On Post-Partum Depression

I’ve always wanted to make a written record of my episode with post-partum depression (a) in case it helps even just one other person who experienced or is experiencing it and (b) as a reminder of how lucky I am to not battle with depression under ordinary circumstances.

First, I’d like to say to all the moms out there who got through the first few newborn months without even experiencing the “baby blues,” hats off to you! My first gripe is that society has normalized childbirth and the care of a newborn as something that’s pretty straightforward and just “what women do.” But it’s not that straightforward at all. It’s raw, and transformative, and life-changing, and painful, and incredibly difficult, and for some moms, can also be quite traumatic. I have vowed to myself that, if and when my daughter chooses to have children of her own, and if she comes to me for advice, I certainly will do a much better job of giving her a realistic picture of what having a baby entails — emotionally, physically, and in terms of life changes. And if she beckons me and I am able, I will be there to ruthlessly guard her space and as a shoulder to lean on during pregnancy and especially those rollercoaster newborn months.

I was lucky to have a very “smooth” first pregnancy and childbirth, but I still was overwhelmed in the newborn days, grappling with the massive changes to my body, the stitches and recovery required to my delicate lady parts, and adapting to a newborn suckling off my breasts every two hours, and doing all of this with little to no sleep. But other than mild “baby blues,” I still recall my first son’s newborn days with mostly fondness and tenderness. It is true that those squishy little newborn faces and tiny little fingers and toes work magic in a new mother’s head and heart! I couldn’t take my eyes off him and couldn’t stay apart from him for too long.

When my second child was born, we had just moved to Kansas City; I had no social circle to lean on; I was taking a break from work which made me feel additionally vulnerable; and in addition to a new baby, I had to manage a rambunctious two-year old at home, who was pining for my attention and was quite aggressive toward his younger brother. I am fairly certain now that I was clinically depressed after my second was born. But I had been given this beautiful gift of life for a second time, and my husband and I had hired a full-time nanny to help me at home during the week days, so I didn’t feel like I had the right to be depressed. I felt sad, lonely, and isolated. I struggled from intense insomnia, I dreaded when the morning light started to peek through my curtains, and it took every ounce of energy in me to get out of bed. I had trouble bonding with my tiny, new bundle of joy. But I didn’t seek help. I somehow stumbled my way through those extremely difficult newborn months and was lucky to have my post-partum depression naturally dissipate over time.

Well, my third child was an entirely different story. I had full-on raging post-partum depression starting with literal panic attacks in the hospital and this awful, gnawing feeling that there was no way I was going to be able to manage being a mother to three children. My mind felt like it was fried and was processing everything in slow motion. In addition to dealing with the tremendous aches, pains, and bleeding of recent childbirth, I felt completely overwhelmed by the immediate care and attention my newborn needed, and the string of health professionals constantly filing in and out of my hospital room, poking and prodding me, giving me breastfeeding tips, and reminding me how to bathe my new baby. All I remember is that I wanted to disappear, and I wanted to be left completely alone.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t an episode of post-partum depression that I would be able to just “stumble through.” The dark cloud of depression descended on me pretty quickly and completely shrouded me. The thing is that I had all these reasons to be happy — I had wished for a baby girl after two boys, and in front of me was this gorgeous, healthy, 8 pound 6 ounces baby girl, who I had miraculously pushed out my body without a single tear! But the point was, I was incapable of feeling joy. I had somehow completely lost the mechanism to feel joy after childbirth. I felt numb, empty, and had this suffocating sense of dread that this awful feeling was my permanent new normal. I seemed to be viewing my whole life in shades of gray. Things that previously brought me so much joy — like the adorable nursery I had meticulously and lovingly prepared for my baby girl — now appeared dull and drab. I felt paranoid about a lot of things. My brain matter seemed to have completely reorganized itself. I couldn’t feel any of the things I normally felt in abundance — confidence, motivation, and optimism. I honestly didn’t recognize myself anymore.

