The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

This is one of my longer, and more serious posts.  You’ve been warned.

Last week, at my first post-natal appointment, with sincere compassion, my OBGYN asked, “So, how are you feeling now?” I replied, “So much better.  Still not awesome, but way better.”

I wasn’t going to share my experience with Post-Partum Depression (PPD) until I was back to awesome – but I’ve since decided that because I’m an open book, it would be too hard to skate around the topic in coming posts. I anticipate that much of my current, and future, musings about motherhood will inevitably be colored by this “condition,” so why not just put it out there? Besides, if I can help even just one woman recognize that she’s not alone in her thoughts and feelings, then I owe it to her not to delay sharing my story.

I am prone to anxiety.  I’ve been an anxious person for as long as I can remember.  About 10 years ago, the anxiety escalated to full-blown panic attacks.  For a brief time, I was on medication, but weaned myself off of it after a year.  While the anxiety slowly crept back in, I never did have another panic attack – THANK GOD because those are awful. Awful.

I had feared the possibility of PPD when I was pregnant with DJ. I knew that because of my past issues with anxiety, I was considered “at-risk” for PPD.  I was one big, walking worry wort  throughout my entire pregnancy with DJ (Actually, I was kind of a hot mess). My thoughts were often irrational, stressing not only over things out of my control – but literally obsessing over the what-ifs.  However, the moment she was born, all of my fears, my worries, my doubts, and my anxieties just melted away.  Seriously, the second she was placed on my chest, everything felt calm, and peaceful. I was whole, balanced, sane. I remember being pregnant and people telling me to “just wait, once she’s born you’ll have a new set of worries.” But, the thing is, I have never worried about DJ to the extent that I did while I was pregnant with her.

When I got pregnant with Z, naturally I thought that because I’d done it all before, the worrying would be at a minimum. I was so wrong. In fact, the two pregnancy experiences were so similar that I diagnosed myself with pregnancy-induced anxiety (I don’t even know if that’s a real thing). Anyhow, I’d assumed that once Z was born, just like with DJ, all the worrying would stop. I’d be overcome with contentment and joy, and I’d revel in each new moment.

So, when things didn’t go quite like that – I was ashamed.

It happened very slowly. It wasn’t anything extreme. I didn’t want to run away from home, abandon my husband or toss my baby out a window. In fact, I wasn’t struggling to bond with Z at all. I was struggling to tolerate DJ. I was living life by holding onto the promise that each day would bring DJ’s nap time. In those early days, just 8 weeks ago – I’d barely breathe while DJ slept for fear of anything waking her. And then, when she’d begin to stir and moan, I’d feel myself desperately holding back the tears. “Don’t wake the beast,” became a mantra in my head.  And when the almost-three-year-old beast would wake, I’d count down the hours till my husband got home from work. Living life watching the hands of the clock slowly tick by, is an excruciating way to pass time.

Day by day, DJ’s tantrums grew less possible to manage, and my resentment began to mount.  I was aware of it, though – and I’d crumble daily under the guilt of how I’d gotten there.  How had I gone from denying I’d ever be able to love another child as completely as I loved DJ, to just trying to make it through each minute with her.

Time out. Mothering had been my favorite thing in the world. Mothering had been my calling. There was no greater source of happiness – and there I was, loathing it at times. Something wasn’t right.

I couldn’t sleep.  I stopped showering daily. I stopped caring what the house looked like. I stopped answering my phone. I stopped replying to email. I stopped leaving my house. I stopped being patient. I stopped being fair. I stopped thinking. I began depending on our DVD player to get us (me, DJ and Z) through the day. I realized that I didn’t like who I had become. Something wasn’t right.

I remember laying in bed, Z on my chest, DJ at my side, with the umpteenth cartoon of the day on. With both girls touching me, pawing at me, needing me, wanting me – my skin began to crawl and I literally thought I might scream. Instead, I sobbed. I sobbed and I texted a close girlfriend whom I knew was currently on medication for PPD. “Can we talk PPD later?,” I wrote.

She called me that very night, and for the first time, I shared with another human being that I wasn’t enjoying being a mom. A feeling so contradictory to the truth that I knew to be inside of me. It felt so good to spew the entire truth without fear of judgement. To my relief, some of the things I was feeling were “normal.” Overwhelmed, insecure, exhausted…those were universal feelings when trying to find balance in a new, more complex parenting role.  Even the fleeting, “What was I thinking to alter the family I already had, already knew?,” was a familiar thought to many other healthy women.

