Stigma. Supermom. Shame. Struggle. Shattered. (You are worth more.)

From the National Institute of Mental Health:

  • One in four women will experience severe depression at some point in life.
  • Depression affects twice as many women as men, regardless of racial and ethnic background or income.
  • Depression is the number one cause of disability in women.

Only one fifth of women who suffer from depression seek treatment.  One fifth of one in four, which means that in a room of sixty women, fifteen suffer depression but only three are getting help.

shatteredglass 300x199 Stigma.  Supermom.  Shame.  Struggle.  Shattered.  (You are worth more.)Translation?  Women are suffering, hurting, bruised to the core…& not seeking help.

What is it about us as women that makes us vulnerable to depression, & then paralyzed to receive help?

Through our determination to be seen as strong, rather than the weaker sex, do we not recognize the symptoms?  Do we push aside the exhaustion & irritability as “being a woman,” not understanding that they are signs of imbalance, just as much as tears?  Or maybe that guttural instinct to “buck up” as a mother & push through, despite the nagging anxieties & cloying despair.

In the era of the supermom, we feel pressure to be an odd mixture of a June Cleaver housewife & a Martha Stewart business mogul — are we afraid to verbalize that we cannot do it all?  Is there shame in that feeling that maybe, somehow, someway, we failed womanhood?

Or the shame that buries deep in our soul when the depression pulls us away from children & spouses & the focus of our life, but we fight a losing battle against it & we are too afraid to say, “I am sorry, but my heart is not here.”  We are told that women should not feel this way.

Or perhaps the shame of the neighbor’s wagging tongue that has already weighed the label on our sweater, the car in our driveway, the organic qualities of our dinner, & the manners of our children.  Dare we expose one more Achilles Heel to the harshest judges?

Is it the rising cost of healthcare in this downtrodden economy where some of us struggle to keep shoes on small feet & food in mouths?  Perhaps it is a failure of the medical field to screen properly & then offer options.  Or even the lack of options (did you know there is only ONE inpatient postpartum mood disorder clinic in the country?!).  Is it because it is one more task on our growing lists, where small children cannot tag along?

No matter the cause, I boldly say this —   Women, you are worth it.

If you are hurting & suffering & scared, please know that you deserve to feel better.  It is not weakness that asks for help – instead, there is courage in the acceptance.

photo credit
HeirtoBlair500x150 v41 Stigma.  Supermom.  Shame.  Struggle.  Shattered.  (You are worth more.)

Momma on the verge: signs of Postpartum Depression, the journey through, & what you can do to help.

This post was an original guest piece for a mental health rally, but I felt it was also needed in this space.  As always, different strokes for different folks, but these are the symptoms & solutions that worked for me.

_____________________________

To the mommas that are on the verge, sorting through the muck, or stepping into the light – I know what you’re feeling.  I know how you’re hurting, I understand your  fears, but I have a story of hope.  You will be okay.  You will make it into the light.  You will be whole again.

To the family & friends witnessing her pain – you’re going to be okay, too.  This is a season.

So many questions I get revolve around the “stages” of postpartum depression – how I knew I had it, what my treatment was like, how I knew I was on the recovery, & what family & friends can do to help.

Before.

Postpartum depression can be such a nasty thing to diagnose, because the truth is that it looks different on everyone.  I thought that it meant tears – lots & lots of tears.  So when the tears didn’t come but I was angry & resentful of my fresh baby, I did not recognize it as a problem with depression – I thought it was a problem with me.

  • Anger
  • Frustration over the smallest tasks
  • Resentment of my husband & new baby
  • Feeling that I made a mistake
  • Detachment (aka feeling like he wasn’t my baby)
  • I thought about giving my son up for adoption.
  • Irrational thoughts about harming myself, my family, my baby.
  • Zero interest in food.
  • A fixation with keeping the house absolutely spotless at all times.
  • Inability to fall asleep & stay asleep.
  • Taking long showers. (this seems to be a common thread as a way to hide crying & escape responsibilities)
  • Constant complaints of exhaustion.

Do you know a new momma that feels this way?  Any of these?  Here’s the thing – you can help, even if you’re not a licensed therapist or OB/GYN.

