Okay 2016...I’m officially done with you. Yes, there have been some pretty fantastic moments, but overall, it's not been my favorite year. No, I’m not talking about the general state of the world - I’m talking about stuff much closer to home. Much more personal matters.
Like many moms these days, I’d consider myself fairly well read in the baby development department. I’m the kind of person who needs to understand what is happening so that I can deal with it. If I understand WHY my kid is being a jerk at this particular moment, it helps me cope and not take it personally. So, when I was pregnant I was well informed of the likelihood of postpartum depression and the signs – yet when it hit me, I had NO clue how much it was affecting my life.
Photo cred: Roxy Rodriguez
I had this idea in my head of what “depression” looked like. I pictured someone lying in bed all day, crying non-stop with a desire to harm themself and/or their child – which wasn’t me. I also thought PPD only affected “new” moms during the first 6 months postpartum.
For me, it hit later, around my sons first birthday. I started therapy the first time around then, and began a major life re-evaluation (which is when my career change began – you can read all about that here). Finally, I started to grasp the reality that I was dealing with postpartum depression. I thought it was just a super mild case though, and figured that with time…I’d be all good, not something that was bad enough to need medication.
As with many things in life, the vision in your head often doesn’t represent real-life. In my reality, postpartum depression took the form of anxiety (not the I-can’t-get-out-of-bed-because-I’m-too-sad vision I thought it was). You know that nervous feeling you get when you’re about to do something scary or uncomfortable? I was feeling that from the moment I woke up, until I’d fall asleep at night. Some days would be worse than others, and occasionally it would subside – but for the most part, it was always there.
Self portrait project circa June 2016
With the anxiety came a lack of motivation and an inability to focus. I honestly thought I had developed a case of adult ADD because I simply could NOT focus. I’d sit down at my desk each day to work, and within moments have 10 tabs open. I’d get up for a bathroom break and notice the dirty laundry, and decide to throw in a load. On the way back, something else would distract me. It was a never ending cycle of getting sidetracked by anything and everything. I’d have a million ideas, but never the “umph” I needed to act on the ideas and execute them.
It wasn’t just me that this was affecting either. It was bleeding over into all my relationships and hindering my business goals. I was irritable and short-fused, which didn’t pair well with parenting. I rarely found myself enjoying the time with my kid. Instead, I was constantly trying to keep my cool and not blow up on him. My husband? Well, same with him. I was a ticking time bomb that may start crying at any moment, so he would just steer clear. That’s the thing about depression – it’s the fucking gift that keeps on giving, to everyone around the person who’s suffering.
It wasn’t even just those closest to me. On a broader scale, it looked like me being a flake with a lot of unfinished plans. Loads of unanswered text messages, emails, direct messages and comments – because, well, I don’t know. Because I simply didn’t have the motivation. Or I was scared; afraid of being rejected or shut down.
Now, I’m not a lazy person – but I was starting to question that. Was I lazy? Why didn’t I do all these things that I wanted to do? I could imagine the type of mother and wife that I wanted to be – who I thought I was at my core, but that girl was nowhere to be seen. I no longer enjoyed things that I once did. I could envision the business I wanted to build, the service I wanted to provide…yet, I kept getting in my own damn way. I felt like a wind-up doll, who wasn’t fully wound. My frustrations led to me feeling down on myself, which only led to more anxiety and a cyclical spiral of self-doubt.
This past summer, I finally started seeing a therapist again. (If you’ve ever had a desire or curiosity to see someone – DO IT. Seriously, it’s so helpful to have someone to talk to. Someone objective and not emotionally entangled in your life and relationships, and able to give you sound advice. I strongly believe that the biggest problem with our world now, is that we don’t pay enough attention to mental health and prioritize it. One doesn’t have to suffer a tragedy to have emotional wounds.) After a few months of weekly meetings with my counselor, I was starting to feel better. She helped me devise sound strategies to dealing with the anxiety, and how to better communicate what I was feeling with my husband.
Then I suffered a miscarriage at 10 weeks.
All of the progress that I had been feeling, took a bit of a setback. While I’d maintained a reasonably limited “attachment” – knowing that unfortunately, miscarriage is terribly common – it still hurt. Getting pregnant is something that happened for us rather quickly and easily, and I’d already had one healthy, successful pregnancy…so I was overly confident. Going from being pregnant for nearly 3 months, to suddenly not being pregnant was a shock. I was sad, and the anxiety was back.
Things really boiled to a head when I went in to see my OB a few weeks after the miscarriage for a check-up, and broke down crying while talking to my doctor. After she told me that she personally ended up on Prozac after suffering from PPD after her daughter was born, I decided to accept the help. I was done struggling with postpartum depression/anxiety, and living my life at half power.
In addition to starting a super low dosage of Prozac, I joined the gym. I was determined to take this tragedy, and use it as motivation to get my life back on track. To take control of my happiness, and not be so damn stubborn and deny the help that I (now realize) was so very necessary.
Within a month, I felt like a whole new person – or, instead of a new person, like MYSELF. For the first time since my son was born (over 3 years ago), I felt like my old self and realized that I was still in there. The brave and bold woman I knew at my core, was still in there…she was just stifled. I felt strong enough to take risks once again, and had the motivation to execute the ideas that had been simmering on low for so long.
I’m a big believer that things happen for a reason. At the time of the loss, it was hard to imagine why that pregnancy wasn’t viable. I’ll never know for certain what the cause was, but I can’t help but think I wasn’t strong enough to handle it – emotionally AND physically. I needed to get myself on track before I could care for another little human.
I wish I could say I was “all fixed” now and no longer struggling, but that’s miles from true. In fact, I write this at a time when I feel myself backsliding. The difference is that I now know what’s affecting me, and the symptoms associated with it. Instead of letting it paralyze me, I choose to hit it head on and no longer hide in the shadows. Hopefully by putting it out there, I can cope with it – and maybe help bring attention to postpartum depression. It can have many faces, and affects every single woman in a different way. If this sounds like you, or someone you know – please seek help. Or, if you just want to talk to someone else who’s dealing with it, I’m here. Feel free to reach out to me.
Here's the 2017! To understanding myself better with each passing year, and learning to use my own weaknesses to help empower other women.