Not only was I unable to bond with my baby girl, I started to resent her. I felt like she was a “mistake” and that I wouldn’t be in the extremely dark place I was now if I hadn’t had her. Looking at her just amplified my sense of guilt and failure, so I started to avoid her. I had terrible insomnia and dreaded night time because it meant lying awake in bed for hours while the rest of the house was soundly asleep. And I dreaded the morning too, because when I arose, I had the hardest time making the simplest of decisions, like what clothes to wear. It felt like an effort just to put breakfast on the table for my boys and get them out the door. And I carried great guilt about my boys too because I was dropping balls in their care and making excuses. Regular chores like getting groceries felt herculean, and I would wander the aisles listlessly. I felt increasingly isolated because, apart from my close family, I was too embarrassed to share how I felt with others. I didn’t think anyone would understand because they all knew how overjoyed I was to be pregnant with a baby girl, we had thrown an extravagant baby shower prior to her arrival, and gifts and cards for her were still pouring in. And all of that just made me feel like a huge “fraud.” I felt captive in my house, and sometimes claimed I had errands, and took the car out and drove around aimlessly for an hour or two, just to be away from the house and all my mommy duties and obligations. While driving, I would sometimes fantasize about just keeping going so that I was far, far away from home, or about just driving off a bridge. At times, I honestly felt like I would rather be dead than continue to feel this way forever.

Needless to say, by this point, my little inner village had realized something was seriously wrong and had swooped in full force to help me. When my husband had to go back to work, my in-laws and my parents took turns staying over. And we hired a full-time nanny who was a Godsend to my daughter in those early months. We found a psychiatrist who promptly diagnosed me with Major Depressive Disorder and put me on medication. This meant I could no longer breastfeed, which spiraled me into further depression because now I felt like a complete failure to my daughter. But medication and tons of support is exactly what I needed at the time — and I realize how lucky I was to have all those tools and resources immediately available to me.

During the darkest of hours, there were a few bright slivers of light and hope. Even though I was finding it very difficult to bond with my daughter, watching the boys do the simplest of things — like playing in their school playground or with a soccer ball in the backyard — could still evoke little kernels of tender warmth in my heart. I felt even closer to my husband, who was a pillar of strength during that time and incredibly understanding of my plight. I often just wanted to sit or lie right next to him, no matter what he was doing, because just being physically near him gave me comfort and strength. He took my condition seriously enough to get me all the tools I needed but not so seriously that there was pressure for me to recover fast or feel even more guilty than I already did. And I felt like a child again in the ways that I leaned on and found comfort in my parents, who pulled out all the stops to support me during that time. It was clear to me during that time what and who in my life mattered the most.

Slowly but surely, two to three months after my daughter was born, I started to stir back to real life. I am not sure if it was the medication or the natural dissolution of the post-partum mania in my head — or both — but I slowly started to feel “normal” again. I could go out and socialize with confidence again. I got my faculties back enough to be able to care for my daughter on my own, without another person there for support. I started to smile, to laugh, to slowly feel joy again. The shades of gray lifted and I was able to see all the colors. And after being in such a dark hole, everything felt lighter, easier, and so much more beautiful. All the feelings rushed back into me with much greater intensity. I had much more gratitude and appreciation for everything life had to offer me and all the things I was capable of doing with my life. My perspective shifted to be much more gentler and kinder with myself. I had a deeper sense of compassion and understanding for others who suffered from depression or other forms of mental illness. I had emerged from a very dark place as a much stronger and improved version of myself.

For the longest time, I carried immense amounts of guilt for not being the mom I wanted to be for my daughter in those early months. But regardless of those first few months, one day during a stroll outdoors, she cracked her first sunny smile just for me, and I thought my heart would just burst open. Her first words were “mama.” I was there to catch her first laugh, her first steps. From those early months, she has showered me with unrestrained affection and admiration. A baby’s love for her mama is truly the most pure, innocent, and unconditional kind. And I needed that so badly from her at the time. And by doing so, she allowed me to forgive myself.

When I was on my one-week meditation and yoga retreat in Slovenia, we did a magical, night-time, fire ceremony, where we wrote down things we wanted to discard from our lives on chits of paper, read them out loud, and burnt them in the fire. One of mine was “guilt from not being able to care for my daughter in her newborn months due to post-partum depression.” I really needed to see that piece of paper sizzle and fry in the fire that night. So, although I have let go of the guilt from those days, I will forever carry the lessons of my one intense swirl in the dark depths of depression with me. I can attest that it doesn’t have to be permanent. And there is a fresh, new, much more beautiful life waiting for you on the other side of it.