shame about the weather

 "As each day goes by, it makes way for another,
We discover that we're not alone
And each day we try, the best we can to recover,
All the feelings that we left below"

-"My Eyes" Travis

It's been a long time since I've sat down, wrote a blog and submitted it. I've had a handful, or two, of people ask me to update, but until now I haven't been able to while being honest with not only the people who bother reading or myself. I'm not known to be short winded- you've been warned.

A few weeks after the birth of my son, I already knew that something just wasn't right. A week after having Liam, i went into my OBGYN in severe pain and with a fever. I had a pretty vicious staph infection in my uterus and an infection in my bladder to match. I thought I was dying. With my mom and mother-in-law rotating shifts, we made it through that little piece of hell and everyone seemed so optimistic I could start to become myself again. Even post infection, my days and nights began to blend together and my guilt developed, as I had already pushed a majority of the childcare off on others. The insane connection that I had read about and expected was not there like i thought it should be.  I wasn’t bonding with my son like i saw other mom's doing with so little effort. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. I genuinely couldn’t love anyone more. I just didn't feel like a mom. I felt like the woman who pushed him out, and therefore who he was sent home with. I have always loved him, always worried about him, but I couldn't help but feel he'd be more fortunate with someone else. Everything I did felt wrong. He deserved better. Always bathed, fed, changed and cared for I felt more like I was meeting minimum requirements than anything else. Even with my best efforts, everything was a haze. I felt blurry, sometimes numb. The guilt I carried because of these feelings only made me feel more detached from not only my son and husband, but myself. Even the fragment of myself I knew during my treacherous pregnancy was disappearing more and more with each passing day. It was the most unnatural and frustrating feeling of loving someone and simultaneously being afraid of them.  I was terrified to care for him, because I knew I wasn't doing it right.  If possible, I didn’t hold him or be the one to take care of him, because I thought anybody, but me, could take care of him the way he deserved.  I remember watching my husband playing happily with our new baby and thinking that they would be so much better off without me. I had become a burden to them. I wanted to leave and not have to return.

In spite of my feeling of extreme exhaustion, I would stay up late at night to almost ritualistically make sure I was doing everything right- reading on babycenter, googling anything and everything concerning him, checking his breathing, trying to foresee developmental changes so I could be prepared for them. My head was buzzing and it started to envelope every aspect of my life. It didn’t take long before i wasn’t doing anything in my life right as far as I could see. I was convinced that not only was I a terrible mother, I was a terrible person. I developed unrealistic expectations across the board- the kind of wife I should be, the body I should have, my ability to adjust to being a mom and full time employee. I was overwhelmed, scared, but mostly ashamed. I was at a point where I was going through the motions and I was determined to fake it ‘til I made it.

On good days (that became fewer and farther between), I convinced myself that what I was experiencing was ending. This usually lasted for a day or maybe two, and then I was back in that dark hole. It seems as though the dark hole got a whole lot darker as time went on. On the bad days, I was irritated, frustrated, had minimal energy, massive anxiety, often did not get to shower or change out of my pajamas the whole day, and found no time to eat. I was short tempered with my husband and resentful that his life was not out of control like mine was. The guilt I carried for feeling that way was just one more thought that added to my extreme spiral. I was extremely overwhelmed with Liam and felt myself growing impatient. Never wanting to harm him, I was very scared that I would do something wrong that would adversely affect his development. I began to have daymares, as I now call them- horrible and disturbing things happening to both myself and my child. I was too repulsed and ashamed that these visions were created from the depths of my own mind to even confide in anyone. I just knew that something was very off with me. I never intended to hurt him, and the thought caused so much distress. Still, it was often there.

I was barely functioning, but out in public I was able to fake it really well. Deep down I felt that I knew the truth- the truth was I was a horrible person. I knew that I was suffering from some form of postpartum depression and should reach out, but i couldn’t. I just couldn't.  The social worker talked to me about warning signs before leaving the hospital, but deep inside, I assumed it was me... that I was slowly losing my mind. I was convinced what I was experiencing was far worse and more shameful than what had been explained to me. I was just a selfish, bad person and for that I felt guilty. My self-esteem plummeted. I was going mad.

I was ashamed to tell anyone how I truly felt, and although I had many people around me who loved me unconditionally, I couldn’t have felt more alone. I truly had everything I had always wished for to feel complete. There was no way I was going to admit to anyone that I was having the worst time of my life. There was no way I was going to admit that I thought I was failing motherhood. It was definitely out of the question for me to talk to a therapist, I was afraid I was too far off for even them to understand. I was going to conquer this one alone, as I thought I should.