  • Make that momma some good food.  When a friend dropped off a casserole that I just had to pop in the oven, it was bliss.  Especially if there was a frozen one to go along with it.  Tip:  Make something SIMPLE that she can recreate with no pressure.  Do not pull out the big gourmet guns because it may just make her feel more worthless that she can’t match your standard.
  • Keep her company.  Sit at her feet while she feeds the baby -my husband did this & I enjoyed the security of his presence in a situation where I felt vulnerable.
  • Don’t tell her that a clean house or a perfect nursery “don’t matter.”  They DO matter to her & it hurts to have someone brush it off.
  • Guys, leave her alone for sex.
  • When you ask her how she’s doing, more than likely she’ll lie & say “fine.”  Pay more attention to her reaction to the baby’s cries, her sleeping patterns, & whether she’s still “engaged” in life.
  • Simply state that you think she’s hurting & you hate to see it because she deserves better.  She deserves to love motherhood because she is so wonderful at it.
  • Remind her that they will not take her baby away from her.
  • Remind her of that again.
  • Then suggest that she seek help with her trusted OB/GYN.

During

This was the hardest part for me – the fight.  Believe me, any momma that is in the throes of postpartum depression is FIGHTING.  You’re fighting for motherhood, for love, & sometimes for your life.  It is exhausting.  It can really toll on a marriage.  It can be hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel some days.  But it is so worth the fight.  For some, therapy alone can help pull the darkness away but for others (like me) it took a combination of medication & therapy.  For a smaller portion (like me again), it takes intense therapy that is usually done in a hospital setting.

Some options for treatment:

  • Talk therapy with a licensed therapist or psychiatrist.
  • Medication
    • Antidepressants
    • Antipsychotics
    • Anti-anxiety
    • Sleeping aids
  • Light therapy by solar lamp.
  • Exercise therapy.
  • Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
  • Meditation
  • Hospitalization.

As a spouse, family member, friend – you are her most important asset outside of her medical professional.  You see her every day.  You speak with her, watch her interact with her baby, watch her run her home.  You can make the difference between making it or breaking it.

  • Love her unconditionally.  Remember that above all, she is hurting all the way down in her soul.  So be gentle with her.
  • When she says she cannot do something, like change a diaper or feed the baby, do not force her.  Trust that she knows her limits.
  • Gently ask/remind her to take her medication in the morning (this one is for spouses or very close friends only)
  • Go with her to therapy sessions.  (spouses once again)
  • Remind her that this isn’t forever.  She will beat it.  She is strong enough.  She deserves happiness.
  • If she works outside of the home, remind her to tell her human resource department about her treatment.  She is covered under the Americans with Disabilities Act.
  • How is she responding to treatment?  Is she responding?  Remember, there are all kinds of medications that react differently with different body chemistry.  Don’t be afraid to ask the doctor if doses or meds should be altered for better results.  Don’t be afraid to switch doctors/therapists, either.
  • Is she getting worse?  Are her symptoms exacerbating?  Is she showing new symptoms?  If so, tell her medical professional IMMEDIATELY.
  • Remember that there are good days & bad days.

After

Coming through the storm can feel like a big sigh of relief – you see that light & you just want to race, race, race towards it.  Freedom!  Relief!  Wholeness!  Life!!  Beating postpartum depression has been my greatest achievement, past growing & sustaining another human life.  I am so proud of my hard work, so thankful for my family & friends, so absolutely humbled to simply be alive after falling into hell.

How I knew I was whole:

  • When my son cried, I wanted to respond.  I wanted to make him happy & care for his needs.
  • I was waking up refreshed after sleeping the entire night.
  • I enjoyed the “small things” in life again – sunshine coming through the windows in the morning, a good movie, making cinnamon rolls with my boys on Sundays.
  • I started performing well at work again.
  • I felt like he was my son – I began enjoying that he had the same eyes that I did & I began realizing that he reached for me first.
  • When emergencies/stressful situations occurred, I was able to face them.  I don’t always handle them with the most grace, but I do not crawl under the covers & pretend it’s not happening anymore.
  • I could go eight weeks between therapy sessions easily.

So many folks wonder what they can do to help speed up the process & “get back” their wife, daughter, friend….but the best thing you can do is let her take things at her own pace.

