A Letter

Dear PPD/A,

It’s habit for me to start a letter with the salutation of “dear.”  However, after reading said salutation, I feel sick to my stomach.  There is nothing “dear” about you.  You’re nothing but a joy stealing, worthless piece of…feces.  I want to write the other word, but I realize no matter how young he may be, I will start to comport myself in the way I want my child to behave.  However, I refuse to refer to you as dear.  You will never be dear to me.  So, let me begin again.

PPD/A(postpartum depression and anxiety),

I feel a little crazy writing a letter to you, my mental nemesis, but then again people always describe me as a little weird, or odd.  I tend to do things a little differently, see things from a different perspective, and do my best to understand all sides of a situation.  So, I guess it makes sense I would sit down and inscribe a letter to my mental condition.

PPD/A, you came into my life approximately a week after I gave birth to my son.  I anticipated your arrival to some degree.  I’ve struggled with depression off and on for years.  So, I prepared.  I chose a counselor before he was born, readied myself to feel the baby blues and felt I had a working plan.  You laughed at me and proved just how under prepared I was.  You knocked me off my feet, tore at my heart and left me a shell of my former self.  Your path of destruction shook me to my core and made it so I was unable to enjoy the first portion of my child’s life.  For this, I hate you.

I hate you for all the times I cried in the shower, confused as to why I wasn’t happier.  I hate you for all the guilt I felt at not being blissfully content with motherhood.  I hate you for the panic that clawed at my throat each time my child woke up, cried, sighed, blinked, and even breathed.  You demolished the first weeks I spent with my child and ensured I felt very little joy.  My dream of happiness, contentment and bliss was left in ruin.  You ripped it from me and held it just out of reach so I couldn’t capture it.  You broke my heart, and you enjoyed it.  There are no adequate words with which to describe the amount of loathing I feel for you.

You caused weeks of torture, self-loathing, guilt, anxiety and at times panic.  I desperately searched for the silver lining. There was none.  You made sure of that.  I looked at my child every day and wondered if I would be the mom I once dreamed I could be.   You caused me to distrust my ability to be a mother.  I used to believe I would excel at it.  From the time I entered the work force I spent time around children.  I baby sat, worked at a day care, an elementary school, photographed children and worked in children’s emergency department.  Surely, all that training meant I would exceed at parenting.  I was excited and ready for the challenge.  Like a true alchemist, you changed my excitement into dread and fear.  I reiterate I hate you.

I hate you for my negative racing thoughts.  I hate you for my self-loathing and for my self-doubt.  I hate you for wishing my child had another mother.  I hate you for all the times I envisioned horrible things happening to my child because I am his mother.  I hate you for feeling fear, isolation and despair.  I hate you for being hesitant to share my experiences with anyone.

I hate you for causing me to feel as if posting happy posts on Facebook was a requirement.  After all, if I didn’t post in a positive manner people might start to gossip.  What if they felt I wasn’t fit to mother him?  What if they felt I wasn’t safe to be around their children?  What if they decided I needed institutionalized?  Would they start rumors about me?  Would they take my fear out of context and assume I needed supervision to mother my child?  What if, everything I worked for collapsed and I was left with nothing?

I hate you for each time my husband had to hold me, calm my fears and reassure me I am a good person and someone who loves her child with all her heart.  Instead of tears of happiness, I shed tears of anguish and fear.  There is no way I can list all the ways I hate you.  It would take too long and I would fall into one more trap you set for me.  The trap of continuing the cycle of negativity you brilliantly started the moment I became a mother to my beautiful baby boy.

That said, I have a surprise for you, a twist in the plot you’ve carefully scripted.  I am rewriting it the way I choose for it to end, or rather begin.  You see, not only do I hate you, not only do I despise the time lost to you, but I am also grateful for you.  Yes, you read that right, I am grateful.  Because of you, I learned taking medication is not the end of the world.  I learned the love I have for my child gives me a strength stronger than I imagined.  A strength which drove me to my doctor’s to obtain medication that is helping me fight back with each passing day.  I learned my devotion for him is stronger than you could ever dream to be.  I learned it is a force with which to be reckoned.  I discovered its force the day my child looked at me and smiled.  That beautiful smile pierced my heart and started a cascade of light to which you will forever lose.  You may be able to fight that light from time to time and I might lose for a moment, but in the end you will always be defeated.

