know, it seems backwards, BUT there's a weird level of comfort that comes with the anonymity of being behind the computer screen. I digress.
Hi, I am Amila and I suffer from severe postpartum depression.
Now, before I dive deep into the postpartum world, I will go ahead and put this out there: I have suffered severe anxiety, depression, and panic attack disorder for a large chunk of my adult life. When I say suffered, I mean suffered. The disconnect between my mind and body became so strong during some of my panic attack events that I would collapse and pass out. I worked hard to contain those demons, but the truth is they are always at bay and the right amount of pressure crumbles the cracked wall I keep them behind. With that out of the way, let's move on.
The external and internal pressures that are placed on new moms easily diminish the bliss and excitement over a new bundle of joy. Bottle or boob? Sleep train or don't? Go back to work or stay at home? No matter the choice, there is always some wound-up woman ready to judge you on that decision ON TOP of the judgment that you are already passing on yourself.
June 30th, 2020 rolled around and I was heading in for my planned C-section. Was I nervous? Of course I was-but mainly because I was about to have another major surgery (my first birth was also a planned C-section), and my experiences from a career in healthcare always lead me to believe the worst-case scenario would happen to me. Otherwise, I felt prepared this time. I was not a rookie. I already had a 3.5 year old, I got to a good place with balancing work and home life, and I felt like I had learned everything with my first. I was confident I was ready to be the BEST mom for my second. Man, was I wrong.
After our two nights in the hospital, we packed up, and headed home to our new complete family of four. The first couple of days are always rough. Your hormones are at the highest point as you give birth, and then they instantly crash back down, making you feel like a truck rammed into you. As the weeks progressed, my seemingly innocent "baby blues" got worse.
Sleep with a newborn is minimal. Right off the bat, I struggled with breastfeeding. My anxiety started to build. I would cry from sunup to sundown, and when I say cry, I mean hysterically to the point where I would be choking on tears, and gasping for breath. The hysterics could be brought on by anything. About five weeks into it, I remember walking out to my car to grab something, and running into my neighbor. She simply asked how the baby was, and I broke down right there in the middle of the street. Feeling absolutely mortified, I dragged myself back into the house-back to where no one could see me.
The simple act of looking at my daughter was enough to trigger the tears. I would burst out crying, believing that she hated me. Hated me because I spent all day focusing on the baby, hated me because I was so exhausted that I did not have the energy to play with her, hated me because I was the worst mom to ever exist. My entire life seemed to be covered in a haze, and I was crumbling by the second. I was not able to focus and enjoy my sweet baby. My anxiety would prevent me from resting even while he slept.
Time kept going, but in my head, it was at full standstill. I stopped replying to texts, I ignored phone calls. I had no energy for conversations in person-how could I muster that? I had no energy for even regular day-to-day tasks, like showering and eating. My mom and dad came over every day to help with household tasks, to help with the kids, and to try and force me to eat. My husband didn't understand, but he knew I wasn't ok. I would find a way to start an argument over everything he said and did. On the rare day that I could force myself into the shower, I would sit and let water run over me and cry into my hands. I would beg for an exit strategy. I would beg for some kind of relief.
I felt like everything I did was wrong. I couldn't be a mom, I couldn't be a wife, I couldn't be a friend, I couldn't even be a human. I was frustrated I couldn't breastfeed, I was frustrated when he would cry, I was frustrated when my daughter would talk to me. I was constantly frustrated and exhausted, and no one could help. No one even knew how bad it was. How could I possibly tell anyone? I was a second-time mom. This was not my first rodeo, and that took my failure to the next level. I should be ready for this. I should know what to do. It was completely embarrassing to ask for help or advice, or even to speak up. The cultural and societal stigmas that exist around mental health had infiltrated my life, and instilled the idea in me that once I said it out loud, the worst would happen. I would be judged; I would be labeled as a bad mom, as a bad person, and as a complete failure of a woman.
As the day passed, the darkness swallowed me whole. At this point, my husband was concerned with the things I said, the things I didn't say, and the way I acted. I remember vividly reaching my breaking point one day when he just tried to have a real conversation with me about what was going on. I screamed and cried, and told him that I just wanted to die. This is it, I'm done. I don't want to do this, I can't do this, you will never understand, you all will be happier without me, and I just want peace-these words constantly replayed in my head. Never once did a thought cross my mind about hurting my baby. I would never. No matter what, it wasn't his fault. But, the thoughts about hurting myself were always there. Every time I looked in the mirror they mocked me. They invited me in, deeper and deeper into the dark. Things got to the point where if I took a shower that lasted too long, my husband would dash up the stairs in panic to make sure I was ok.
