Post-Partum Depression- A Personal Reflection

My name is Lisa. I have a 7 ½ month old, gorgeous baby girl with enormous, twinkly blue eyes, a head full of brown hair, and a wide, dimpled smile. I have an incredibly loving and supportive husband who is in a competitive school to become a dentist. My pregnancy went smoothly; my labor left little to be desired; my body healed quickly in the weeks that followed my baby’s birth; my entire family, extended family, and in-law family rallied around me to support me through my transition into motherhood. I feel that I am a very competent mother with an extensive practical background in childcare as the oldest of six kids. I have a degree in neuroscience and a passion for music. Everything in my life is going for me….

HOWEVER, for the first six months of my daughter’s life, I suffered from postpartum depression that occasionally crossed the line into psychosis. The memories are still very fresh. I feel humbled to have been asked to share my experiences and knowledge on such a sensitive subject on this blog.

Postpartum depression is a tricky thing to discuss. How do you define a condition that everyone experiences differently? How do you explain foundation-less and contradictory feelings, thoughts, and states of being? How do you recognize a condition that attacks your mind, weakens your body, and makes you feel a little bit more than a little bit crazy? The truth is, sometimes, (most of the time,) you can’t. You can only discuss the experiences, scroll through a bucket-list of potential symptoms, and hope that someone—anyone—understands.

My PPD kicked-off the day after my baby was born. I was exhausted… who isn’t after pushing seven and a half pounds of baby out of their body? But the worst part was the excessive in and out of nurses checking in on me in the hospital between the frequent feedings of this new, demanding little person in my life. I couldn’t sleep. My head was spinning, my stomach reeling, my body aching, my eyes drooping, my excitement wilting, and I could NOT sleep. I tried desperately to relax, but all my efforts were as effective as spinning wheels in a deep snow bank.

In a last ditch effort to catch some Zzz’s, I sent my baby to the hospital nursery. Within half an hour, I started freaking out. My head was buzzing with worst case scenarios in which my baby was harmed and in my weakened post-labor condition, I could do nothing about it. I became hyper-sensitive to the sounds of the hospital. I saw shadows moving around the room when there was no one there. I was hearing things I couldn’t explain. I was filled with an inexplicable terror, and I was hallucinating.

My body took the next hit. I started to tremble and convulse. I don’t think I have ever felt more terrified in my entire life, and I started to sob. My husband woke up and called in a nurse. They gave me a sedative and brought my baby back to me. I clung to her sleeping little body, and started to calm back down.

Sleepless nights fearing the worst became the norm for the next two months.

My second significant brush with PPD was in the three weeks after getting home from the hospital. I was smothered with visitors. My grandparents and mom came the first week. My in-laws came the second week, and everyone else came the week thereafter.

You’d think that I’d appreciate the help and support, but no. I HATED the company. I felt bullied and badgered by all the well-meaning visitors. In fact, I was (secretly) FURIOUS at everyone for demanding time with me and my baby when all I wanted to do was lock myself in a dark room with her and sleep. I cannot describe to you the incredible depth of the anger and malice I felt for all my well-wishers. I wanted to scream at them, tell them to go away, scold them for invading my life at such a vulnerable and sensitive time, attack them for not being more careful to wash their hands before pawing my baby, and throw them out for not being considerate enough to leave their coughs, sneezes, and stomachaches at home… but instead, I took every opportunity I could and made every excuse conceivable to take my baby to the back bedroom and hide.

And I cried a lot.

My hatred for anyone and everyone who dared to want to socialize with me or touch my baby became a regular struggle for the next six months.

Thereafter, the hardest part about PPD was simply acknowledging that I had the condition. (Don’t get me wrong. I had some really scary moments when my PPD crossed the line into the psychosis category, but I don’t feel that those moments are appropriate to discuss on a public blog.) I went two+ months feeling irrationally angry, frustrated with my life, anti-social, listless, and pathetic before I was able to recognize the condition for what it was. I think that in large part, it was so difficult to recognize because the condition fluctuated in severity from day to day—even second to second. Another reason PPD was difficult to acknowledge was my endless line of excuses I made about why I feeling the way I was feeling.

“Maybe it’s just instinct to keep my delicate baby away from peoples’ germs.”

“Those people are so insensitive to say and do the things they do.”

“The baby’s nap interferes with that event, and I don’t feel like going anyway.”

But I was the only common denominator in the equation.

Once I was able to admit to myself that I had PPD, it took another two months or so for me to really talk about my PPD with anyone other than my husband. I first broke the subject of my PPD to the world in a very difficult post on my personal blog. (You can read that post here : http://slfoltz.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html.) It was a terrifying prospect to admit my struggles and open a window into the most vulnerable part of my life. But telling people in person was not an option for me at that time, and I recognized that PPD was disrupting relationships with people that were too important to me to continue leaving in the dark.

What happened next, I did not expect. I received dozens of comments, messages, texts, and phone calls from people— some I’d never met, others I hadn’t spoken to in years—about my blog. All of the notes were encouraging, and most of them were from fellow PPD survivors.

“Hang in there. I’ve been there too, and it doesn’t last forever.”

“You’re so brave for posting this. When I had PPD….”

One friend messaged me with some websites about how to reduce PPD symptoms. Another offered me her number to call her any time day or night if I needed an ear. The outpouring of love and encouragement helped to fill me with a hope and warmth that I had all but forgotten.

And that was a turning point for me.

The next two months or so, I found the courage to talk more openly about PPD, and talking about it helped me overcome a lot of my feelings. It also happened that my baby started to wean (sadly, much earlier than I’d have liked), but that opened up more time for me to do other things and feel more like a real person again. Slowly, but surely, I started to find a way out of my despair. I was able to focus on other people and build the relationships that had been suffering from my struggles.

Looking back, PPD amplified all of my insecurities, fears, and darker feelings. But it was also a trial that helped me recognize the people who really care for me—the people who aren’t scared off by my altered mental state. And, you know what? I survived. I still have a beautiful baby girl with twinkly blue eyes and a dimpled smile. I still have an incredibly loving and supportive husband. My family is still there rallied around me. I am still a mother.

And I love it!

To those of you that are going through postpartum depression, hang in there. Keep going. I know it feels like you are in a long, dark tunnel without an end in sight, but it will pass. No, really, it will. If the burden is too much to bear, SEEK HELP!! You will want/need the support of someone who knows what you are going through or can at least listen to you as you try to sort it out. Also, there is absolutely no shame in seeing a doctor/psychiatrist/psychologist about this condition. It IS a medical condition. You are not crazy for feeling the way you feel. You are not weak. You are not pathetic. You are in no way any less of a person for experiencing this depression.

To those of you that are not sure if you are dealing with PPD, hang in there. Keep going. If you aren’t sure what’s going on, chances are you are dealing with PPD. Seek help. Find someone you trust to talk to. Talk to a professional. Again, there is no shame in getting the help and support you need.

To those of you worried about the possibility of PPD in your future, get informed. But know that LOTS of women have survived PPD, and if you are faced with that challenge, you can too.

Creating a human being is a miracle! There are bound to be setbacks. But in the long run, what you will remember most is how much you love your miracle.

(The following is a link to a wonderful talk given in the October 2013 General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints concerning mental illness that, for me, was a great strength while I was battling my PPD: http://www.lds.org/general-conference/2013/10/like-a-broken-vessel?lang=eng.)