Because of you, I discovered I am stronger than I gave myself credit.  I realized I have friends who will go through hell with me and not judge me.  I learned my family is more forgiving and compassionate than I knew.  I used to be ashamed of you.  Now I recognize it would have been more shameful to refuse to seek help.  Hiding my problems from the world due to the stigma surrounding you would have caused more problems.  I refuse to listen to your stigma.  I will not hide my head in shame.  Instead, I choose to take my medication, visit my counselor and fight each day to ensure you will not write the end of this story.  This is my story to tell, and while I cannot ensure it will always be happy, I will make sure it is in my words, not yours.

It’s time I end this letter.  I don’t want to spend any more time with you than I have.  While I am aware the battle will continue, willingly giving you extra moments of my time is not something I care to do.  So, goodbye PPD/A, you fought a good fight, but not good enough to win.  While, I may never win mother of the year, I will be the very best mother I can be for my child.  Please see yourself out of my life, I have no room for you.

I Want To Be Mary

Breathe.  Just breathe, relax, and be in the moment.  Why can’t I be more like Mary?  Instead I feel like Martha on speed.  Obsessed with cleaning, getting chores done, organizing, ensuring there are no toys out of place.  I hate how my living room has been over taken by the whirlwind of having an infant.  Yet I’m missing out on valuable time with my son.  Still, if I take a moment to sit and spend time with him I know I will be uptight about all that is waiting for me to accomplish.  I want to be like Mary.  I want to be like Mary. I just want to be like MARY!   Breathe, breathe, breathe, just breathe.    

I grew up listening to Bible stories each week at church.  Many seemed to make sense, but I found one to be particularly puzzling.  Jesus is visiting his friends Martha, Mary and Lazarus.  Mary is relaxed conversing with Jesus.  She listens to him tell stories and share wisdom.  Meanwhile, Martha is busily cooking, attending to her guests, cleaning and trying her best to be a good host.  She’s missing out on the enjoyment and begins to feel as if everyone has left all the chores to her.  She finally says something and instead of being vindicated, is gently encouraged to not worry so much and reassess her priorities.

I never understood why Martha wanted to be in the kitchen stressing about the menu when she could be in the dining room laughing and enjoying company.   It seemed like such a dull choice.  Throughout my teenage years I mastered the art of avoiding cleaning up after a meal.  I hated washing dishes.  Talking to people who were visiting was much preferred.  Dishes paled in comparison to a full belly and a group of people I cared about laughing and spending time together.  I relished in being able to relax and enjoy the simple things in life.  I took my responsibilities seriously, but I was just as serious about relaxation.

After completing high school and entering college, I learned what it felt like to worry more and relax less.  I often woke from nightmares about missing an assignment or forgetting to study for a test.  I began suffering from insomnia.  Depression and anxiety became prevalent in my life.  I chose to seek help from counselors.  After graduation I entered the job force and my depression and anxiety became a functional problem.  I continued counseling and learned ways to cope with it.  The most prevalent and effective way I coped with my issues was through cleaning and organizing my life, time, house, etc.  I became quite structured with many things.  Whenever I felt overwhelmed by life or a situation I cleaned.  I would start out feeling foggy and unclear.  The cleaner my house became, the more settled and clear my mind became.  Coping in this manner worked effectively through many emotional and life upheavals.  My house looked great, I fended off depression and anxiety, and I never worried about having guests or hosting a party.

A few years ago, I noticed a disturbing trend.  During parties I no longer sat and enjoyed my guests.  I was continually moving, cleaning, organizing and cooking.  I was obsessed with ensuring people’s glasses were filled, plates full and garbage emptied.  I was so emphatic with staying on top of things I often had the kitchen completely cleaned before anyone went home.  I no longer sat and watched television without multitasking.  Reading a book felt unsettling.  Relaxation was a word I no longer embodied.

