I probably should have seen this coming

I toyed with writing this post.  I wasn't sure if I could do it.  If I was strong enough or brave enough to put it out there.

I have postpartum depression.

It sounds ridiculious to say it -- my pediatrician warned me that I was at risk for it at my daughter's 10 day old doctor visit.  You see, I had it with my son.  And all of the warning signs were there when my daughter was born -- previous diagnosis.  Winter baby.  Several kids.  High stress factors.  Weak support system (although it's not that people won't help me if I ask.  It's that I'm too stubborn and prideful to ask for help -- when I open my mouth to ask "Can you help me," I say, "I'm doing just fine!  I've totally got this under control." instead).

At my daughter's 8 week visit, the pediatrician seemed horrified that I had gone back to work all ready.  And that I work from home.  With 4 children.  At Christmastime.  And I was planning my son's birthday party -- at our house.  And the sale of our old house had just fallen through -- again.  And that two pipes burst at our new house -- within two weeks ago.

So when the nurse asked if I was under stress, I burst into tears. 

My pediatrician called my OB and made an appointment for me that day.  Off to the OB I went, with 3 kids under the age of 4 in tow.

My OB ran some blood tests and called and made an appointment with a therapist at St. Joseph's for me.  I was ordered to go -- with my children so they could see how I interact with them -- the next day.

I went home and told my husband about it, but I also told him that I was fine.  That I felt foolish.  After all, I wasn't sobbing hysterically under the covers every day.  I was fine.

My husband gently pointed out what I didn't want to see -- that I was over whelmed, over worked, and under rested.  That I may not be sobbing hysterically every day, but that I was stressed and had mood swings.  And that maybe keeping the appointment wasn't the worst thing for me.

So I went.  And I told the therapist what was going on.  I thought for sure that the therapist was going to laugh and send me home, to tell me that I was fine and everyone was overreacting.  I had even put on make up so that I would look pulled together -- my hair was clean and styled, and I was wearing clothes with no spit up on them.  My children were dressed in matching outfits and looked cute as buttons.  We could have been a freakin' TV commercial.  

The therapist wasn't fooled.

She asked when I last ate.  And how much sleep I had gotten the night before.  And when I last took 5 minutes to myself.

She didn't say anything after I responded.  The room was quiet -- even my daughters weren't making any noise.

And that silence freaked me out.

I began talking, too quickly.  I knew the answers I had given weren't the right ones.  I knew that I had somehow failed, but I didn't know how to make it right.  As excuses poured out of my mouth,  I realized I was crying.

She handed me a tissue and told me that PPD isn't always failing to bond with your child or crying all the time.  Sometimes it can almost be as if you bonded too fiercely with your child -- so much so that you become overly anxious and can't relax.  That you are terrified about not being perfect, about your child being hurt, about being less.

And I realized she was right.

I have been so anxious lately, my back has given out from the tension I have been carrying.  I can't sleep.  I'm eating too much crap.  I can't relax -- I'm always doing about 10 different things.  I'm never quiet.

And it makes me feel less.  Less of a mother.  Less of a wife.  Less of a person.

Understand that I am not sharing this in the hopes of friends and family feeling guilty or to start asking what they can do.  That type of support makes me feel guilty and uncomfortable.  I'm supposed to be the person giving the help -- I don't know why that is, but that is what makes me the most comfortable.  I'm not comfortable asking for help.  I'm not comfortable admitting I need it.  I'm supposed to be the strong one.  So I'm in a prison of my own making.

This isn't something that can be made better with a good night's sleep -- to say, "Oh, you just need to sleep" is insulting.  Yes, that is part of it.  But every time I lie down, 50,000 different thoughts begin rattling around my head and I don't know how to turn them off.

Nor is this something that can be made better with drugs -- although those may be necessary at some point.  I'm not there yet.  I don't know if I will ever need them -- I hope not.  But I hope I'm strong enough that if talk therapy doesn't work, I will be able to take them.

To be better requires a lot of different things --  a willingness to get better (which I have).  A partner who will help me (which I have).  An ability to let things go (which I am working on).  The realization that I don't have to be perfect (which I am working on).  Rest (which I don't have at all).  A good diet (which I am working on).  Friends who understand (which I have).  And a family who loves me regardless of my faults (which I have).

But it is also going to take time.  After all, "Depression is never anyone's fault, and it can't be fixed with a stiff upper lip or a positive attitude."

So I apologize if I am not my normal happy go lucky self who is quick to lend a hand.  I want her back.  And to find her again, I have to focus on me.


http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0004481/


http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/postpartum-depression/DS00546