  • Be willing to listen as she sorts through what happened -the truth is, she’s been through something traumatic that has changed the way she views life & motherhood & it is a lot to process.
  • Understand post traumatic stress.  She may have recurring nightmares, or irrational fears about certain tasks or events.
  • She may have a bad day here & there where the PPD seems like it’s coming back.  It’s okay & normal.  Remind her that tomorrow is another day.
  • Make sure she’s taking time for herself – as she heals, the guilt may make her feel like she cannot be away from her baby.  Get her out the door by herself at least an hour per week.
  • When she says she can handle it, trust her.  That can be a huge leap of faith for those that love her, as they’ve been pulling her through the recovery, but it is important for her to take her life back fully.

Worth it.

Today marks one year since my diagnosis of postpartum depression.

It has been a long road.  There have been setbacks & triumphs, like any journey worth living.  In one year, I feel that everything has changed – my life, my home, my marriage, motherhood.  You can’t face demons, both literal & figurative, & not come out a different person.

Everything I’ve been through in the past year has led me to being a better person.   I changed with the help & love of my family, friends, & yes, even you.   Is there anything better in life than the hope of change?  (other than heath bar ice cream, of course) Sometimes I think it’s what really helped me dig through the muck – the hope that I could change & that my life was worth change.

walkingtomomma Worth it.

Little buddy, YOU were worth the change.  I am so happy to be your momma.

The hospital.

Being admitted to the hospital was probably one of the most unnerving things I have ever done in my life.  I was allowed to take three outfits, pajamas, & my cell phone.  I packed my journal, toiletries, & stuck pictures of my boys in the pages between my Diana Gabaldon novel.  Nate & I tried to keep the conversation light as we drove to the hospital that Monday morning, but it felt like this damp, cloying pressure was squeezing us inside-out.  Nate stayed with me the entire day, helping me get settled & meet the nurses.  There was blood work & a parade of doctors & a bed that never stopped making noise (weird thing about hospitals?  pressure beds!  they routinely blow up & deflate so you don’t get bed sores).  I know one of the hardest things my husband has ever done was to leave me that night — I know he didn’t want to.  We were scared, of both the hospital & me.

There is a sweet little old lady that stubbornly paces the halls, with nowhere to go, nowhere to turn, & nobody that understands.  But I think I now how she feels.  ~note in my journal

The first night was restless. I missed my boys.  I missed the warmth of my husband beside me at night.  I missed knowing that my son was only one room away.  It felt like a hallow ache that would never feel whole again.  I woke up the next morning, cold & groggy, with a nurse checking my temperature & blood pressure.  She urged me to take a shower & promised that when I came out, I’d have a hot breakfast waiting.  I tried desperately to block out the sounds of crying babies while I showered – after all, my purpose here was to get better.  The towels were scratchy & tiny, but I came out to a steaming cup of coffee & eggs & pancakes.

p.s.  hospital food really isn’t that bad.  so it had that going for it.  in fact, it inspired me at the time:

The parade of doctors, therapists, & nurses was constant.  I met every morning with my team of doctors.  Immediately, they put me on an anti-psychotic medication & cut my antidepressant dose.  (I learned that one of the side-effects of being on too high a dose of antidepressants can be hallucinations.  hello, demon babies.)  I met with an occupational therapist, who worked with me on goals & triggers & expectations.  I chose not to attend group sessions, since I was the only postpartum patient there, but it was freeing to have that choice.  After lunch, I met with my recreational therapist, who walked the grounds with me, talked about stress relievers, & helped identify things that brought me joy.  Those were few & far between to think of.  & then the doctors…again.

& I saw Harrison.  The greatest part of UNC’s program is the focus on the bond between mother & child.  I saw Harrison every day – The Momma would bring him by after his morning nap & we would sit on the floor in my room & play.  I would work hard on re-learning to respond to him, & nurses & therapists were always close by to gently coach.  As the week went by, I became more comfortable with him & even watched him crawl for the first time across my hospital floor.  I am forever grateful that I caught that milestone at a time when I needed more assurance than ever. The best practice came when it was time for a bottle, & I could sit in my room’s glider, close my eyes, & try to rediscover the joy of my child.   & after every visit, a doctor would come in to discuss how I felt.  & I would cry.