Breathe. Just breathe.  The house will not fall down around you if you play for an hour with your son.  You don’t need to obsessively check your phone while he is eating.  Take a moment.  Make eye contact with him.  Breathe.  Breathe…be in the moment.  Cherish this time with him.

My son entered my life and efficiently obliterated my neat, organized little world. As my postpartum anxiety began to increase so did the fogginess of my thoughts.  My mind began to race with all I wasn’t accomplishing as well as my fear of failing all members of my family, especially him.  Uncertainty grew by the day, even the hour.  Instead of enjoying the time I had with my son, I felt trapped by it.  Grocery shopping ceased for weeks at a time.  Cleaning was put on hold.  Meals became anything my family could make on their own from the contents of our rapidly emptying shelves.  Bills began to go unpaid until I knew they were late and forced myself to sit down and get caught up.  My mind became increasingly foggy and my thoughts raced faster and faster.  It became harder than ever to relax and enjoy anything.

A few months after his birth, I began to find a rhythm again.  I accomplished things on my “to do” list.  It felt good to organize my house and my mind again.  The only problem was I began to resent my baby for interrupting my projects.  After all, if I wanted my brain to be quiet I needed to finish what I started.  When he was hungry I would ensure I had my phone so I could review my “to do” list, emails, bank account and grocery list.  Rarely did I take the moment while I was breast feeding to connect with my baby and enjoy the time with him.  I would look at him playing with his toys and long to go over and play with him.  I wanted to not care if the dishes waited till after he was asleep to be done.  I hated how compelled I felt to accomplish my task, whatever it was, immediately.  I hated the fact I had become Martha.  At least 3 months flew by in a complete fog of uncertainty and confusion.  I felt like a hamster on a wheel going absolutely nowhere.

Breathe.  Just breathe.  Relax.  Go sit next to him.  Hold him.  Read to him.  The time you spend with him is far more important than whether or not the dinner dishes are clean.  Relax, be present and in the moment with your son!  I just want to be Mary!  BREATHE!

One morning, I carried my son into the play room and sat him on the floor while I got out his toys.  He had not slept well that night and I was incredibly tired.  I lay down next to him on the floor while he played.  Every few minutes or so he turned and smiled at me.  Occasionally he would put his hand on my shoulder.  Then he leaned over and gave me a kiss.  I stared in awe at him.  My 5 month old son was teaching me how to slow down and embrace the moment.  Just for a second, I stopped and relaxed.

Unlike the movies, I did not magically begin to relish the magical moments of each passing day.  The sun did not shine brighter, birds didn’t sing sweeter and a musical montage of cute moments with my little boy didn’t happen.  I continued to struggle each day balancing my learned coping skills with the yearning to slow down and enjoy time with my baby.  I felt pulled into an endless game of tug of war.  In order to feel composed enough to play and interact with him I needed to at least have the house somewhat organized.  In order to organize the house, I needed time away from him.  It felt as if my situation forced me to lose either way.  I began to despise myself for lacking the ability to relax.  I became increasingly concerned over how I was going to influence him.  Would he grow up feeling in the way or like a responsibility that caused anxiety and stress to his mother?  Was I going to raise another person with an inability to enjoy life?  Would this be one more area for me to spectacularly fail this amazing person?

I decided it was of the utmost importance to learn from my child the ability to relax.  I attempted to remind myself the sky would not fall if I didn’t finish a task.  If a particular moment, look, action caught my attention and made me smile I spent a little extra time just relishing it.  I sat on the grass with him, held him as the wind tickled our cheeks before the rain started to fall.  I helped him pet the soft fur of our cats.  I became comfortable with looking like a complete goofball just to get him to belly laugh for me.  I made a concerted effort to show him life is made up of moments and memories, not to do lists complete and clutter organized.

I still cannot completely relax.  I still multitask when I should be just sitting.  Reading a book for pleasure continues to unsettle me.  Letting the dishes go unwashed in the sink remains a source of anxiety for me.  I am by no means relaxed and at ease.  But, every once in a while, I shed my Martha persona, scoop my son up and hold him close.  Occasionally I put music on, hold him close and dance when no one is watching.  For just a brief moment in time, my Mary wins out and I connect with my son in a blissful, carefree moment.

