Moms Speak Up: My Beast of Burden

Okay.  I’m back.  And with something really exciting.  I have been thinking lately about how great it would be to add some real-life stories to the mix here: stories written by women who have experienced a postpartum mood and anxiety disorder and who have made it through to the other side.  Adding this piece to my blog feels important for several reasons: first, it gives the readers out there some real experiences to use when trying to understand their own experiences, and the experiences of those who they care about.  Sometimes explanations from professionals are simply not enough. Second, it allows the moms who are brave enough to tell their stories to see that their experiences- and willingness to talk about them- will bring strength to others who are currently suffering.  Truly- community, validation, and the support of those who REALLY understand can not be underestimated.

So, I begin this new addition with an offering from Jillian, who has been a voice on both this blog and my facebook page.  I have liked Jillian from the first moment that I heard from her- her courage to identify her struggles, ask for help, and work hard to recover inspires me.

So, here you go.  Jillian, you rock.

My Beast of Burden….

I was so happy to be induced.  One.  Week. Overdue.  We arrived at 4pm on Sunday April 13, 2008 and they started the induction.  And then they stopped.  Too many moms came in with their water breaking.  Damned full moon.

So, we waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  Finally the next morning around 9am they broke my water and started my Pitocin.  Around 12:30 they gave me my epidural and told my husband to go get something to eat, and go home and shower, etc.  My husband left the hospital when I was about 4cm dialated.  The nurses said it would be hours.  I had just had my epidural and was about to take a nap when the worst pain of my life took me over.  The nurse said I had dialated to almost 10cm and we had to push.  My hubby wasn’t back, I was in horrendous pain and the baby’s heart rate dropped.  I was a nervous wreck thinking I was going to ruin this for my husband and not to mention I was afraid that I would never come out of this pain alive.  My hubby would miss the delivery and he could come back to the hospital to a screaming baby and a dead wife.  And I would be stuck in the grave with all that guilt.  Perfect.  I was literally climbing up the bed rails screaming at the top of my lungs.  All the while the student nurse was telling me some story about her delivery when she was a surrogate and sloppily wiping my face with a wet sponge.  Seriously?  Not the time lady…

I have to say I honestly felt the same way many other moms do.  “Why can’t I do this?”  Ummm, TLC’s A Baby Story is not like this….the girl gets the epidural and push, push, boom.  A baby!  Not here.  No way.  No how.

After the excruciating pushing (without the help of a functioning epidural I might add) and my husband finally coming back to the hospital I got my precious little bundle of joy out of me, at 6 lbs 6 oz 18.5″  Everyone was so damn happy and the second I heard that baby cry, I turned into another creature.  I was no longer a human being, I was an animal consumed with the strangest feeling that I still to this day I can’t describe.  All my family came in wanting to hold that little baby.  And all I wanted to do was watch the damn Red Sox.

The next 12 hours came so quickly and then I was slammed by The Beast.  Postpartum Depression and Anxiety that is.  I didn’t want that damn baby near me.  Not for one second.  I didn’t want to hold it, hear it, breast feed it, change it or admit to it.  It didn’t look like me, smell like me or feel like me.  I wanted it to go back where it came from and go home and pretend this whole damn thing never happened.  End of story.  Next chapter.

I cried to all the nurses to take the baby at night because the little coos it would make would send me into such a panic that I would hyperventilate almost until I passed out.  I sobbed and sobbed as my husband lay in the bed consoling me.  You would think they would have caught on.  A nurse, or a doctor or even a janitor for God’s sake.  Something was clearly wrong with me.  But no.  All they could say was “Excuse me sir, can you please get out of the bed.  It might break.”  Gee, thanks for your help.  And 2 days later they sent me home with some Ibuprofen, a manual breast pump (after poisoning my hubby into believing that BF was the ONLY option) and a baby who I was utterly terrified of.

I was terrified to tell anyone how I felt, so I kept on.  During this time, un-beknownst to me, my husband was scrambling around the hospital picking up PPD brochures and asking questions to whomever would listen.  He called nurses and doctors and would talk to anyone who would listen, until about 12 days later he said “Something is wrong, we need help.  I wouldn’t eat, all I wanted to do was sleep, I wouldn’t let anyone help me with the baby, but I wanted to be nowhere near it.  I would only hold her because I was afraid I would never love her if I didn’t.  When he pleaded for me to get help it was the biggest relief of my life.  I was terrified, and I was going to die if I didn’t get the help I needed.  But would they commit me if I admitted to how I had been feeling?  Would they take my baby away?

The very same day I called and had to admit to the most horrifying thoughts I have ever had in my life to the on call Dr. who prescribed me some anti-depressants and gave me a card for a LCSW and a follow up with my OB.  Not a fix, but a step in the right direction.

Needless to say it was a long 11 months thereafter.  I was diagnosed with severe PPD and PPD and I believe in my heart that I was one panic attack away from psychosis.   I tried many different concoctions of medications and therapists and ups and downs, and misery.  But about 9 months in, there was a light finally.  And at about the 1 year mark I would say I was about 90% better.  I no longer look at my little girl as “it” and on her 1st birthday it was as if I was seeing her for the very first time.  I can remember the morning after I brought her home I held her in my arms and looked at her.  The only emotion I felt for her was pity.  Pity that she had a mother who didn’t love her.  Now when I look at my daughter I swell with unconditional, undying, unrelenting love.  I fell head over heels for this child, and now she is the light of my life.  I have since had another child and yet a 2nd bought of PPD that was actually much worse (if you can even imagine that) than the 1st round I just described to you, but was much shorter.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and what it takes, really, is the hardest thing for any mom to do.  ADMIT YOU NEED HELP.  No mother should ever be robbed the joy of bringing a baby into this world.  Maybe we can’t eliminate postnatal mood disorders all together, but together we can make it suck less.

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