“On a scale of 0 to 100%, how much are you enjoying being a mom right now?,” my friend asked. “Maybe 40%,” I reluctantly admitted. She encouraged me to reach out to my doctor.

Once my doctor and I got on the phone, all 5 weeks of shame came pouring out. I bawled as I told her that I kept thinking it would get better, but that everyday felt darker than the previous day. She asked how I wanted to proceed, with medication, therapy or both. “Both.” I was afraid that I’d start therapy only to recognize that I also needed medication, and that by then I would’ve spiraled down even deeper. I also didn’t want to lose one more day of enjoying my children. So, I got the happy pills and I’ve been on them for almost 4 weeks now.

Like I said, I am better – way better, really. I force myself to leave the house everyday and I shower at least every other day (insert smiley face here). I’m cooking again and keeping the house tidy. Most importantly, I am once again head over heels in love with my first born. Despite her wicked tantrums, I can’t get enough of her hugs and giggles – and I have the presence of mind to deal with her negative behavior in an effective way.

Once again, I’m falling in love with motherhood. I am slowly returning to the woman I know myself to be. I start and end each day feeling extremely blessed for, and by, my two girls. In between morning and evening, there are still struggles…still temptations to stay in bed, still tendencies to shut the world out, and still debilitating guilt over the amount of TV happening in this house – but overall, I’m feeling so much more in control. So much more present. Hallelujah!

I have a little ways to go yet – but let me tell you, I am miles from where I was. I am so grateful for the many women in my life who shared their own personal struggle with PPD. It’s much more common than I was ever aware of. I am hoping that by sharing my story, you’ll feel inspired to share your own. The more we talk about this, the fewer women will spend a second longer than they need feeling trapped in their own skin.

Motherhood is so beautiful…and complicated.  Do whatever it takes to enjoy it purely, and to embrace it wholly. There’s just no need to “tough it out” when you’re feeling so disconnected to the very thing you were most longing for – to love, and be loved, by your children.

My water broke at 10:00pm. It was the first sign that my son was ready to make his entrance into this world. My husband and I quickly gathered our pre-packed hospital bags and headed straight for the hospital.  Sixteen long laboring hours later, little Gooby made his debut. When they placed my baby on my tummy, having just exited my womb, my first thought was “He is so warm!” As I examined him through the tears in my eyes my second thought was “He looks like a little rhinoceros!”  I know, it’s a strange thought to have about the looks of your first born child, but his skin was a bluish-gray, much like the color of a rhino. The medical staff immediately whisked Gooby from my arms as the cord had been wrapped around his body like a “sash”. They were concerned about his color and whether he was receiving enough oxygen. But judging by the sounds of his cries, I knew he would be just fine. I was even more amazed that if I called to him, or if my husband spoke to him, Gooby would immediately calm down. He absolutely knew us. We were already a family, and had been so, long before Gooby first felt the world’s cold air on his skin.

My mom stayed with us for 10 days to help us transition into our new roles as parents. Like all new parents, we were exhausted. We dealt with so many brand new issues like Gooby’s dehydration while we waited for  my milk to come in, and the fact that once my milk did arrive, I had no idea how to breastfeed. Also? Gooby would not stop crying. I know, I know! You are going to say all babies cry. But having had two children by now, I know that not all babies cry like Gooby did in his first months of life. Around the time my mom was preparing to leave us, she gently raised the idea of colic. I had a panic attack. Why? Because I am solution oriented. And for colic, there is NO solution. Zero. Zip. Nada.

When my husband and I went to Gooby’s 2 week check-up, we mentioned his un-ending crying. Our pediatrician casually said “Yes, he may have colic. It will subside around month 3 or 4.” My husband and I looked at each other and said “What?! That’s like forever away! How are we supposed to survive?!” When we returned for our one month appointment, our pediatrician prescribed baby Zantac. He saw that we were desperate for some cure to the colic and thought maybe Gooby had reflux. The Zantac did very little to quell the crying. He cried so much, I had no idea if his cries were because he was in pain, if he was tired, if he was hungry, or if he was just pissed. It all sounded the same to me. I cried a lot too, and around the same time Gooby started Zantac, I started Zoloft to treat the post-partum depression that had taken hold of my very being.