Breathe.  In, out, in, out.  Feel your shoulders fall, let your breathing slow.  Hold him close, and relish the moment. Don’t let time escape because the dishes feel as if they are staring at you.  Guess what? They will be there tomorrow.  The laundry will last one more day.  Stop.  Breathe in and know he is far more important than the list of things to do for the day.  His laughter will fill your soul and calm your mind more effectively than any checkmark by a completed item.  His head may not be a rose, but stop and smell it anyway.  It won’t always smell so innocent and carefree.  He will become more and more affected by life.  Allow time to enjoy him before life slowly erases his ability to have not a care in the world.  Show him the beauty of Mary, the importance of Mary and the rewards of Mary.  I want to be Mary.

A Glimpse

Worst mom, ever.  You’re awful.  You’re terrible at this.  No one should ever have to put up with a mother like you.  A noise interrupts my thoughts. The baby’s crying.  Wait, the baby’s crying!  Run.  Get there.  Soothe him!  Don’t let him wake everyone up.  They might hate him.  They might want to leave you alone.  Shh, shh, please don’t cry.  Please don’t hate me.  Please, just be happy.  Does your diaper need changed?  Are you hungry? What do you need?  What can I do to make you happy and love me?  Please, please don’t make other people hate you.  Please, be happy.  Please be happy, please.  Shhh, shhh, shhh, I’m sorry I am failing.  I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry.  Please don’t grow up to hate me.

Asleep for a moment, my cascade of negativity continues.  I’m failing.  I am failing.  He isn’t happy.  I wasn’t meant to be a mom.  It is so unfair for this precious baby to have me as a mother, as clearly I am causing stress and discontent.  I am not getting any cleaning done.  I haven’t grocery shopped in days.  I’m scared to leave the house.  And now, the one thing I thought I would be good at, I am failing.  I should never have tried to get pregnant.  I should have been content with my life the way it was.  This is my fault for wanting more, for not being satisfied with what I already had.  I helped raise two children, and that should have been enough.  I’m selfish, and this is my punishment.  

I can’t wait any longer.  I have to use the restroom.  I give the baby to dad, and go relieve my bladder.  Two minutes, that is all I need, just two minutes of alone time in the restroom.  Quiet.  Calm.  Take a moment.  Breathe.  He’s crying, I can hear it, I can hear it!  Just stop.  I don’t need to finish relieving myself.  Go, go to him, right now!  Wait, he isn’t crying?  What did I hear?  What was that noise?  No, I guess it was my imagination.  Yes, he looks fine.  Maybe, I’ll risk taking a shower.  I promise I’ll be less than 10 minutes.  Besides, he looks more content with you than he has with me all day.  Poor kid, stuck with someone who is barely treading water at this mom stuff.

The award for worst mother of the year goes too, ME!  Covering my face, I sob as the shower rains down on me.  This is awful, I’m awful.  This poor baby is suffering.  Why can’t I get him to look happy and content like the pictures I see?  Millions of moms have been through this, and their babies all look far happier than mine.  I wasn’t prepared.  No one prepared me.  I wasn’t ready for the emotional upheaval this baby brought with him the moment he was born.  I hate this.  No, don’t say that.  I love him.  I love him!  How could I say something so awful about a miracle?  I’m just bad at this, he is innocent and perfect.  Get it together and go back out there and smile.  Don’t let them know I’m feeling this miserable.  This is a blessing, a miracle.  Be happy, dammit!  I snap out of my pity party long enough to finish showering and go back to my newborn. 

At his doctor’s appointment and I discover he lost weight, a lot of it.  Why?  What’s wrong?  Am I not feeding him enough?  You mean I have been starving him?  Oh my…I am not even feeding him right.  What can I do?  How can I help him?  How do I know if I am feeding him enough?  I try to focus on the advice I am being given but it feels as if the recurrent thoughts are able to scream louder.  Oh God, help me, I am going to starve my child to death.  Ugh, loser, I am such a loser.  Focus!  Pay attention.  Teach me, please teach me how not to starve my child.  So, I need to feed him, then pump to make sure I increase my supply and get a frozen stash for when I go to work.  Ok, got it, thank you.  Feed, pump, feed pump, feed pump, how am I supposed to do laundry, cook a meal, or even take a shower?  It doesn’t matter.  There is no other way.  Don’t even consider formula.  This is the best for him.  Plus, I can’t afford formula.  I won’t worry about whether or not this is slowly driving me insane.  Feed, pump, change his diaper, let him nap. Repeat, all day long. 

