I’ve decided to bypass McFatty Monday this week (but only for a week!) because I think it’s time to finally post this.  I think I finally feel brave enough & my God, I hope I don’t regret this by spilling some of the most vulnerable parts of my current life.  There may be some people that don’t understand, that feel I can simply “stop” feeling sad.  There may be some that want to write that PPD is a crock of shit, that I sound like I am blaming my baby, my job, etc. when I should blame myself.  I am not blaming anyone & I am working hard not to blame myself.  There is no blame to place, other than some wiring gone wrong in my brain between chemicals & hormones.

But I feel it is important to share & from all the emails I’ve received on the subject, it is fair that I share.  Fair to those that pray, fair to those that follow me.  Fair to those that wonder in the depths of their souls, “Do I have it?”  May this help.  Somehow.  Help to ease pain, help to open eyes, help to beat down the shame & stigma of postpartum depression.

I wrote this post a few weeks ago, right after the diagnosis.  In the middle of the night, when I no longer slept.  Trying to figure out, “How the hell did this happen & where do I go from here?”  The answers to the first question are coming slowly in therapy.  The second answer only has one answer – “Up.”  Where am I right now in the battle against PPD?  I am seeing a psychiatrist that specializes in Reproductive Mood Disorders, at a specialty clinic.  I am thankful for that opportunity.  I have been diagnosed with severe Post Partum Depression and Post Partum Anxiety.  I take both anti-depressants and anxiety medication every day, along with weekly therapy sessions.  I am determined to go up from here, with the help of my friends & family & keeping focus on what is most important – my son & my marriage.

_________________________________________

You know those posts where you think you might vomit just thinking about posting maybe, possibly, unlikely, but one day when you’re “strong enough?”

This is one of those posts.  Written, not knowing if it will ever be published.  Written, quite possibly to be deleted in the near future.  Written because most days, I don’t have the guts to admit these.

People want to know about the PPD.  Of course they do.  They want to know what my “signs” were.  How I knew I had it.  The sliding backwards, the low point, & the crash.  The gory details of how my life started unraveling.  They were terrifying to experience.  They are terrifying to put into words because they make me face this illness & insanity.

I was depressed from my sophomore year to my senior year in college.  A chemical imbalance caused by a mixture of  heart medications & outside influences (like my high school sweetheart cheating on me with his class partner.  oh, & the discovery of alcohol).  A few years on Celexa did the trick sans therapy, but I knew going into pregnancy that I had a massive red “X” on my back for PPD – those with a history of depression are more susceptible to it.  & so prior to Harrison’s arrival, Nate & I talked in-depth about PPD.  What signs to look for.  I spoke to my family about it & to my friends.  Asked them to just…keep an eye on me.

& then Harrison arrived.  & my God, he was beautiful.  & perfect.  I was so in love that I thought I would literally explode into a trillion little pieces.  Or that I would lie him on a mirror, chop him up into tiny pieces & snort him like cocaine, just to be thatclose to how he smelled after a bath.  So many commented on how competent I seemed in real life with him – calm, collected, confident.  Like I was BORN for motherhood.  & it felt like the most instinctual calling in my life.  I never even turned on the baby monitor because I was so sure that I took care of him correctly – there was no room for doubt or need of back-up.

& then the screaming started.  & every moment he cried, it shredded down my confidence until every scream was a resounding “BAD MOTHER!  BAD MOTHER!” in my ears.  I used to lay him in the crib, still screaming, & crawl into the shower for 30 minutes.  Turn it up until the water burned me & sob my eyes out.  I yearned to return to work, simply to escape him.

Yet when I returned to work, I felt even more despair.  I likened returning to work as a “polar plunge” to my entire system – emotional, physical, & just life in general.  I did no justice to myself by a) starting birth control & b) beginning a hard-core diet that same week.  I struggle not to feel like I brought this upon myself with those decisions.  I felt such a state of shock at both work & home that I could not function.  I was distracted & forgetful at work.  Exhausted beyond comprehension at home.  Miserable.  Constantly choking back tears & fighting against the guilt that pounded down for leaving my child.  I always knew I had to be a working mom at a job I adored & embraced it before Harrison – what the hell was my problem now??  Had I changed that much in 13 weeks?  & even if I did, other mothers want to stay home yet go to work – why am I fighting this so hard?  WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT FOR ME, when everyone else pulls their shit together?!   I felt like my head pounded constantly with “bad mother, wife, employee, daughter, etc” guilt and self-hate.  & so I would stare longingly at Harrison’s pictures, counting down the moments until 5 o’clock.

