On Postpartum: Part II

By megret | November 12, 2009 at 11:04 am | 4 comments | WFMW

As the fall turned into winter, slowly, slowly a fog of sadness began to descend on me.

I had dealt with depression before: I went through a stint of it for about a year while living away from family and friends in 2001-2002. It was ruled as “situational depression”….but depression under any category is still depression….and it still hurts.

This feeling was not new to me, but it was certainly unwelcome. I guessed this is what people called “postpartum depression?” It was a cycle of sorts…being sleep-deprived made me depressed, which, in turn, made me more sleep-deprived. (I’d lay awake for hours at a time being sad, missing parts about my past, or worrying about something.)

Worrying about finances certainly didn’t help matters any. I knew beyond everything that I was supposed to be at home with G….so then why was it so difficult to make the budget work?

Part of it was further disappointment and sadness over not having the perfect birth that I’d wanted and envisioned. I’d planned and planned….did everything according to the book….for nine months, expecting the end to work out like I wanted it to. When it didn’t, all of that hard work didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. I felt powerless, angry, and a bit resentful.

“But he’s here, and he’s healthy! That’s all that matters!” is what people kept telling me. It’s something I knew to be true, deep down inside, but hearing it when I was in the midst of that fog was like someone punching me in the stomach. I felt as if no one understood. And I began to doubt and make light of my feelings, shaming myself for feeling them.

I even felt as if people around me saw my birth story as less valiant and story-worthy, simply because I had not labored for 22 hours, had three failed epidurals, and pushed for half a day. I felt robbed of the battle. I’d trained alongside all of the other “soldiers,” expectant mothers everywhere, ready for D-Day. Yet when the time came for the battle lines to be formed, I was yanked out of the ranks and thrown into KP. I wasn’t able to draw on the arsenal and reserves I’d stored up. I couldn’t put into practice all of the things I’d learned and read. I couldn’t relate to any of my friends’ stories. I felt singled out, and at the same time, overlooked.

And lastly, I mourned the loss of my own childhood. Getting married was easy. It was like moving in with a best friend. (Which, in essence, I did.) But becoming a mom? It was the final cut in the cord. I was the responsible one now. I now had a little one who depended on me for everything. I felt unable to admit when I was feeling bad, tired, frustrated, or shortchanged. I had to be the strong one. I had to prepare the meals now….not just come running to the table when I heard “Dinner’s ready!” This was the real deal. Real life. And though I was 26 years old, I realized that I still had a lot of growing up to do.

Of course, time has healed many of these wounds. I no longer feel isolated from my childhood….I’m now able to re-live it through the fun times I have with my kids! I am steadily making peace with the fact that my body did not want to cooperate in a natural birth….either time. (A failed VBAC turned second c-section brought our daughter into the world two years later.) I am deciding to stop asking the “what ifs” and start embracing the “what is.” I have two beautiful, healthy, bright children. God brought them to us and they entered this world safely and soundly. I have no room to dispute that.

I am glad that God continuously teaches me to “let go of the unnecessary so that I won’t miss out on the irreplaceable.”

And the depression itself? It was real and it was candid, but it dissipated with time. Hormones leveled out and I gradually felt like myself again, but in the meantime, I was able to find love and support from those who love me most. (A strong support system of family and friends is essential….I firmly believe this to be true!)

Postpartum depression is real, and it’s debilitating. Get help, get support…and have hope. My experience is a shining example of just that: Hope.