One day, I was sitting and rocking the baby to keep him asleep. I wanted to just get lost in the silence that I so badly craved for a few minutes. My parents took my daughter down the street to their house because I couldn't bear letting her be around me anymore. All that was left was the shell of me, and my poor girl missed her mom. My phone rang, and I looked down: my boss. Weird. Work hadn't bothered me since before maternity leave. I picked up the phone. He was apologetic for bothering me, but could not locate something for an upcoming project, and was hoping I could point him in the right direction. Now, my boss is someone who is very much in his own world, and who works day and night, and is not the best with "emotional conversations". As I began to talk, he interrupted, and said, "Are you ok? Because you don't sound ok."
I began crying, and for the first time out loud, I said, "No, I'm not." I'm not ok. Having someone notice who typically doesn't notice those things, for me was the push that I needed. The conversation was brief, but it was enough to get the wheels turning. Before I could change my mind, I messaged my doctor's office and said I needed to speak to someone because things were bad. My doctor was on a zoom call with me in less than 15 minutes. I sat and cried for an hour, pouring everything that I had been bottling up for so long. She cried with me.
"Amila, this isn't normal. This isn't the typical up-and-down after a baby. You have postpartum depression, and we need to get you help now." As she kept talking, all I could focus on was the word depression. Depression. Was I depressed? Sure, I had been depressed before, but it never felt like this. This was so much worse. Why was I depressed after having a baby that I was so excited for? Well, if she thought I had postpartum depression, I reasoned that I probably did. So, I took down the numbers for the specialist she recommended, and started scheduling an appointment.
Going into my first therapy session, I was nervous. I was afraid they would just stick me on a handful of meds and send me on my way, but this was different. After the initial awkward introductions, the floodgates opened, and I couldn't stop it. When I was finally finished with explaining how I ended up on the computer screen in front of her (the joys of COVID), it was like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I wasn't instantly better, but just letting someone hear it, someone who did not know me, wasn't there to judge me, and just listened, made me feel that much better. Moving forward, we agreed to a session once a week. I could have extra ones if I felt the need for it. The deeper we got into our sessions, the better I felt. The dark clouds slowly began to lighten, and the fog in my mind began to lift.
Soon, it will be eight months since I gave birth, also marking eight months since my battle with depression started. I stuck to therapy for a while, and when I felt better, I decided to stop. I have recently realized that the battle with normalizing what I went through is far from over, as is my own battle. Opening up to my therapist helped me decide to open up to my family and friends. As conversations happened, I realized how common this was. I realized if I spoke out and trusted them with my dark truth, they would speak out about theirs. Postpartum or not, most of us have suffered with some sort of mental health crisis. As I work through mine, and acknowledge it, I ask myself what would happen if we treated mental health the same way we treat physical health? Why is it normal for me to share my new keto diet, or new Peloton bike, but considered taboo if I share with you my therapy sessions, and mental exercises? Why is the stigma STILL so strong around mental health?
Recently, a good friend reached out. She asked if I was comfortable answering some questions about my battle, because she wanted to help a friend she thought was suffering from it. I whole-heartedly said yes. I answered questions, I listened, and I offered advice. Advice ranging from what to do, what to say, and even what to wear (sorry ladies, but no new mom with breast milk leaking through her shirt, bleeding lady bits, and sweaty pits wants to see how well put-together their friends are). A few hours later, I got a text message confirming that it had truly helped. After weeks of struggling alone, her friend finally let them in. Days later when I checked in, things were moving in the right direction. She is in the process of getting the help she needs and deserves.
We, as women, have enough on our plates. The burden of struggling alone with depression and anxiety because of fear of judgment, should not add to it.
We deserve to be happy and healthy. We deserve these conversations. We deserve to be accepted. We deserve normalizing mental health struggles. We deserve normalizing getting help.
I write this not to gather sympathy, because I don't need it. I write this in hopes that it helps you, or someone you know. I write this in hopes that it helps save someone from their own demons. Just because we smile, and laugh on the outside, doesn't mean we are doing the same on the inside.
-A
Useful Numbers:
Hotline for new moms: 1-800-944-4773 (4PPD)
Text in English: 800-944-4773
Text in Spanish: 971-203-7773
SAMHSA's National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
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