But unable to go see him at lunch.  I couldn’t handle the guilt I felt for working when I saw him.  & I couldn’t handle that in the middle of the day, I felt like he didn’t recognize me.  He would cry with me, but then grin the moment my parents walked in the room.  Knife, meet heart.  Stab & twist accordingly.  So I stopped going completely.

& then stopped giving him his bedtime bottle.  I claimed it was because that was his time with Nate, but the truth was that I couldn’t handle the emotions.  Every time I fed him at night, tears spilled over his little blonde head.  I was so sorry  that I didn’t go see him at lunch.  I was so sorry that I worked.  I was so sorry that I wasted maternity leave wishing I was at work.  I was so sorry that he didn’t smile for me, that he didn’t seem to know me.  I was so sorry that I couldn’t bear to be around him anymore.  I was so sorry that he didn’t get a better mother.

One day during the final week of maternity leave, I finally got Harrison to nap after hours of rocking & soothing…only to have Tucker wake him up 10 minutes later, barking at the mail truck.  I screamed.  & swore profanity that would probably char the devil’s ears.  & thought about all the ways I could kill her.  & not in the, “ZOMG, I could totally kill my dog!  j/k!” way.  In the sense that I am eternally thankful that we do not own a gun.  Because I would have shot her.  When I told Nate that night, he laughed, thinking I was just being my typical overly-dramatic self.  I tried to chuckle & tell myself that he was right – I was being dramatic & silly.

But I still knew, deep down, that I would have hurt her.  & that frightened me.  It is so out of character & not normal.

When I first returned to work, I had a nightmare about driving down a dark road & fixing my hair while I drove.  On the radio, they were discussing a man that was notorious for driving while on a cocaine high.  Harrison was in the back in his seat & I looked up to see blazing bright lights hurtling towards us.  & a crash.  The car flipped 3 times & I floated up above it.  & woke up panting with fear.  It just seemed so real.  Every morning commute after that, I pictured that car crash.  At first, I felt afraid.  & then slowly, the “dream” and the emotion changed.  I started picturing a truck, side-swiping the Subaru right into the baby seat.  Right into Harrison.  & I didn’t feel fear.  I felt calm.  Relief.  Like…THANK GOD.

I’ll pause in writing this so that everyone can say WHISKY. TANGO. FOXTROT. all together now.

& even that didn’t make me run to the nearest mental hospital.  Nor did the visions of my mother-in-law dropping him off the top of the stairs.  & I would picture every single stair he hit.   Or Nate backing over him in the driveway.  A daycare worker, shaking him.  Or the dog biting him.  Because, I rationalized, it wasn’t me hurting him.  It was always someone else!  I was safe!

& then the guilt would come crushing down.  WHAT KIND OF MOTHER HAS THOSE THOUGHTS?!  What kind of mother thinks of her baby being hurt & instead of crippling with fear, she replays car crashes in her head?  The kind that doesn’t deserve to be a mother.  & so two weeks ago, I googled adoption agencies.

You wanted to know my low point?  The “crash” that sent off red sirens screaming that something felt off?  That was it.   I googled options for giving Harrison up for adoption.

It’s not that I wanted to give him up.  At all.  I just felt like he deserved better.   For 24 hours, I walked around like a zombie, wondering what was happening to me.  Hiding from the truth that I KNEW was there.  On Tuesday night, I told Nate that I needed to call my OB because I “just didn’t feel right”  (we’ll call that the understatement of the decade).  On Wednesday morning, the diagnosis came.

I’ve started an anti-depressant, working upwards to a “therapeutic” level, plus an anti-anxiety twice per day.  & I’m seeing a psychiatrist for both postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety.  I am praying that they will begin working quickly.

But for now, I still hear Harrison scream when I’m in the shower.  Even though he is sound asleep in his crib.