Motherhood and Tears: Part Two

"I think there's something wrong with me."

The words rolled out of my mouth like thunder in the distance, echoing in the room as they surged forward and then dissipated into the atmosphere. 

"What do you mean?" JM responded as he wrapped his arms around me as tears started streaming down my face.  So, I told him.

Earlier that night, Evelyn had woken up to nurse.  For the first time in a long time, I had actually been sleeping and my first response to this innocent cry for nourishment was to feel complete anger and frustration, followed by extreme guilt for ever allowing myself to feel that way.  I picked her up gently, stroked her beautiful soft hair, and nursed her silently in the dark.  When she fell back asleep, I gently put her back in the co-sleeper and just stared at her. 

It was when I finally laid my head back down to try to sleep again that the bad thoughts had started.  I don't want to recount them here because even now they give me such shame and guilt, even though I know I wasn't in control of them.  They were thoughts of hurting her, and they were ridiculous on all counts, but they were terrifying.  That's when I knew something was wrong.  It wasn't the panic attacks or the constant worry that got me; it wasn't the interest I was beginning to lose in life entirely and even my daughter that convinced me there was something wrong.  It was a series of thoughts that occurred late at night that I couldn't drown out even with prayer as I lay trying to sleep with my perfect baby next to me.

Instantly, I felt terror.  It grew inside me like a sapling on a time-lapsed video, jerkily stretching it's bare arms through all my muscles and organs, tickling me with its thorns and trying to uproot my very sanity.  I thought to myself, "If you can't even control your thoughts, how long will it be until you can't control your actions?"

I'm glad I don't suffer from any over-inflated ego, from any undeserved self-confidence that would have tried to convince me that I was strong enough to deal with this on my own and keep it buried.  It was in my weakness that I confessed to my fiance my feelings and fear that night, that made my problem our problem, that got me help.

"Are you thinking about hurting the baby?" he asked me.  Truthfully, and with tears, I answered, "Yes." 

"Would you?" That question caught me off guard.  "No," I told him with honesty and conviction.  "But I'm scared."

Seeking Help

The next day, he went to work as usual and I sat in the rocking chair as usual, waiting for him to come home, rocking the baby and trying to read her a story.  We both were worried enough, though, that he came home early.  As he watched me crying on the phone and hyperventilating as I spoke to a nurse at the pediatrician's office asking her if there was anything I could take that would be safe during breastfeeding, he offered to drive me to my parents' house back in Erie so I wouldn't have to be alone during the days, and he encouraged me to stay there with the baby until I got better.

It was upon arrival at my parents' house that things slipped even further downhill.  Being there made me more aware of the situation.  I was once again a child helpless against the big scary world searching for reassurance and safety in my mother's arms. 

That night, I sat in the living room alone while my father slept and my mom was out for a little bit.  My parents had purchased an adorable pack n' play for Evelyn to sleep in when she visits, and it was set up next to me as I sat on the couch.  I was holding her, but I didn't feel like she was actually in my arms.  I stared blankly at the television, bright cartoon characters speaking words I wasn't interested in. 

"What would happen if I just shook her!?" The thought came out of nowhere.  That's what they do; these thoughts are like rats, burrowed between the walls and beams of your mind, and they come out when things get their darkest.  I turned Evie around to face me and I had my hands around her arms.  This is insane, I thought to myself, but anxiety crept up on me and I quickly laid my baby down in the pack n' play and called my mom, asking her to come home.  I didn't want to be alone; I had trusted myself, but I felt it slipping.


"Why would anyone want to hurt their child?"

Postpartum depression doesn't care who you are.  It doesn't care that you have infinite love to offer your child, it doesn't care that you've never done anything violent in your life.  It doesn't care that you have patience to spare, an endless and well-researched knowledge of child development and the desire to encourage your child's growth with love and understanding.  It doesn't care that your favorite smell is the scent of your daughter's hair or her sweet baby breath, or that your favorite feeling in the world is her tiny hands gripping at your face while her smile is so big that keeping her lips together couldn't possibly contain it.

Postpartum depression can happen to anyone.  It happened to me. 

For years, I wanted to have a child.  It wasn't until two years ago that my fiance finally agreed that, while we wouldn't actively try, we wouldn't not try either.  While I didn't keep charts of my cycles and calculate the most auspicious days for fertilization, I also didn't do anything that would even hint of trying to keep a pregnancy from happening.  I loved Evelyn before she was even in the womb.

I cried almost every time I heard her heartbeat at my prenatal appointments; I talked to her and referred to her by name during my pregnancy.  I hardly ever used to words "me" or "I" anymore, but rather "we" and "us."  I wasn't going grocery shopping, we were.  She'd kick me, and I'd laugh at poke her back.  She'd hiccup, and I'd rub my stomach gently hoping that she could feel the pressure and be reassured that hiccups weren't so bad.  Despite throwing up all day for weeks, losing two jobs, having almost constant heartburn that would keep me up at night, low blood pressure after I ate, peeing every fifteen minutes and getting stretch marks, I never once felt any anger or regret or even remote annoyance at my pregnancy or my daughter.

After giving birth, I wanted nothing but to hold her.  To feel her weight in my arms and breathe in her newness while counting her breaths was my favorite past-time.  When the nurses came to take her from me in the hospital to do whatever checks they do, I would wait up nervously til my baby was returned, swaddled tightly and sleeping, and I'd eventually end up with her right back in my arms where she belonged. 

I'm a good mom, and I wanted to be a mom more than anything in this world.  I love my daughter with a passion I've never felt before in my life, the kind of raw emotion that convinces you that nothing in this entire world matters except your child and you would tear down anything that stood in your way to keeping her healthy and happy.

And still, I got postpartum depression. 

It doesn't happen only to women with preexisting character flaws; it doesn't happen only to women who didn't really want their child in the first place; it doesn't happen only to women who are messed up to begin with.  Postpartum depression doesn't care who you are; it can happen to anyone.

Trust me when I tell you that those of us who suffer or have suffered from PPD don't want to hurt our children.  These thoughts literally come out of nowhere and you can't control them, and they horrify us more than they horrify anyone else.  That's our child.

To be continued in Part 3...