PPD and Me; Pt. 1

I don't know what future "parts" might hold, but I know that this beast is bigger than just one blog post.

Postpartum Depression.

The only downside to having M.

When I was pregnant my mind was constantly planning for the future. Not in the sense that I picked a house, gave it paint colors, decided which schools M would attend, etc. I was planning for me. My recovery. I greatly feared actually giving birth. I really didn't want to push anything out from down...there... That sounded horrible. I also didn't want to have to sit on a donut for months afterward. And all that blood? Ew. Physical recovery sounded awful.

But what about emotional recovery? A few years ago, I imagined having a baby was all smiles and laughs (even through the sleepless nights). I imagined my heart being so full that I could cry. I imagined feeling a sense of joy and happiness and pride. And I do feel those things. But I also feel a gnawing depression.

A year or so ago, someone named Emily took her own life after suffering from Postpartum Depression (PPD). I didn't know her personally, but most of my coworkers did. It stunned them. I could feel their hearts breaking as they shared memories of her and her lovely husband. That's when I learned about the Emily Effect. It opened my eyes to PPD.

Before M, I was prone to depression. It wasn't ever "super serious". Not like some people have it. I didn't feel the need to sit in a dark room, or be alone often. As I got closer to M's birth, I felt very unprepared emotionally. The physical recovery now seemed like a cakewalk compared to what could happen emotionally.

I read that some women take their own lives. Some harm their new babies. Most women with PPD find it hard to enjoy their little one. I didn't want that to be me, but I knew it could be. So I talked with Rich. Having had depression before, I knew talking during a downswing was not an option. I can be really good with words, but not with numbing depression. I knew that if I was struggling, the last thing I would want to do is tell someone about all the tiny details. That's why we talked about it before. I explained what it was, what possible effects it could have, and how if it did happen I'd struggle to talk about it. Rich, being the empathetic person he is, understood.

Then M came. M came in a rush. There was no pushing. There was no "this is it!" Only a groggy morning of "we gotta call Grandma. Text your parents. Text my dad." I wasn't fully awake from the medicine they gave me the previous night. I don't remember the time between being denied my pancakes and the time when the Dr. pinched me and asked if I could feel it. (No, I couldn't.) I remember seeing blood squirt onto the curtain (ew) and M being pushed out like a toothpaste from a tube. I remember Rich's face.

I also remember the second night after. (The first night I was still 90% groggy.) But that second night. I cried. And the night after that, I cried. And after that, I cried. I knew it was the baby blues, but I also knew it wasn't going to go away. The Dr. okayed me jumping back onto the anti-depressants from before my pregnancy, so I did right away. They take a few weeks to kick in all the way, and I didn't want to chance it. Weeks passed and I still struggled. I still cried. I still panicked. I still couldn't connect to the world. A nurse from the health department came to do a well-check on M (because he was so premie). She also checked on me. She listened to me, suggested I call the doctor for different medication or a higher dose. Then she followed up with me. That's what I needed. I needed someone to help pull me out of the hole. Someone that wasn't my husband who always worries about me. Someone who cared about me but was separated enough to not fear pushing me.

I called my doctor. We upped my current medication. It helped. I went from panic attacks to enjoying every second of life. That doesn't mean I'm out of the woods. It hasn't gone away. And it might not for a long while.

This week, for example, has been hard. If you know me, and you have read my recent posts, you can probably tell something is missing. Today was the culmination. Each day has been progressively worse. That's why I wrote. I write to take my mind off of the PPD. Today, though, nothing felt like I could pull out of it. Each step I took was a conscious effort. Each task I needed to accomplish was calculated. I felt like a car running out of gas. Could I get to that next corner? Could I put my shoes on? Did I have enough in me to even nap? I wanted to just do nothing. I wanted to take care of M and that's it. But I knew if I did that, I wouldn't pull out like I wanted. So I got us ready (sort of. M doesn't wear clothes which makes life easier). I drove him to my grandma's and I went to work. I pushed through the emails. I sat through the meeting. When it was over, I came home and napped. I forced myself to.

I can't say it all helped. I can't say that I'm over it. I'm not. But I'm okay for now. I don't feel crippled by anxiety or depression at this moment. It'll come back. It'll try to tear me away from my goals. It'll make me choose between putting shoes on and getting M's diaper changed. And every time, I will get up and focus. I will push. It isn't going to win. PPD might be part of my life right now, but so are many other things.

Sorry, PPD, not today!

This is a combination of grogginess and depression. You probably can't see it, but I can.
Also, check out that HAIR!

This has nothing to do with the post. This is just Rich and M playing video games. 

M is always making faces. Even in his sleep. Love this kid.