After her birth on May 17, 2009, I suffered from postpartum depression (PPD). Statistics show that 8 in 10 women experience “baby blues,” but only 1 in 10 suffer from postpartum depression. Unfortunately, I am part of that 10%. The clinical definition is “a serious illness that can occur in the first few months after childbirth,” and it includes feelings of hopelessness and worthlessness. These words, and others like them, filled the multitude of brochures nurses gave me before I left the hospital with my little bundle of agony.
In fact, the mountain of information I received upon my daughter’s arrival overwhelmed and frightened me. She was preterm. Not premature, but preterm, so the hospital staff brought up a lot of concerns that I was completely unprepared for. In my hypersensitive, postpartum state, every breath she took, every small movement caused me alarm. I panicked when they took her away to run tests, but I couldn’t function if she was in the room with me either.
I never expected to have a baby. To be completely honest, the thought was abhorrent to me. I hated the thought of someone being totally dependent on me. Even more, I feared myself – my temper, my genes, my failures, my weaknesses. To have that kind of influence over any human being was too much to consider. My family has a longstanding history of depression, alcoholism, schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, diabetes, cancer… the list goes on and on.
My pregnancy was even more unexpected. I was surprised by how happy I was when I found out. Feeling a new life growing inside of me was an aphrodisiac. I had never in my 30 years of life experienced true clarity; my mind was cloudless and sunny for the first time. Then, Maya was born four weeks too early, and – I’m almost ashamed to say it – my joy ended in one tremendous push to bring her warm and wet into the world.
Don’t get me wrong – I felt great joy when Maya was placed on my chest for the first time; great joy when I nursed her the first time; great joy when she was given her first bath; and great joy when they wheeled the two of us to our hospital room. But, in that room, terror grew inside me and threatened to overpower the joy. It started small like the tiny twitches of her hands, the sudden intakes of breath while she slept in her bassinet beside me. In the 24 hours to follow, my fear escalated to all out hysteria and frightened my whole family. Even my little niece and nephew turned to my sister-in-law and said, “What’s wrong with Aunt Dawn?”
Dawn. My name means daybreak; it’s a metaphor for birth. Because my mom has told me many times that I wasn’t named for anyone in my family, I wonder if my name was symbolic to her. She and I are very alike. She’s never been diagnosed, but I’d be willing to bet money my mother is also bi-polar. Growing up with her was an exercise in futility. Reason number 5,732 that I didn’t want to have children.
My baby’s name is Maya, and it means water in Arabic. Perhaps foolishly, I had painted my toenails aqua so the first color she saw as she came into the light would be the color of the sea. To a recovering Catholic like me, water is synonymous with baptism. I hoped Maya’s birth would cleanse me of my past – my bi-polar disorder, drug abuse, broken relationships, and, most of all, despair. Instead, I was crushed by her birth – the waves of terror blindsided me.
Postpartum depression felt just like that – like my own emotions would blindside me at any given moment, and there was no way for me to predict it. There were good moments, there were bad moments, and then there were the worst moments. The illness was like manic depression on steroids. I loved my baby so much, but I could barely stand to be with her. I also couldn’t stand to be without her.
Another thing the brochures say: “You may have trouble caring for and bonding with your baby.” Take it from me – that is an understatement! Breastfeeding was a nightmare. I wanted to so badly that I nursed until my nipples bled. I visited two lactation consultants to try to solve my difficulty, but to no avail. Compounding the problem were my violent mood swings. When Maya was with me, I couldn’t stand to look at her, and, when I did, it would only make me cry. When I was alone, I wanted to hear, see, or touch her just to reassure myself of her existence. One moment, I felt ridiculous joy holding her in the kangaroo position. The next, I was handing her off to a family member and running to hide in my dark bedroom.
My own mother held me and stayed at my bedside as I sobbed hysterically. My niece and nephew drew pictures for me. My sister-in-law told me that I didn’t have to be perfect, that I would be a good mommy no matter what. My husband did everything he could to console me – he took our daughter out of the room so I could sleep; he brought her back when I wept for her. He made sure I ate; he rubbed my shoulders and gave me words of encouragement – not just in the hospital, but also in the following days, weeks, and months after we brought her home. He took on every detail of our lives because I was incapable.
After five weeks in this manic state, I was suicidal. I told my husband, “If this is my life, then I don’t want to live.” My loving husband was the voice of sanity; he told me to call my doctor.
With Maya in the care of my father, I jumped in the car. On the highway, I contemplated just driving away and never coming back. But love forces you to do things you don’t want to do, to be brave when you feel like a coward. In the doctor’s office, I sat reading the pamphlets once again, noting the words that described exactly how I felt. When my doctor entered the room, I broke down crying (again!). She told me that every person has a burden to bear, and at least I knew what mine was. Most people, she said, go their whole lives not knowing. She recommended a combination of medication and a support group.
In the support group, I met women who were just like me and not at all like me. Some had much more tragic stories to tell and some much less. But we all had PPD in common. We were all drowning in a similar ocean and needed each other’s hands to pull us to safety.
It took about six months for me to finally feel “normal” again. At six months postpartum, the burgeoning love I now feel for my daughter was inescapable. I started to truly appreciate the love surrounding me – the love of my family and friends – but also my love for myself. It took courage and bravery to get me out of the darkness I was in, and, for that, I am proud of myself. I could easily have succumbed to the depression I felt, but I fought it tooth and nail.
In the first months of my daughter’s life, my family rallied to support me. They listened to me. They gave me encouragement. They pampered me. Most importantly, they held me up when I could not go on. I learned to see myself in my daughter’s eyes. I was like God to her, and she was me; frail, small, helpless, entirely dependent, but also strong and resilient.
The sacrifice of motherhood has taught me the meaning of love, but not in the way I expected it to. By forcing me to work through the debilitating pain of postpartum depression, I learned to be grateful for everything my parents had sacrificed for me, to appreciate the sacrifices my husband made to compensate for my frequent inability to act, and to know my own strength and resolve.
When Maya was born, my whole world seemed to collapse in upon itself. For a split second, everything ended and everything began. Her birth was my death… and my rebirth. Her life is proof that my life has meaning. Though I hope to never suffer through PPD again, the experience taught me that love is about knowing what your burden is and carrying it anyway.
