The dirty postpartum words no one talks about…

My struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety

I sit, peering at my nails with scrutiny. There’s something so gratifying about peeling nail polish off. The blank Word document sits open at my computer. I avoid looking at the screen. I realize I’m just stalling. I check the clock. 9:06 pm. I should really go to bed. Just another stalling tactic. What if they think I’m complaining? It doesn’t matter what they think. What if they judge me? Who is “they” anyway? Your potential readers. What if they don’t care about what you’re writing? Well that’s true, they might not.

I peel off a few more shells of nail polish, little by little removing the last evidence of my only “me” time I’ve had in months. I just can’t justify a manicure anymore when I left my job to be stay at home mom. Every dollar counts these days.

That’s not what I’m really trying to write about though. I’m trying to write about a topic that I can barely face as my own reality that I’ve been living the past year.

I wouldn’t say that I was truly clinically “depressed” after I had my son. I was never diagnosed with postpartum depression, although those silly surveys you take at the pediatrician’s office probably wouldn’t have caught it if that’s what I was. I wouldn’t have let them catch me either. Who would actually circle answers that had scary words in them like crying, hopeless, harming my baby? I wouldn’t be that mom. Not that mom who couldn’t handle motherhood. I trudged on for months, sleepless night after sleepless night.

So maybe I was. Depression is a nearly impenetrable cloud, and in those days of darkness, I was left in its shadow. It was like the sunlight was trying to cut its way past the murky water to the sea floor; I was always left with dim light, trying to find my way through each day. Each monotonous day with a baby. Over. And Over. Again.

It didn’t feel like I expected. I couldn’t seem to pull myself to the surface for fresh air. I felt like I stagnated at about 50-60% of myself. I never could grasp the last missing pieces to feel like myself again. I was anxious. I had bouts of anxiety for no reason, and when I did have a reason, the anxiety was like a vice around my chest, restricting my oxygen.

I’m not depressed. Not me. I’m doing okay. And the truth was, and is, that I am doing okay. It’s hard to believe that though when I was running on no sleep, no caffeine, and no pharmaceuticals, all because of breastfeeding. All because I love my baby more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything to make sure that he is okay. I fell into the trap of “breast is best,” and I wouldn’t hear of doing anything otherwise, to the possible detriment of my sleep cycles and mental state. Okay, to the definite detriment of my state. I wouldn’t even let my mom feed the baby a bottle so I could sleep more than 2-3 hours in a row.

I never had any serious thoughts of harming my baby. Or myself.  I didn’t cry day after day. I didn’t feel like my days were insurmountable. I always could make it through. This, I believe, is the trap that many new moms fall into. We don’t fit the “mold” of postpartum depression, and no one talks about postpartum anxiety, so we think that this is normal, or worse, that we are the problem, or that this too will pass.

Things are getting better for me now. I haven’t gotten help yet, but I plan to go in soon for a mental tune up (I really need to make that appointment). Maybe it’s the full nights of sleep (except when the anxiety keeps me awake), or maybe it’s the hormones settling back down, but I’m feeling a lot better. I do wish that I had gotten help earlier. I wish that I hadn’t been my own martyr, with an “ever forward” mantra, pushing myself past the healthy limits of physical and mental exhaustion. Getting help, whether it be professional or friendship, doesn’t mean I’m not a good mom. It doesn’t mean I can’t do it. It means I’m smart enough to know that the phrase “It takes a village” is entirely too accurate.

I wish I knew this at the time. I suffered in silence for many months. Now that I’m coming out of that dark tunnel, I’m hoping that I can tell you, new mom, that you aren’t alone. There’s nothing wrong with feeling this way. I blame it entirely on the sleep deprivation and wacky hormones. So don’t worry, you’re doing great. But I also want to encourage you to get help if you need it. Don’t wage your internal war alone. You can be so much happier so much faster when you reach out.

You’ve got this, mama.

 

 

I’m not a super mom. I’m not an average mom. I’m just a mom.

I’m been really hard on myself as a mom. Since my little babe is now a year old, I guess I can’t really call myself a new mom. I feel like I should have my shit together. I should have a routine. I should know what I’m doing. And, obviously, I should have lost all the baby weight and be fit and trim, 100% back to normal, with a clean house. Oh and I should also have a “suck it up and handle it” attitude (at least that’s what all those Instagram memes tell me).

But I don’t. I’m still heavy with the weight I gained during pregnancy. I’m still struggling with postpartum depression, baby blues, or just flat out depression—whatever you want to call it these days. My house is pretty clean…sometimes. Some days I’m a rock star and I feel like a pro at this motherhood thing. Some days, like today, I want to crawl back into bed and sleep like Rip Van Winkle for the foreseeable future (would you mind handling the diaper changes for me?).

I still struggle with my new identity. Mother versus woman. “Unemployed” versus working my ass off 24/7 to be recognized by no one because being a stay at home mom isn’t considered a “real” job. Fat versus fit. Super mom versus average mom.

But why do we have to be one or the other? What makes one mom “super” while another is just “average”? Is it the amount of activities she takes her kid to? Is it how many decorations or how well-themed a birthday party is? Is it the number of dust bunnies in the corners of her house? Homemade meals vs. frozen? Go get ‘em attitude? Why does it have to be one or the other, why can’t I just be… “mom”?

I suppose it all comes down to the “super mom” stereotypes we create in our heads. I have to be this kind of mom to be really great. I can’t have bad days or let anyone see me struggle. Why can’t I be like that mom who has it all together (and looks great too)? At least, this is the kind of thing I tell myself daily. I’m embarrassed to say “I’m depressed.” I’m ashamed to admit “I’m struggling.” I don’t want to utter “I need help.” But I have these kinds of days mixed in with my supermom days. And I don’t think there should be anything wrong with that. Even the most seemingly put together mom has her kryptonite. No one has their shit together 100% of the time. There’s a hole in that [damn] giant golden inflatable goose raft at the pool somewhere, and I’m watching from the side as it sinks slowly the more use it gets.

There should be nothing wrong with admitting that we have a weak spot and be able to put the repair patch on. I want to be able to say to myself that this is the kind of mom that I am, this is what I am able to do, and I’m giving it all I’ve got. I don’t want to identify as any one kind of mom—tiger, helicopter, crunchy, or otherwise. I want to just be Mom.