Trigger warning: The following blog posts are heavy with describing details of Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum OCD, also including suicidal ideation, intrusive thoughts and various medical procedures/complications during pregnancy and delivery. Please use caution while reading Under the Dome posts if they might trigger you.
I want to say that the time between the last post and this one are that of mere typical "motherhood"... and in part, that's true. The other "part" is that this one... this one is the hard one to put "out" there. Truth is truth... and if I can make one person feel less afraid and less alone, I will do whatever it takes.
My second child grew inside of me as the cancer grew inside of my dad. That fact coupled with my brother's addiction (which was worsening as well) is why I can't say for sure if I had a perinatal anxiety or depression. My stressors all ran into each other and blended in an overwhelming mess. The one thing that I was for sure of was this: since I was medicated, I had the upper hand on postpartum anxiety. I was medicated therefore I would not get it a second time. I was so wrong.
The only memory I have of my pregnancy now, is that I didn't feel very connected to the new baby that was growing inside of me. I did what I could to change that... I found out gender, I gave him a name that was important to me... and that helped, but only minimally. As his due date grew nearer, we were still dealing with a lot of harsh medical things in regards to my dad's cancer and the only thing ever on my mind was that I wanted my dad to be able to meet my baby. I worried that I was playing chicken with an aggressive cancer. Thankfully, my dad was here to meet Emmett and watch him grow for 7 months following.
My son was born...
and all I felt like doing was running. Running from every change that occurred.
I welcomed him with a burst of emotions. I loved him... but unlike with his sister, I wasn't madly in love with him. I remember nursing him after some skin to skin time while nurses were in and out of my room after his birth and I finally just asked one of them to take him. I didn't want him on me anymore, I just wanted some space. Later, a nurse would overhear me tell my husband that I was starting to like my son but only because he sometimes reminded me of our daughter. She didn't say anything.
Then came the moment that everything turned...
My in-laws brought my daughter to meet her new brother... and she absolutely hated it.
I have this photo of the three of us on my bed, where she looks at him and gives a faint smile that was mostly left over from seeing me first... the photo makes it look like we are happy but I know the truth. I know that it's the moment before she was flooded with disdain and distrust toward me. The moment before she then climbed off the bed and would not acknowledge me for the next week.
I was absolutely crushed. The night after she met him I asked my nurses if it was at all possible to discharge me early so I could go home and be with her and come back the next day for my son. The nurse smiled at me uncomfortably and never answered. I knew it was a stretch, but I was really asking.
That night, when I asked for my medications that I had been taking previously, my nurse told me that she didn't think that I was allowed them and I needed to focus on being a mom now.
I didn't sleep.
I didn't sleep for days after that either.
I stayed awake and stared at walls and pondered my decision to expand my family.
No. I didn't ponder it. That's sugar coating.
I felt like I made a mistake.
I cared for my son. I took good care of him.
I needed breaks... but none came. No one ever wanted to take over my motherly duties.
Unwarranted hatred grew inside of me and I grew resentful and angry towards anyone I was around that wouldn't give me the break that I needed. I convinced myself my husband was once more, an (irrational) enemy.
Every night I sat in the quiet, nursing my son, and felt so very alone. I was jealous and angry that everyone else got to be in bed sleeping sweet slumber and I had to be a slave nursing my son. Every night in those quiet moments I would confess to myself that I didn't want to be alive anymore.
I feared for my son in his fragile newborn stage as I had my daughter... wishing time would fast forward, but at times I only overcame my fear of leaving him with his dad during a (now) evening shower because I told myself that if my husband accidentally caused my son's death then I would have a reason to leave my husband and reverse the mistake that I had made in expanding my family.
I wrote of my understanding of lives lost here.
My mental health prescriber worked hard to find a medication adjustment to help pull me from my misery but the first few attempts only made things worse. I was left in a dazed fog and sometimes I had no idea what was going on around me. I remember being at an amusement park and my husband had taken my daughter on a ride... but I stood there with my son in his Ergo carrier and felt as though I was lost and I couldn't comprehend what was going on around me or what I was waiting for.
On top of my postpartum depression, my anxiety started to take over once more, but in a whole different way. I was now bound to my house, far too afraid of leaving causing some sort of life altering change. I now had two car seats in my car and if the car got hit on one side, then it would be whoever I had decided to put on that side of the car who would be injured or possibly killed. If I took a certain way to the store, it would be my deciding to take that route that got us killed.
At my worst, I couldn't even leave to go to the grocery store 5 minutes away. The only place I did religiously go was to visit with my dad and accompany him to his doctor appointments and hospital stays. Walking into the hospital room with my son in tow brought my dad to tears.
I eventually found the right medication and an amazing therapist and began to overcome my fears of leaving the house. My dad lost his fight against the monster in June and I felt numb to the world. He had kept me going, he had been my purpose. In the months following his death I decided to go off my medication. I didn't know what part of me was grieving and what part of me was maternal mental health. I wanted to know.
Then the monster reared it's ugly head.
I remember sitting in the playroom with my kids and having an unnecessary outburst of anger.
I yelled. I said things that were untrue and uncharacteristic of me. I was typically patient and loving but I felt like a monster that day. I had to remove myself from the room and hide from them out of fear of losing control.
I called my prescriber and requested an appointment to go back on my medication. I felt like a failure. What kind of mother couldn't be kind to her children without being medicated?
I messaged Becky and told her how horrible of a person I felt.
She reminded me that medication simply drowns out the monster and allows me to be who I really am. It took a while before I agreed with what she said.
As my son's first birthday neared, with a new type of medication now stifling my demons, I began to find myself again. As my mind cleared I was certain of one thing:
I could never do this again because I was certain that I would not survive it. I sold off all of my baby items with no sorrow whatsoever. I just wanted this time in my life to be over, no matter how much I had previously wanted 3 children I knew it wasn't a possibility if I wanted to be alive to watch them grow.
The reign of the baby was over.
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