Postpartum depression Archives

Labels

January 3, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

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 Farewell Stranger ·

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.