Archives for January 2011

The Hardest Thing

January 7, 2011 by ·

It’s now been seven days since I started this blog and tonight I celebrated by sending the link to several good friends. Some of them – who are moms now too – knew me pre-baby and some of them are very special mom friends whose kids are C’s friends. But none of them knew the depth to which I struggled with postpartum depression. I don’t doubt with even one ounce of my being that they’ll be supportive, but it still took me two days to work up the nerve to tell them about this blog.

I’ve had a few responses already, and I’m feeling showered with love and support. They’re all beautiful women, and they’ve been beautiful in their response to my story.

One of the things that has helped me so, so much – that I heard again tonight – is that other women think being a mom is the hardest thing they’ve ever done. SO true.

Being a mom is HARD. It’s hard whether we have one kid, or two, or five. It’s hard whether we’re partnered or single. It’s hard whether we’re struggling with postpartum depression or not. It’s just hard. I think we’d all do well to remember that and to cut ourselves, and each other, some slack.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With:

Rage Against the Baby

January 5, 2011 by ·

This month’s Good Housekeeping has an interview with Gwyneth Paltrow where she talks about her experience with postpartum depression.

“I thought postpartum depression meant you were sobbing every single day and incapable of looking after a child,” she’s quoted as saying. “But there are different shades of it and depths of it, which is why I think it’s so important for women to talk about.”

Smart woman, that Gwyneth.

That’s what I thought postpartum depression was, too. Then I read Brooke Shields’s book, which, while heartbreaking, didn’t reflect my experience either (though her experience of being totally detached from your baby sounds like it was similar to what Gwyneth experienced).

My problem was anger. Rage, actually. At best I was impatient, but more often really annoyed. Irritable. And from there I was just a blink away from total rage.

Rage is a horrible thing to experience at the best of times, and downright scary when you have a small baby who’s completely dependent on you. I managed to put him down and walk away when I really needed to, but some days it took every ounce of strength to do that, stand outside his door and breathe long enough to calm down.

I never knew anger and rage was a symptom of depression. Had no idea. I think that’s why I denied the postpartum depression label for so long – because I wasn’t generally what I considered “depressed”.

But it is a symptom, and more common than I realized. So if you or someone you know is experiencing this, ask for help. And remember that it’s okay to talk about it, because you’re not alone.

 

If you’re interested, I wrote more about my experience with postpartum rage.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Wherein the holidays come back to bite me

January 4, 2011 by ·

I was at home for a week and a half over the holidays and I think C got used to it. You’d never have known that yesterday, when we concluded that the change from his normal routine was what was causing him to behave less than angelically. So, this morning, back to work I went thinking it would be nice to get back to normal and maybe see the end of a bit of the tiny terrorist.

Had a good day at work. Got organized, was feeling in control, looking ahead to some of our upcoming work and being excited about it. My boss is off for a couple of months, during which time I get to pretend to be him. Day 1 and I haven’t screwed anything up yet. After work I went to an appointment with my counsellor (I made it through at least 7 minutes before starting to cry. 7 minutes, people! That’s a record.) and felt that it helped. She says stuff that makes me think, and while I always find it hard to change my perceptions of myself, I can at least do it on an intellectual level and start to question some of my reactions.

And then home. C was just finishing dinner and after some prompting ate a few more bites and was rewarded with some ice cream. He told me a bit about his day and we did some puzzles, and I was thinking, “Oh yeah, I’ve got this mom thing down. Look at me: went to work, had a good day, did something good for myself, now playing with my kid and thinking how funny he is.”

Things went fine at bath time. Reading stories, fine. (I love how much he’s loving books these days.) Brushed teeth, and he actually cooperated fairly well. Had our nightly cuddle in the rocking chair. He was squirmy and despite seeming tired he wasn’t getting sleepy.

“Ah well, I thought. He’ll crash soon enough.”

So I put him into bed, same as every other night. Aaaaand…. cue meltdown.

“I WANT TO SLEEP IN MUMMY’S BED!” “I LOVE you, Mummy!” “I DON’T WANT TO SLEEP IN MY BED!” “I WANT MUMMY’S BED!!!”

