My Postpartum Depression and Postpartum Anxiety

I’ve been wanting and not wanting to open up and share about postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety for a long time now. Knowing every story is different and this was mine, I knew some people may want to read it and connect with it. But also knowing I haven’t resolved my problems made it really hard to want to share, because I couldn’t wrap it all up nicely with a bow at the end. So here’s an excerpt from a brain dump I did recently. Be kind.

Postpartum depression and anxiety is not fair and it’s certainly not equal . yours may never look like mine. And I don’t think I ever had the courage to admit I HAD this problem until a friend wrote a blog post that sounded like me. And people were commenting with shock at her suffering, yet all I thought was “yeah, me too.”

The PPD questionnaire at the doctors office was no match for me. I know exactly what to mark to get a “good score,” so that’s what I’m going to do. But if you TALK to me, clearly something isn’t right. It shouldn’t take 2-3 hours of prepping the diaper bag before leaving the house, for starters.

After I had Easton (my second baby), a whole new demon was brewing. This fiery need to run away. To disappear. But it was SO complicated. I didn’t’ want to leave my family, and I didn’t want to kill myself, but I certainly didn’t’ want to be around anymore. I wished I could leave for days, weeks, maybe more, and just have it be ok. Have nobody miss me, nobody be mad at me or resentful – and when I came back, have it be totally normal again. I didn’t want my kids to grow up without me, but I just didn’t want to be THERE anymore.

And then things get more complicated. I could picture myself driving into a fence or down the other side of the road. I’d fantasize about it. BUT here’s the kicker: I didn’t want to get hurt, I didn’t want to be in the hospital or deal with recovery. I certainly didn’t want to explain what happened or deal with the after effects…the stares, the pity, the anger from my family and friends…but I could picture myself doing it and watching from afar.

Every time I left the house alone I wondered if I could just keep driving until I got to another state.

I was filled with sadness and rage in an overwhelming quantity. I’d snap at the drop of a hat and the yelling sound coming out of my mouth was just horrifying, which then left me flooded with guilt and shame.

My need to have absolute control over every situation leaves me exhausted, anxious and always disappointed. It makes people uncomfortable to visit us and be around me and my kids, because I can’t seem to be welcoming and let people have the visit THEY want to have. I can see myself doing it, hear myself being that way, but I can’t stop it.

I couldn’t explain how I felt to my husband. How would he feel about me as a mother? Would he think I would put our family in danger? Would he think I was going to leave him? Would he think I’m making it up because people with ppd “can’t get out of bed and can’t take care of their kids,” yet I was doing all those things…? Not to mention, they always told us to look out for “fantasizing about stabbing your kids or throwing them out the window” and that certainly wasn’t what I was thinking about.

Admitting I needed to go talk to a therapist felt like the world crashed down around me. Like all the balls I was carefully juggling all fell. I cried so hard in relief and true sadness for myself.

I’ve been on and off and on Prozac for the last year and in therapy regularly and I’ve never felt so exposed, yet truly myself. I’m learning HOW to live with the person I AM.

I still have trepidation admitting I have a problem, if you couldn’t tell. I want so badly to be fine. But I’m just not. And I’ve learned that I won’t be until I’m done breastfeeding and my hormones normalize…then I can get back to my life of REGULAR anxiety and depression. So fun. This is awful, because I’ve truly given ALL of myself to my boys. And I’m finding it impossible to wean and yet imperative that I do. I feel trapped.

I’m reminded every damn day that I’m not ok. Like when I tried to get my antidepressants and had to jump through SO many hoops and I thought “this is why people kill themselves instead of asking for help…” Ummm.

But admitting it has been so helpful because I’ve found out I’m helping others. Whether it’s referring people to a therapist or assuring them that trying medications may be the best decision of their lives…worth it.

And it’s making me an even better, more capable mom.

PPA/PPD hasn’t made me a bad mom, which is why it’s hard to admit I’m suffering. On the contrary, I’m hyperattentive, I’m aware of what my kids are consuming and what they are playing with, I am anxious and hesitant to let them out of my sight or be cared for by another person (a good and bad thing). Not that it’s ok to cry for weeks over sending my kid to a 2K preK, but it’s made me intensely anxious about others being in my kids lives, and thus very careful about those who are.

But this has clearly taken so much from me. Enjoyment, ease, productivity, all gone. This blog that was my thriving business I built from scratch, pretty much gone. Medication doesn’t fix it for me, but it helps ease it, and I’ll take what I can get.

As you can see, I don’t have a pretty bow to tie on this or a victory lap from conquering anything. But if it resonates with you, I certainly will have more to share.