My struggle with post partum depression began before my son was even born.
I
had planned this pregnancy to a T. We got pregnant right away, and everything
fell into place exactly as I had imagined. I was engaged to the most impossibly
kind and loving man I had ever met, we rented a house with a big backyard and a
room for the baby, I graduated from college with a little baby bump and two
bachelor’s degrees, and by the time summer began, I was six months pregnant and
ready to focus all of my energy on preparing for our new addition.
I
was so excited and so ready. I had folders and documents on my computer
dedicated to the baby shower, the nursery, my birth plan, and my registry. I
had lists for everything, from the baby shower to what I was going to bring to
the hospital. By the time my third trimester had rolled around, we were all
set. We had everything we needed, the nursery was ready to go, and we had done
and purchased just about everything on every one of my lists.
About
a month before my due date, things changed. The perfect plan I had laid out
years before began to fall apart. While the fear and frustration of not knowing
when or how I would go into labor began to get to me, other pieces of my life
also started careening out of my control.
My
fiancé, Max, a graduate student, was supposed to have a job as a teaching
assistant during my maternity leave. This is a position he had held for the
four previous years, which allowed him to make a decent salary while working
very few hours. This was the job we had planned on him having so he could be
home with the baby and I, particularly in those first three months that I would
be on leave. Early on in the summer he found out that he wouldn’t be able to
secure this position, so he found another job—one with an hour commute, five
full work days, and a much smaller salary. But we would manage.
We
found out later that he would be able to get his teaching assistant position
after all. We decided that it would be best financially for us if he worked
both jobs at once, particularly since I would not be getting a paycheck while I
was on leave. This decision was one I knew we had to make, but it left me
worrying about how I would cope with being home with a newborn by myself in the
beginning. I tried not to let myself
dwell on that worry and I had myself convinced that it would work out fine.
Around the same
time that Max began his new job, it became extremely uncomfortable to sleep. My
hips ached no matter which position I was in, I felt dizzy when I laid on my
back, and the weight from my belly made my muscles feel like they were
shredding apart when I switched from one side to the other. I had to use the
headboard of our bed to help myself turn, and I whimpered pathetically every
time I had to do it. I woke up in the middle of the night multiple times to pee
and sometimes my belly would stick to my thighs and I would have to painfully
peel them from each other in half-sleeping agony. The little sleep I did manage
to get was turbulent, incomplete, and certainly not the quality I needed to get
me through getting up at 3 AM and being on my feet for eight hours a day at
work. My doctor, my manager, and I decided that it would be best to scale back
my hours.
With fewer hours
during those last four weeks, and with Max back at work from morning until 8:30PM in the evening five days a week, I started to lose my mind. Working,
even shorter shifts, was extremely painful. My whole body ached, I was
exhausted, and it was hard having to leave the sales floor to use the bathroom
every half hour. But being at work was the last connection I had to the outside
world. When work was over and I went home, I went home to nothing and no one. I
stayed working during those final weeks of pregnancy because I had to for my
sanity.
Our roommates, who
had a one-year-old themselves, were home often, but they were going through a
bit of rough patch during the last weeks of my pregnancy. I was much more comfortable
holed up in my room with my dogs than spending time out in the common living
space. I wanted to give my roommates the space they needed to work their shit out, and I knew they needed the space for their toddler to explore. So
when I came home from work, I hid.
I also hid away in my room because I didn't really have a choice. My body ached. It hurt to
stand or do anything. I made new lists meticulously until there wasn’t anything
left to make a list for. I completed everything on every list and I overwhelmed
myself with worry that I may have missed something. Eventually, there wasn’t
anything for me to do even if I had the energy or the stamina to do it.
I also began to really
feel what it was like to have graduated. I had dedicated seven years of my life
to academia, and now here I was at the beginning of the school year sitting in
bed surfing the internet instead of going to class. I couldn’t even start
looking for jobs within my field yet because I wouldn’t be able to start one
until after the baby was born. Without the mental challenge or stimulation of a
class full of like minds, I felt lost and lonely. My skin itched like an addict
going through withdrawal. I needed to write a paper. I needed to read a text
book. I needed to argue with someone over attachment theory. I needed anything.
During those final
weeks of my pregnancy, I caught a glimpse of what life would be like once the
baby came—once I didn’t have the chaos of my job or the stress of school to
give me purpose. Of course, I knew that taking care of a baby would give me
purpose and I knew that it would occupy a lot of my time, but I also feared
taking care of a baby with Max away at work so much. That part hadn’t been in
my plan two years ago when we planned to start our family or all those months
ago when we saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. I wasn’t supposed
to be alone.
I started to
panic. I continued to come home form work, take uncomfortable naps, and then
spend time waiting for Max to come home doing whatever I could to stay busy.