This is so overwhelming.  How I am supposed to be a wife, stepmom, employee or friend anymore?  Everything in my life is being ignored except him.  It isn’t fair to them.  I am not being fair.  They are going to end up resenting the baby.  I need to find a way to still be a wife, a mother to my other children, an employee, and of course get back into my pre-pregnancy jeans.  My husband will want attention eventually and I want to be ready.  I don’t want my step children to feel as if I replaced them with the new one.  My friends will eventually wonder if I am still alive.  Of course I can’t forget to post on Facebook to show how everything is amazing and I am loving every minute of this thing called motherhood.  I can’t let my guard down and let them see me fall. 

I feel as if I am choking several times a day.  There is the sensation of a vice on my neck.  I have an appointment tomorrow and I can’t even think of it.  I have to get up early, get a shower in before he wakes up.  Feed, pump, and then try to make it to the appointment on time.  Pray he falls asleep in the car and doesn’t scream during his appointment.  Please, let them think you are a good baby.  Please don’t scream and cry.  I want people to think you’re cute and amazing.  I hope they don’t figure out you lost weight.  I don’t want them to think I’m a screw up as a parent.  I really wanted more time to figure this out before I ventured out in public.  I wish I could breathe easier.  I can’t cancel.  Just push through it.  Make sure I smile as hard as I can so no one sees what is really going on beneath the surface.  Is it hot?  Dammit, just breathe!

Guests want to come over?  Your mom?  Um, sure, yeah I can make that happen.  Tomorrow?  Dinner?  Sure.  Panic sets in rapidly.  Straighten the house!  Does the refrigerator look too bare?  What will the kids and husband say about how the baby and I are doing?  Will they tell how awful it has been and how I haven’t been able to make him happy?  Will he be in a good mood and let other people hold him?  I don’t think I can cook.  Am I choking again?  Am I shaking?  I feel like I am shaking.  What is wrong with me?  These people love me.  They know he is a baby and will cry.  Try to relax.  Breathe, breathe, try to settle down.  He is never going to quit crying if his mom isn’t able to quit crying. 

Make it stop.  Just make it stop.  Please, save me.  Save me, save my baby from the lunacy that is me.  Just save him.  I love him so much, but I’m clearly no cut out for this.  Save him, protect him, help him.  God, help me.  God, help him! 

Sadly, this was for the first 8-10 weeks of my son’s life.  No one talked about this part.  No one explained to me there would be days I felt as if I was falling apart at the seams.  Why?  Why?  Why?!  They only shared cute stories, happy stories, successful stories!  Then the baby showed up, exhaustion set in and suddenly I went spinning out of control.  I felt eaten alive by a black hole called motherhood.  I didn’t want to share with people that there were times I wanted to send him back.  I couldn’t voice the times when I patted his back to calm him and found myself patting harder than necessary.  I refused to divulge pressing harder on his pacifier in the vain hopes it would help quiet him.  Those actions were shameful and embarrassing.  I felt pressure to never let anyone know I was not keeping it together like June Cleaver.  Head up, smile pasted on my face, I embraced the falseness of my supposed happiness.  I became more miserable with each passing day.  

So, I’m breaking my silence.  I’m laying bare my innermost thoughts, feelings and emotions.   Yes, I had postpartum depression and anxiety.  Yes, I needed counseling, medication and help, so much help.  Today, the smile is more realistic and genuine.  I am love with my baby boy, and while I am still exhausted, I take it one day at a time.  I recognize the need to confide in people, ask for help and I realize my emotions are not shameful and hideous.  As a matter of fact, they are far more normal than a lot of new mother’s realize.  So, here is my advice to all those hurting and feeling the same:  stop hiding.  Reach out.  Accept help.  You’re not a failure.  You’re a mom, and you are amazing no matter what your inner voices would have you believe.