Being solution oriented, I sought other ways to regain some of the control we lost when Gooby joined us at home. Enter these two often controversial books: On Becoming Baby Wise and Secrets of the Baby Whisperer. I needed help, and these books provided it. Gooby was what the books called “Spirited” or “High Maintenance”. Both books preached putting baby on a predictable schedule – E.A.S.Y (Eat. Activity. Sleep. You.). YOU! After being so utterly focused on anything but myself, this sounded awesome, and it was! Instead of me trying to figure out Gooby’s impossible cues, I showed Gooby what we were going to do next. This meant he and I both felt more in control of our lives.

By the time Gooby was 10 weeks old, my post-partum was being successfully managed by the Zoloft, and I had finally started to figure out my kid. By 12 weeks old, Gooby’s crying began to dissipate, and he was sleeping up to 6 hours at night. Thank goodness, because at 13 weeks old, I had to go back to work. I remember telling a former neighbor of ours that I thought it was cruel that just when I was beginning to enjoy being a mom I had to leave my baby. My neighbor, a wise veteran dad, said “Yes, but you were able to be there for him when he needed you most.” It was true. I feel like we went to war and back together, and through our experiences Gooby and I had formed an unbreakable bond. He is my best friend. My little buddy. The little person that taught me how to be a mother – my most important accomplishment to date.

Over the last 3 ½ years, Gooby has shown himself to be precocious, funny, imaginative, smart, talkative, happy, loving, and a fantastic big brother.

We have noticed some unique attributes as well. Like the fact that Gooby never wakes up happy – instead, his day starts with a good cry. His tantrums, while normal for this stage in development, can last up to 2 hours. He is terrified of anyone touching his face, especially the doctor using a scope to look in his ears or in his mouth. This means I have avoided taking Gooby to the dentist. This leads me to Gooby’s unusual strength. He is like Incredible Hulk strong. It can take up to 4 adults to hold Gooby down for any examination. He is also floppy. When he hugs me, instead of just wrapping his arms around me, he more like melts into me. He is clumsy and somewhat uncoordinated. Last Tuesday he fell and hit his head while trying to get down from the breakfast table. He required 8 stitches, but in order to give him stitches, we had to sedate him in the ER due to his fear of anyone getting near his face. Perhaps most significantly, Gooby has trouble eating. Not only is he a messy eater (he still has to wear a bib); Gooby also stuffs his face to the point of choking. We have to watch him carefully and cut up his food up into very small pieces. And still, he chokes. He avoids tasks that require use of fine motor skills like writing and drawing, unbuttoning his pants or getting dressed or undressed himself. He has boundless energy – it feels like he goes and goes until he simply runs out of steam. And finally, at 3 ½ years old, he still drools. He drools so much that his preschool teachers change his shirt at least once per day. And no, he is not still teething. I personally do not know another 3 year old who drools like this.

It was regarding the drooling that I found myself searching, for the one millionth time, about how to help Gooby stop christening the world with his saliva. It was during this most recent Google-fest that I found a link discussing oral hypo sensitivity. An electric shock went through my body when I read this page, because Gooby fit all of the attributes described under hypo sensitivities. Why hadn’t my doctor mentioned this to me before? I mean, I’ve discussed my concerns about the drooling countless times and was told to “just wait it out.” While on this same website, I became intrigued by the other information available about Sensory Processing Disorder. After reading through various checklists, I determined that Gooby possessed enough attributes of the disorder to warrant a visit with his pediatrician. From what I understand, there is a spectrum of severity described on the website. In my opinion, Gooby is mildly affected by the symptoms he matches, though he is affected nonetheless. After reading more of the website, I started to cry. I was scared, and left wondering whether my child may have special needs.

So many people will read what I’m describing and write it off, saying things like “Oh, he is just a boy!” Or, “He is a typical preschooler.” And in so many ways, these statements are very true. But I always say a mother’s instinct is never wrong. With our pediatrician’s support, we are now embarking on a journey of discovery. A journey filled with speech and occupational therapists who will determine whether my son does in fact have a special need. I have no idea what adventures and challenges are beyond these initial evaluative steps. But I do know that I am a fierce advocate for my child, because the bond we developed in his formative first few months of life is, as I described, unbreakable. I will go to every length to ensure Gooby’s ultimate happiness in this world, and I have faith that I will succeed.