But when I ran out of things to do, I started feeling more and more alone. The
more alone I felt, the less I could bring myself to do. I started out by
cleaning our bathroom, doing laundry, making the bed, or whatever else I felt
was semi-productive and also within my range of abilities while I was so
pregnant and uncomfortable. Once I ran out of productive things to do, I
watched whole seasons of shows on Netflix and spent time trying to learn how to
use the new camera Max’s parents had given us. When I tired of those things, I
mostly just laid in bed, body aching, clicking around the internet, searching
desperately for something to make me feel normal again.
I was too afraid
to go anywhere alone in case I went into labor, and I was in too much pain to
go anywhere anyway. So for the remaining three weeks of my pregnancy, I sat in
bed feeling useless, lonely, and terrified of going into labor without Max
there. The more time I spent alone, the more panicked I became about childbirth
and motherhood and maternity leave.
Surfing Pinterest became a desperate act—like
if I could just find the right hobby or the right project, or even the right
blogger to tell me that what I was feeling was normal, everything would be
okay. I spent hours on Facebook, reaching up and out into cyberspace for any
connection that might make me feel like I was still a member of society and my
life still had value. I lived in my pajamas because who was going to see me
anyway? I didn’t eat much. Leaving my room felt pointless and reminded me that
the outside world was still there and that I didn’t know how to be a part of it
anymore.
No one tells you that depression before you have your baby is normal (it's called antenatal depression, and it IS normal).
I could feel
myself slipping, but I was also afraid to talk to anyone about it because I
felt ridiculous feeling the way I did. I was expecting a baby with the love of
my life. We were happy. We had everything we needed. Our families were excited
and supportive. Hell, my aunt had even just bought us a new car. If you looked
at any of my social media posts, my excitement and happiness gushed from every
word and every photo. How could I possibly be depressed? How selfish would that
make me?
Something I
learned very quickly in the last few weeks leading up to labor was that labor
and delivery are 100% unpredictable. That being said, I spent the last few
weeks in a mild panic. Any day could be the day and I was terrified. I was
terrified of the pain and I was terrified of what it would be like to finally
hold my son in my arms and officially become a parent. After weeks of waiting,
I ended up having to be induced a week late. The boy was just too comfortable. (Or maybe he was a little bit terrified, too.)
I was very lucky
during my delivery. The induction went quickly and smoothly. After just 14
hours of labor and 30 minutes of pushing, with very minimal pain or struggle,
Maxwell Tobias Curiel Murphey was born.
It was such a
relief for the pregnancy to be over, but I soon began to feel guilty that I
didn’t immediately fall in love with my son. He was mine, and I was glad to
have him, but all in all, he was just a tiny little stranger with a myriad of
demands right out of the gate. You hear stories and you see movies and you have
this picture of the first time you’ll meet your child in your head. You expect
to be bonded to him immediately, and you’re disappointed when you don’t feel
that huge rush of emotions the second you see him. No one tells you it’s normal
to feel a sense of detachment from your new baby. No mother wants to admit to
that.
Over the next few
weeks, Max and I struggled to adapt to all of the changes that came with a new
baby. Getting comfortable breastfeeding, figuring out when and how to change
diapers, learning what worked to get the kid to stop crying, and creating some
semblance of organization amidst the chaos was just the tip of the iceberg. And
sleeping wasn’t real anymore. It really doesn’t matter how many times you hear
people talk about not getting any sleep with a newborn. You’ll never truly
understand it until you’re up from 2AM to 7AM trying desperately to feed, calm,
and soothe a newborn baby to sleep. And the longer it takes you to get that
baby to sleep, the less sleep you’ll get. The less sleep you get, the more
easily frustrated you are. I found myself crying alongside my son multiple
times, wondering if he’d ever be full or if we’d ever get to sleep again.
Apparently babies are supposed to sleep for 16-17 hours a day (16-17 hours of lies). We were lucky if Little Max slept for 8 hours in 24 hour period.
Perhaps even
worse, having to care for a squirmy, demanding, screaming baby is made even
more challenging with a recovering body. Little Max tore me up on his way out.
I lost a lot of blood and it was difficult to sit or stand for a long time
while I healed. This, combined with a severe lack of sleep, gave me sunken eyes
and pale skin like a heroin addict. I
had a new respect for single mothers and fathers. Doing anything like this
without the support of a significant other is something I can firmly say I
could never do. Having Max by my side to help with caring for Little Max was
one thing, but having him there for emotional support helped me maintain what
was left of my sanity, too.
A week after
Little Max was born, Max went back to work. I had foolishly thought I would
have hours of free time during my maternity leave, and I had made all of these
plans to keep myself busy. But I quickly learned that free time was now a
luxury. I spent almost all day in bed, nursing every hour or two, sometimes for
hours at a time. Breastfeeding was a struggle, and I was only able to do it
sitting down with Little Max lying on a pillow while I held him with one arm. I
couldn’t do anything with one arm but click “play” to begin another series on
Netlifx.