Apparently the change in the change in routine didn’t go over so well.

I want to say, “Why do I never see these things coming?!” And then I hear my counsellor’s voice in my head saying, “Why are you criticizing yourself for this?” So I’ll simply say this:

A few months ago, I would have been crying along with him, pleading with him to go to sleep. I probably would have walked out of his room for fear that I was going to say something that betrayed my lack of patience, and then walked right back in again for fear that he was going to climb out of his crib and land on his head. (Yes, he’s 2 1/2 and he’s still in a crib. I haven’t had the strength to suffer through that particular transition.)

Instead I just stood there for a minute and thought, “I don’t know what do to here. My mom instinct is not kicking in.” Cover face with hands, deep breath, give it a minute.

Progress. Better than I used to be, which gives me hope that perhaps one day my child will have a meltdown and I’ll know what to do, even if I don’t learn to expect it.

 

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January 3, 2011 by ·

It’s February 2009. C is eight months old and I’m not doing very well. He doesn’t sleep well (“Screamfest 2009” I think we dubbed it) and I’m so tired I seem to have totally lost my ability to cope. I decide to see a counsellor, so give my handy Employee & Family Assistance Program a call. I tell them I’m a new(ish) mom struggling with some issues and want to talk to someone about it. They refer me to a counsellor, who calls to find out more about what I’m looking for. I tell her my story – fussy baby, not sleeping, feeling overwhelmed, etc. etc.

“Sounds like you’re suffering from postpartum depression,” she says when I’m done.

“No,” I say. Emphatically. “It’s not that. I’m really not interested in calling it that.” (I think I actually said that.) “I just need to SLEEP.”

I’m sure her first thought was something along the lines of, “Oh, this one’s going to be fun” but she gamely set up an appointment to see me.

I went for my first session and talked about my issues. I cried. A LOT.

“I really think you’re dealing with PPD,” she says again. “You probably need to see your doctor.”

I wasn’t interested. Didn’t listen.

All credit to this counsellor – she had me figured out. Professionally successful and used to feeling competent and in control. A tendency to be hard on myself. Dealing with unrealistic expectations. And dealing with PPD and totally unwilling to admit it or talk to someone about whether medication might help.

I spent every session talking to her and crying my eyes out. After each hour I had a handful of little wet, balled up Kleenexes, a blotchy face and the knowledge that I was going home to a kid who, if he was asleep at all, was going to wake up throughout the night and scream his adorable little face off.

I continued to see her for about six weeks. It helped a little, I suppose, but was more exhausting than anything else and I didn’t need any help being tired. The last time I saw her I told her I’d call her to schedule my next appointment. I never did, of course. She did call me – a couple of times. I know she was concerned and genuinely trying to help. But I told her I was okay and waited for the problem to go away.

Fast forward to December 2010. In the last two years, I’ve seen five doctors and three counsellors. I’ve come to terms with the PPD label and had asked for a referral to someone a friend told me about – a psychiatrist who specializes in postpartum disorders – but I didn’t meet the criteria of having a child under one year or being pregnant. I’ve looked into a counsellor, recommended by this same friend, who runs a PPD program, but I didn’t meet the criteria for a referral to her either. So I’d given up, decided to stay on the meds I’d been prescribed, and cross my fingers.

One Monday early in December, C wakes up at 4:30 a.m. and refuses to go back to sleep. We’ve had a rough patch of sleep in the last few weeks and this puts me over the edge. I have one of those mornings where I can barely get myself out the door to work, then finally do get there and realized I’ve left my travel mug of badly-needed tea in my car. I go into my office, shut the door, bury my face in my hands and cry.

After that day – where the lack of sleep has tipped me over into a full-on scary PPD place again, where forgotten tea prompts a breakdown – I decide to make the call I’ve been putting off. I call the counsellor who specializes in PPD and agree to fork over the money to see her.