I cried because I loved my son, but I didn’t feel like I knew him or deserved him.  I cried for everything I missed.  I cried for what Harrison missed.  I cried for Nate & the burden he now carried as a husband & father.  I cried for the terror that I lived through.  I cried for being shut between cold hospital walls, & a hospital bracelet that read “Psychiatry.”

At night, Nate would come by after putting Harrison to bed at my parent’s house.  We’d sit in my room & talk or sign out for an hour to go grab a Starbucks in the lobby (yep! I could go off the floor for an hour each day).  He would talk to me about Harrison’s bath, about his work day, about what was happening outside of the hospital walls.  My husband?  He is a rock.  & a saint.  After he left, my little room in the hospital became lifeless.  I would journal, read, or simply flip through pictures on my phone.  I texted with girlfriends.  They offered reassurance & unconditional love & loyalty.

You are worth the effort you are giving yourself. ~a text from my friend Mandi

& somehow, I fell asleep to the buzz of the nurses station.

I thought I would sleep more.  The program is even intended to let mother’s sleep as part of the healing process, but I found it near impossible between the medications & environment.  The main reason to admit someone into the hospital is to quickly change & stabilize medication in a way that cannot be done without close medical supervision.  In five days, they pulled me down to a level of Celexa that took ten weeks to build up to.  The withdrawal from the antidepressant was terrible.  Awful.  A headache that felt like it was splitting my center in half.  Nausea that had me rolling in the bed, moaning for some relief.  Night sweats that turned into violent cold shakes.

But it was worth it, in the end.  Because we found an amazing combination of medications that has helped make me whole again.

& there were, of course, some really notable things about a psych ward.

  • They check on you every 15-20 minutes.  Not for medical reasons, but to simply peek in & say “hi.”  I get it, but it’s still really creepy.
  • They put a weird “piddle pad” in the bed that is surprisingly soft.  I guess patients pee themselves?  (umm..not this one)
  • No lamps or televisions.  Because they have cords.  That you might use to..strangle yourself?
  • No cords = phone charging occurs behind the nurses station.
  • Faucets & showers are on timers.  Scrub fast.
  • There are no pens.  Only markers.  & tiny pencils with no erasers.
  • & you can’t keep your bag in your room.  Because it has a handle.  & you might..strangle yourself?
  • No hairdryers, curlers, straighteners, etc.  Which is why everyone looks crazier & like they took a dip in Albert Einstein’s hair care regime.
  • There is a constant supply of ice cream in the day room freezer.  & apple juice.
  • Someone has to watch you shave.  Even your box.  So you either hand over your dignity or look like a Sasquatch.

That was probably one of the hardest moments – shaving in front of a nurse in the shower.  Knowing that I was not trusted with a razor & that with all the privileges handed to me as a postpartum patient, I was still there for psychiatry.  & realizing that I needed to shave because I had to be there longer than just a handful of days.

But being in the hospital changed my life.  I don’t know where I would be if I had not gone in – possibly still in the depths of despair?  Still overmedicated on the wrong medication?  Still searching for answers & hope?  Would I have gone even further out of control & hurt myself or my family?  I am terrified to think of what could have happened, so I simply cling to what is & the fight we all fought together.

& the light that I feel now.

For more information on the program, please visit here & here.  & an amazing article on the program.  Far more information than I could ever convey on here.

What happened.

I have debated writing this post.

You might as well know that it makes me nervous.

I have gnawed my fingernails over it, attempted to write it before, deleted, written, deleted, written, only to know that I was not strong enough yet.   But I think I’m strong enough now.  I feel, down in my soul, that it is the right thing to do.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned through this blogging adventure, it’s the power of “me too.”  Y’all have seen me evolve this year.  You’ve seen me fall into depths that nobody should experience, & you’ve seen me fight my way out of it, for better or worse.  I’m not ashamed of the things I have written or experienced.  I’m not ashamed to be my own personal evolution.

Something huge, life-altering, & soul-changing happened to me this year.  & let me be the first to thank you, the entire community, for allowing (& encouraging…sometimes demanding) me to deal with it privately when I needed to.  For being polite enough to not ask questions to the things I have alluded to & for putting up with me as I worked my way through it.