You’re trapped! You can’t imagine getting out of that dark place of despair and desperation. The walls are closing in. To make matters worse, people are telling you “Congratulations, you must be so happy!”  Your guilt for feeling the exact opposite silences your screams and so you just nod and say thank you. What else are you supposed to do? How can you say what you really feel?

This is what I experienced after the birth of my first child. When my son was about two weeks old, I started having intense feelings of depression and anxiety. I thought my life was over and couldn’t believe what I just done. I ruined my life. A lot of my feelings were unfairly directed at my husband. I took my anxiety, and anger out on him. I couldn’t be with him. Feeling that I had to escape my “life”, I fled my house. I took my son and moved in with my mom. I would lie awake all night with my heart pounding, my body sweating. It felt like time was standing still. The clock seemed frozen, just like me. I was in utter despair. Each minute was torture. I didn’t want to do any of the things normal people do. Taking a shower was a big deal. I took care of my son because I had to not because I wanted to. I had no maternal connection to my son, for he was the one who had gotten me into this mess.

This wasn’t my first exposure to mental illness. My identical twin sister had severe postpartum depression and anxiety after her daughter was born. Years before that my mother went through a very debilitating mental illness after my father was diagnosed with colon cancer. Even though I was witness to my mother and sisters recoveries, I truly felt my situation was different and I would never get out this. When you are in it, it doesn’t matter how many times people tell you “things will get better”.  You know, or so you think you do, the truth, “Life sucks and I am trapped.”

I remember my Mom going to her morning tennis match and thinking, “Mom, what the f*** are you doing? How can you go about your normal business? I am in crisis here.  How can you just go on as if nothing is wrong when everything is wrong?” In hindsight, my mom was just following advice she received on caring for a loved one with PPD. She was taking care of herself.

One day she made me go with her to Trader Joes. I had a huge panic attack and freaked out. I saw all these people in their daily routine and wanted to scream at the top of my lungs – STOP! Everyone stop what they are doing. Don’t you get it?

On my road to recovery, one of the first things I did, with my mother’s help, was contact a psychiatrist. Not only was professional help crucial but the support of my friends and family was invaluable. I had the benefit of two people, my mom and sister, who loved me dearly and who knew first-hand what I was going through. I also had the benefit of a very loving, supportive, and forgiving husband; otherwise I don’t know if my marriage would have survived. I had girlfriends that I could really talk to – to whom I could tell my deepest, darkest secrets.

My message to you is this – Don’t be silent. Ask for and accept help. Don’t be shy about telling people your story – don’t let fear or guilt stand in the way. While you have to do work to get better, you can’t “do” your life alone. Surround yourself with people in your life who will push you to take that shower, go to the gym, and take a walk outside, even if you hate them for it in the moment.

My family pushed me to do the things I needed to do to get better. For example, exercise has always been important in keeping me grounded. During this time, my family insisted I go to the gym each day. I remember the feeling of resistance I had. Simple things were just too much for me. But there was a glimmer of a feeling, deep inside myself, that I needed to go.

In addition to professional help and an invaluable support system, medication was part of my recovery. Yes, the “M” word. Not only is there the stigma, but also the concern, of taking medication. Does it mean I can’t breastfeed? If I don’t breastfeed, am I bad mother? With the support of my family and the advice of my doctor, I chose to breastfeed while on the medication. Not only that but I continued taking it through my second pregnancy. Deep down it was the necessary choice for me. I feel fortunate that my body responded well to the medication.

I would say it was a full year of recovery. The silver lining is that after the birth of my second child I remained healthy and was able to experience that first year of life in such a different way. I cherished each moment and lived in pure gratitude.

I will be ever grateful if, by telling my story, I have helped another Mother. I am inspired by the growth in available resources, and the increasing knowledge and acceptance of mental illness associated with postpartum.

A few resources you might find useful are:

Maternal Outreach Mood Services at El Camino Hospital

SVPPD – an email group for those affected by a postpartum mood disorder

http://www.jennyslight.org/

And remember, speak out!

Stacey Holmes grew up on the peninsula and lives in San Carlos with her husband and two children. A year ago she started a parenting newsletter for her son’s school and is enjoying writing about her Mommy experiences. She finds writing cathartic. Currently a stay-at-home mom she knows her work “outside the home” is by no means done. She believes in the power of mantras and the importance of breathing.