People will tell
you to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” but I can honestly tell you that this
advice is almost impossible to take. When he did sleep, I had to frantically do
laundry, take care of the dogs, clean what I could, and reorganize my feeding
station so that it would be ready when the baby woke back up. I found it hard
to remember to eat, and self-care in general went out the window. I was too
nervous to shower without Max home, in case the baby woke up while I was in the
shower. Because of this, I showered approximately twice a week. There were too
many other things to do for showers to get in the way. And I was stuck inside
all of the time anyway. No one was going to see my greasy hair or smell the
stale breast milk on my skin.
I remember one
day, after a particularly good night’s rest, I felt up to leaving the house. I
only had two outfits that were easy enough to remove for nursing, and I was
starting to feel gross wearing the same clothes every day. I decided to make
the ten minute trip to Old Navy with Little Max and look for a new outfit or
two. This trip was supposed to make me feel good about myself. It was supposed
to make me feel normal again.
The moment we
pulled out of the driveway, the baby started crying uncontrollably. When we got
to Old Navy, I got in the back seat and tried to console him. I even took him
out of the car seat to soothe him. Nothing was working. He wouldn’t stop
crying. I decided to go back home. He continued to cry for the trip home, and
for an additional hour or two once we got home. He wouldn’t stop crying.
Nothing I did for him worked. That’s when I really came to terms with the fact
that my life wasn’t mine anymore. I didn’t deserve new clothes. How could I
have been so selfish, thinking that I did? I decided that motherhood meant that
none of my needs really needed to be met, and that I couldn’t be or do anything
that might make me feel good about myself. At least not while Little Max was a
baby.
From that day
forward, I started to let myself disappear into what I thought motherhood was
supposed to be.
When I noticed myself
slipping into darkness, I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t think I had time to feel
depressed about my new life. Feeling the cold grip of depression was something
I had experienced before, but this felt different. It felt wrong to be
depressed at a time when you’re supposed to be filled with joy. But how is any
new mother expected to avoid it? In an instant, her life is no longer her own. Her
body is aching and running on two hours of sleep, she’s un-showered and still
in pajamas, and someone is screaming at her constantly and she can’t figure out
why. 24 hours a day. Every day.
And the screaming
may be the worst part. You want so desperately to be able to help your child.
Seeing them struggle and watching them clearly in pain from crying so hard
isn’t easy. Sometimes there is no solution to this problem, and you get to feel
like a complete failure for a little while. Sometimes you may even resent your
little bundle of joy, and that makes you feel even more like a failure.
Feeling the weight
of failure motivated me to fight for my sanity. I fought hard. I saw a
therapist. I made myself shower every day. I got dressed in clothes other than
pajamas and did my hair most days, even if I wasn’t going anywhere. I plucked
my eyebrows. I called my mom. I went outside. I took time to hold my baby and
enjoy him when I could, because it’s easy to forget that the screaming, pooping
tyrant is your child and that you love them.
Every day is a
struggle. It’s hard not to feel like a vending machine sometimes, and it’s hard
to feel like I’m still an autonomous citizen of the world. At the end of a day, I'm often overwhelmed and I end up getting angry with Max for leaving me home with the baby every day (even though I know that by working, he is contributing). I find myself having to stop and remind myself not to take out my frustration on him, because even though it feels a little better to be able to blame someone for how shitty I feel, it really isn't anyone's fault and ultimately we're a family and we're in this together.
The one piece of
advice from other moms that I keep getting is that “it will get easier.” I
believe them, of course. But words like that are pretty meaningless at 3:30AM
when you’re staring into the red, wide-mouthed, squinty-eyed face of an
inconsolable infant.
I guess above any
advice, the most important thing I try to remember day-to-day is that being a new mom
isn’t easy for anyone and it’s okay to feel things. It’s okay to feel scared. It’s
okay to feel alone. It’s okay to feel frustrated. It’s okay to feel a little
detached. It’s okay to feel like a failure sometimes.
Someday, I’ll
re-enter society and feel a little more normal again, but for now I’m allowed
to feel whatever I need to feel to get myself through the hard part.
And to get through
that hard part, I have to keep fighting. I have to be okay with failing a little
bit. I have to understand that sometimes I will be overwhelmed and that it's okay to ask for help. I have to let go of my prior expectations of motherhood. I have to take
time to shower and pluck my eyebrows.
Above all, I have to fight hard to keep whatever is left of my old self, while still allowing myself to adapt and change in positive ways.
I refuse to
disappear into motherhood. I am more than that.