At my first appointment, I tell her why I’m there. I still can’t do it without bawling. I need someone who specializes in this to tell me if I’m nuts or not, I say. If this is normal. If it can be dealt with.

She listens quietly, patiently. When I’m done she pauses, as if waiting for more, and then says she’ll tell me what she thinks.

“I think you’re dealing with postpartum depression,” she says.

I cry with relief. Finally, someone tells me what’s wrong with me.

And I listen.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression ·

Blowing the doors open

January 1, 2011 by ·

Deciding to publicly tell your story about postpartum depression sounds just dandy until someone you know finds you.

My biggest fear, as my husband will attest, is looking weak or foolish. I know, there are worse things. Like getting sick. Or losing someone you love. Or being forced to watch endless loops of Ke$ha videos. But, for me, admitting a genuine weakness tops the list. That’s a huge part of the reason I struggled with postpartum depression (PPD) for at least a full year before admitting that I needed help. Another big reason is that PPD is not something that’s talked about much, which is something I hope to help change by sharing my experience.

Having a baby=endless happiness, right? You feel that all the sleepless nights, crying, and poopslosions are worth it because your baby is so beautiful and you’re a mother.

Except when you happen not to feel that way.

An image that’s burned in my brain is driving down the road one day when I was on mat leave and passing a new development that had condos for sale. “I want to live there,” I thought. By myself. Not with my husband and child – by myself. I could picture it perfectly: a brand new, simply appointed little condo where I could sleep all I wanted and could find the parts of me that felt demolished by the realities of motherhood. I remember thinking that I had never wanted anything so badly, and it scared the shit out of me. By November 2009, when my son was 17 months old, I was so close to having to walk away – from my marriage, from my child – that the quiet condo seemed inevitable rather than just a daydream.

As it turned out, the quiet alone time wasn’t enough of a draw. After a couple of end-of-the road-type incidents I got some badly needed help (in the form of medication, which I’ll write more about) and my overwhelming desire to lock myself alone in a room started to recede.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, and this road to “recovery” (a term I hate, but there you go) has contained its share of speed bumps. Part of the road, for me anyway, has been admitting that this was an issue for me. (Is an issue for me? I’m still not sure. I still long for that condo sometimes, but I no longer think I may actually have to do it.) I’ve actually only told a handful of people about my struggle with PPD. It’s felt a little like a twelve-step program: “Hi, I’m Robin and I struggle with postpartum depression.” I told a few friends about my struggle last year, although at the time I hadn’t labelled it PPD. I talked to them partly because I was drowning and partly because they were close friends who had also struggled with similar issues (though not PPD) and I needed their advice to help inform my decision about medication.

I also told some colleagues last fall because I was really struggling at work and I needed them to know there was a reason. That was hard. Really hard. But it also helped a lot.

One of the people I told was my boss, someone I greatly respect and who I consider a friend as well as a boss. He has seen me in a couple of my very worst moments and has been nothing but supportive. He’s also a very astute sort of guy, and he has already found this blog. I know if I asked him not to read it he wouldn’t. But, as I’ve told him, that’s not the point. I could make this blog private. I could set it up so you don’t know who I am. I could make sure nothing here or on my related Twitter account is linked to my professional persona. I could write about this in a journal instead of putting it online. But I’ve chosen not to do that.

This experience with PPD has been an absolutely huge part of what has defined me over the last couple of years. It took me by surprise and flattened me in a way I could never have imagined. And it has to be okay to talk about that.

I’ll admit a couple of other things too. I set this blog up this morning in a lazy, New-Year’s, self-improvement sort of way. I’ve been thinking about this for months and today seemed as good a day as any to do it, but I hadn’t really thought about what it meant to actually begin the telling of this story. I know what my next steps are – I have a “care plan,” if you will – and I think by creating this space I’ve decided to share that journey with you. But to be honest, it freaks me out. I’m normally a big sharer, but even this is a leap for me. I also had a bit of a panic – heart-stopped, throat-constricted panic – when I found out someone I know had found this. But I want to write about this – need to write about this – and anyone who chooses to can follow along.

Deep breath and in we go.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:
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