This is the hard part.  The rest is easier to tell, easier to read, & easier to understand.  I have always been willing to share this over email & in person.  But I’m ready to share publicly, & whether you agree or not, I need to share.

More or less to prove that I am, in fact, much crazier than you could ever hope to be.  & to confirm that I certifiably went off my rocker this past spring.

Or simply to raise awareness that PPD is real, it can be terrifying but at its darkest, it can still be beatThere is always hope. & as you read, please remember that this story has a happy ending.

______________________________________

I knew I was slipping.  I knew I wasn’t where I should be.  I had  confidence in my psychiatrist, but I was beginning to feel unhinged.  Isolated.  Completely off my effing rocker, to put it bluntly.  The antidepressants should have been working, but it felt like every week, we just kept upping the dosage to combat a new level of anxiety & despair until I was taking double the recommended dosage.

Every day, I searched desperately for some shred of the old Blair until I was forcing it, becoming manic in my quest.  I was so determined to be the “old me” that I threw myself into life with no rest – I was convinced that if I could keep a clean house, lose weight, & maintain a successful blog, that motherhood would fall into place.  I stopped sleeping.  Weight fell off me.  I blogged more than ever & you could literally lick my floors without fear.  If I could do everything else, why couldn’t I do motherhood?

(Because, I realize now, I could simply succeed like a robot with everything except motherhood.  Everything else was surface.)

I learned of a local support group for mother’s with postpartum mood disorders.  The night of the meeting, I almost did not go.  As much as I yearned for someone to understand me, for peers to hold my hand, I was absolutely TERRIFIED.  I walked into the meeting, ears pounding with my heartbeat.  I sat down in a circle of chairs & introduced myself to the two leaders & one other girl there.  I sipped out of my Nalgene nervously as a few other girls came in & took their seats.  Slowly, they began to talk.  They were all familiar with each other, but I kept reassuring myself that soon, I would be familiar with them, too.  They updated each other on their weeks & I took comfort in their openness.

(side note: I think support groups are wonderful.  I am a huge fan of face-to-face peer support & could write raving novels about the ladies that provide it for me.)

The door opened, & in walked two women.  One woman was older.  The other held a newborn in her arms.  A fresh, out-of-the-oven newborn.  I quaked inside – this was supposed to be my safe place away from babies!  What was happening?  As the mother took her seat next to me, baby in arms, I swallowed hard.  NO! my brain screamed.  NO.

I could not bear to be that close to a baby.  I could not stand it.  My skin crawled & I felt trapped, but it was my turn to  share my story.  I began to speak, slowly.  Describing Harrison’s reflux & the screams that would not end.  I talked about nights full of tears, my inability to feed him at night.  I described what it was like to hear a baby crying, constantly, even when he wasn’t.

& the baby next to me began to cry.

My trigger.  The blood rushed into my head, vomit rose in my throat, & I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  I looked over at the baby.  & I saw a demon staring back at me.

(I’ll pause now to allow you a giant, “OH MY GOD, Blair.  Dubbya Tee Eff.”  If you’re uncomfortable or feeling like an asshole, I welcome you to exit this blog.)

When I describe that moment, a lot of people ask me, “Are you sure it wasn’t just a really ugly baby?”  Maybe it was.  Maybe to a sane, rational person, it was just an ugly baby.  To me, I saw black eyes staring at me.    I felt rage & despair looking at this tiny baby.  I wanted to run screaming from the room.  I wanted to sob.  I wanted to throw up.  I wanted to protect myself.  But I was frozen.  Terrified.  Horrified.  In my heart, I knew this baby wasn’t a demon.  But I could not make my mind reconcile it.  & that scared me even more.

I was officially sailing off the deep end.  I was slowly recognizing psychosis brewing in me & I felt helpless.

I do not remember many of the details that followed.  I don’t remember who I called or how I got home that night.  I remember woodenly speaking to my psychiatrist over the phone, agreeing to be hospitalized.  I don’t remember packing my bags.  I remember, ever-the-lady, dropping the f-bomb in front of my parents for the first time.

On Monday morning, I was admitted to UNC’s perinatal inpatient program.  & I met a doctor that would save & change my life.

Stealing is for losers. Copyright 2008-2012 Beth Anne Ballance