I continued playing the role. I would literally talk out loud to myself, pep talking myself to fake it. I continued posting pictures of our new life with the baby. When I look at these even now, I am amazed how perfectly I was hiding my inner turmoil. At that point, I honestly thought that I just needed to be tougher and own my new role.

Pretending became exhausting. My depression had become paralyzing, and additionally, my anxiety level silently rose to the point that I would call Spencer hyperventilating, in tears and making very little sense.  Spencer did his best to support me, but no one knew the extent of what I was going through.  I felt alone and it was no one’s fault.

It was not until I started hating my existence and had the desire to inflict pain on myself, with night terrors to match, that I really opened up to Spencer and let him know what was going on. I begged him to leave me and take Liam. When he refused, I begged him to at least not reveal my debilitating secret to anyone. My husband not wanting to upset me even more complied, but he wouldn't have to for long.

Days alone with Liam were a struggle I would find myself bawling on his bedroom floor while he so innocently babbled at his mobile in his crib. I would apologize to him like he understood, explaining that I was trying. He never failed to just smile at me- resulting in more guilt on my part. How could this little person love and adore me so much, when I wasn’t even sure I really liked him anymore?

Things really started to unload when Liam and I had to stay at my mom's because Spencer was ill with influenza b and I couldn't risk Liam getting sick. My mother, being around me more than anyone outside of Spence, had picked up on weird behaviors before, but having me staying at her house was able to see it day in and out. I overheard a conversation of hers and found myself hysterical. Similar to the heavy and relentless sobs I'd experienced many times when it was just Liam and me, I opened up to my mom. "What is wrong with me?"... "I am so broken"... "He deserves so much better"... "I am so detached"... "I can’t handle this guilt anymore"... "I don't want to be a Mom"..."Why can't I pull myself together." I simply could not hold it in any longer. I was so tired of pretending that everything was okay. I was a fraud. 

My mother felt for me. Never experiencing it herself, she tried to understand. She asked me to talk to someone, asked how i felt about anti-depressants, researched like crazy on the internet, found people for me to talk to and a support group to match. I was afraid that if I reached out for help further the shame would completely break me. I was terrified that I would find out I had lost myself for good in the process. My logic was twisted and warped. Spencer and my mom would say "you deserve to feel good." (My thoughts: ‘No, I don't. I'm a terrible person.’) "We will get you back to your old self" (my thoughts: ‘who is that!?’ It had been so long since I knew me that I was afraid that this was just who I was now and that old me was long gone. I was afraid they'd realize this too and see me for what I had become.)

After much resistance and reaching my darkest time, I reached out in a couple of ways. My anxiety lessened significantly, I am sleeping better, the intrusive images of seeing my baby hurt stopped, my irritability has became more manageable, and my negative thought patterns are less intense. That terrifying feeling of “losing it” occurred less frequently. My husband receives less of my frantic phone calls at work, and I feel like we enjoy each other's company more. It wasn’t until speaking with someone who has been through postpartum depression, as well as a therapist, that I started to really feel like myself. 

Spencer and I greatly appreciated the help my mother and his mother provided during this difficult period. At times, he needed a respite from the emotional turmoil at home. Our moms were always positive and did not try to take over. Rather, they all supported me and encouraged me to do what I could

Without my husband’s loving support, my recovery would no doubt have been much slower. Spencer listened patiently as I unburdened myself of my fears. I have found it very important not to bottle up my feelings. At times, I know it has even come across as anger, but Spencer has always reassured me that he loved me and that we were in this together. I’ve had to apologize many times for things I’ve said in anger, but my husband was always reassuring me that it was the illness speaking and not me. In retrospect, and still today, I realize how much his support means to me. He really is my lobster.(love a good "Friends" reference!)

I wish I had started seeing a therapist during those early weeks like my OBGYN and the social worker had recommended. Had I done all this, I would have spared myself from the agony that this depression brought on. But, much like many other moms, I kept thinking that I should be stronger, I should be better, I should make myself snap out of it, that I should ...I should ...I should.

I still have “bad” days. What I have realized is postpartum depression or not, EVERYONE has bad days. My good days are now out numbering my bad days by far, however. I am able to enjoy my son. I wasn’t sure I would ever share this in an open forum. I'm still not sure I am brave enough to feel this "emotionally naked." A part of me, while still going through this every day, is still slightly embarrassed by it. I have a friend who is struggling though. She is embarrassed and scared, and it makes me sad. I want her to know that she isn't alone. Talking to her has given me the feeling that it may be beneficial to talk about it... to not beat around the bush and to say that YES, this is a very real thing that I, like many other women, have gone through.

My hope is that women are more aware of how serious and real postpartum depression is. Sitting around waiting for it to go away doesn’t work. Never be ashamed to ask for help. As someone who has lived it, I am always available- we could be a support for one another.