Postpartum Depression

Being a mother has been one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received. I adore being a mother, and I adore my children. They have, unknowingly, saved me. I became a mother for the first time in April 2014, to a handsome little boy. He was a fairly easy baby. He didn’t cry much at all, and he started sleeping through the night at just 4 months old.

I became a mother for the second time in May 2016. My daughter was born at 8 pm after 12 hours of labor. My pregnancy with her was fairly normal, even though I was high risk. The labor itself was a little rough. Her heart rate kept dropping then disappearing. (I’m thankful for my nurse because without her I would have freaked out.) Even after that, she came out screaming and perfectly healthy. That’s all a mother ever wants.

The beginning was a little rough. I decided to breast feed with my daughter, and it was anything but easy. We had terrible latch issues, to the point I cried in pain every single time she latched on. I lost a lot of sleep due to her cluster feeding through out the night.

About a week in, it all started crumbling down. She cried, constantly. It seemed as though she was never satisfied, and I could never make her happy. She cried all – the – time. And I was thoroughly exhausted. I started crying all the time. I could barely stand to hold her, or even look at her. I pushed through, though. And kept pushing through for another week, until it all just crashed down completely on top of me. I woke up one morning, and I couldn’t breathe. It felt like the walls around me were caving in and I was being smothered. My heart hurt. Everything hurt. My daughter was screaming, and I couldn’t even bare to pick her up. I felt hopeless. My mother came to pick her up, and I walked outside to smoke a cigarette and completely broke down, crying. My mother came to check on me, and I finally told her how I had been feeling. I told her I couldn’t stand to look at my own daughter. I couldn’t stand to hold her, pick her up. I told her that I wanted to die. She sat and cried with me for a few minutes, then, as any mother would, shot into action. Calling around to different psychiatrists, who all told her the same thing: If she’s feeling this way, she needs to go to the hospital. Now. And so we did.

My first night in the psychiatric ward, they gave me trazodone, a medication helped to treat depression and (in my case) used as a sedative.

Honestly, I hated that medication. It made me feel groggy the next morning. I was in a daze, and couldn’t function. My entire brain was in a fog.

I was there for only 3 days. I was prescribed an antidepressant (Zoloft), and pretty much forced to go to a mandatory group therapy outreach for two weeks. I was set up with a therapist that I would see once every two weeks for months.

After being released, I stayed with my mom for another 2 weeks. I just wasn’t ready to tackle everything on my own. She helped me, she supported me, and she loved me through it all.

My daughter is now 4 years old, and she’s a firecracker. She has so much sass and attitude. I can’t imagine my life without her in it. It’s so hard to look back on those times where I couldn’t even pick her up or look at her.

I’m glad, now, looking back, that I got help. That I was upfront and honest with my mother about how I was feeling. I truly feel as though if I hadn’t have been honest, I would not be here today.

I had to tell myself multiple times from the time I stepped foot into that hospital up until my daughter was 6 months old that it was okay to ask for help. It didn’t make me weak, and it certainly didn’t make me a bad mother. In fact, I feel like it made me stronger. I learned coping techniques along the way that, even to this day, I still use for my anxiety.

If you’re ever in this position, finding yourself feeling the way I did, please, PLEASE, ask for help. It is SO hard taking care of our little one’s, but it’s even harder if we don’t take care of ourselves first.