Not a happy story

It must be pretty obvious that I don't mind sharing stories with the world on my blog.  I don't.  This one is harder for me to write though.  It's about postpartum depression.  I don't even really want to write about it because sixteen plus years later, I still remember its awfulness.  I do want to record it though.  I want Emma to know.  I want my boys to know, in case.  I want my wonderful nieces and nephews who I love to know.  This is real.  It's OK.  We can talk about it.

Because I didn't know it was real, didn't know it was OK, and didn't know I could talk about it.

(It just seemed like I was crazy and weak.)

When I was pregnant with Braeden, Olivia read an article about postpartum depression.  She told me that she worried I would have it.  I told her I wouldn't.  I said, "Even if I do, what's the worst that can happen?  I'll cry."

I really had no idea.

Looking back I should be in no way surprised that I struggled.

1) I don't do well without adequate sleep.

2) When my routine is changed, it throws me for a loop.

3) When I have things I'm worried about, it can spiral into an anxiety tornado that isn't pretty.

And I'd just had a baby.  He was an incredibly cute baby who I loved intensely.  He also wanted to nurse every 15 minutes--at least.  My mom was staying with me the first few days.  She said she'd never seen anything like it and she'd had six babies of her own.  So I didn't sleep nearly enough or have any semblance of a routine.  Also, Adam had graduated from BYU with his undergraduate degree, was trying to decide which graduate school to go to, working unreliable hours at his temp job and we had money worries.

Oh, and I needed surgery.

So I was a mess.

I cried a lot.  Way more than I'd cavalierly told Olivia I would cry.  None of the regular tools I had for helping myself feel better worked--praying, writing, reading my scriptures, talking to Adam, talking to my parents, talking to Marianne (Olivia was serving her mission to Poland then).  Try as I might, I couldn't just get over it--which is what it seemed like I should be able to do.  I felt panic every day when Adam went to work.  I wanted to scream out after him, "Don't leave me here!"  I was constantly worried about Braeden.  I had a recurring dream that he drowned.  It was such a dark time that it makes me sad now to even remember.  I didn't know that I had postpartum depression.  I thought I was just a really terrible mother.

Adam didn't know what to make of it all either.  On maybe the very worst day I overheard him (in our tiny apartment) talking on the phone to his mom.  He was pouring out his worry to her about me.  I felt humiliated.  My whole life I had wanted to become a mother and now that it had happened, I was the world's worst mother.  Taking Braeden anywhere completely overwhelmed me.  Staying home with Braeden completely overwhelmed me.

Below is a picture taken when Braeden was less than a month old.  I am sitting between my mom and grandma...a good place to be.  Maybe I'm just projecting how I remember feeling but I look pale and shell shocked.

So what did I do for myself?  To help myself?  Nothing.  Because I had no idea what I could do.

A few months after Braeden was born, I had surgery.  I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to take care of him after but I did OK.  That was one less worry looming over me and I felt slightly better.  We decided which graduate school to attend and that was one less worry.   Adam got a temp job that was more like a permanent job and we felt more stable.  One memorable day I talked to Marianne on the phone and she mentioned that she had made banana bread.  Clarissa had been born 9 months before Braeden.  It was inconceivable that I would be able to do anything as complex as make banana bread but it was a lifeline.  Maybe in 9 months time, I would be able to make banana bread too!  It was the first time that I thought maybe things would change for the better.

Gradually my mental state improved.  There was a day when we were going over to Marianne and Robert's house for Sunday dinner and I loaded up the diaper bag and Braeden and I thought, "I can do this!" 

Slowly but surely I recovered.  I felt a gathering of competence in my mothering.  I started to not just survive it but enjoy it.  I remember the day I taught Braeden to grab his rattle.  I remember sitting on the front porch when it was almost time for Adam to come home.  I would talk to Braeden about every color of car that drove past.  He would look at me wisely with his chocolate eyes and I knew that here was my place in the world, what I was meant to do.

I mean look how cute this baby was:

those chubby arms!

When I was pregnant with Emma a few years later, I talked to my doctor before she was born.  I told her that I'd had postpartum depression before and I wondered what I should do.  She gave me a list of doctors that I could consult in case I needed them.  It turned out that I didn't need them.  Having a newborn is never a picnic, it's hard exhausting work.  I was different though.  I was OK.  I think it was empowering to have that list of mental health doctors I could call if I needed them.  I didn't realize until I was well again how dark I had felt and I was never going to go there again without a fight.

Yesterday Adam told me I should have put a link to the new writing blog.  I'll try again. There's a bit I wrote there today.  http://6chickswriting.weebly.com/