I quickly knew that I was dealing with something bigger than I could handle on my own.
The problem was that I didn't know what to do about it. I called my obstetrician and tried to describe what was happening and all I could get out was "I'm so sad....I don't know...I'm just so sad..." They gave me a prescription for an antidepressant and I took it. Things weren't getting better though. They were getting worse.
I went from over the moon in love can't wait to have another to WHY DID I DO THIS? Did I make a mistake? Does she hate me? Am I just not the right type of person to be a mom? Am I already screwing this up? What if we never bond? What if, what if, what if.
Part of my problem was that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Sure, I could change diapers, I could make bottles and I could handle all the mind-numbing tasks of taking care of my child. I, however, couldn't figure out how to leave the house with my baby.
I literally couldn't leave the house. I was - and still am to a much lesser degree - terrified of being in public with her. I was afraid that I would have no idea what to do if she cried. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to take care of her needs. I was afraid of being judged. Of people looking at me or looking at my baby. Seeing her cradle cap. Seeing her scratches because I'm too afraid to cut her nails. Judging me for bottle feeding. For not cloth diapering. Basically, I was afraid of people seeing me be a mom.
Around this time, I started having panic attacks. I know that my anxiety was rubbing off on my daughter. The more anxious I got, the more she would cry. The more she would cry, the more anxious I got.
I started thinking this was just going to be the way my life is now and then I started wondering if I could handle that. Yes, I started thinking about killing myself. I started looking for ways out. I wanted to throw the baby at my husband and run away every time he came home from work. I started feeling like I didn't care if I ever saw her again. I was detaching myself as a coping method.
People kept saying it would get better...I kept waiting for it to get better. Crying, begging, pleading for it to get better.
I was spiraling out of control.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
It all starts somewhere.
Mine started with my unexpected failure at breastfeeding.
For an entire day my baby screamed and nursed. Screamed and nursed. Screamed and nursed. And then eventually just screamed. My breasts felt empty and sore. The screaming wouldn't stop. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to soothe her when she refused to eat anymore.
I called my pediatrician's nurse line three times before I finally just put the phone next to the baby so they could hear her frantic, relentless cries. They told me to take her to the emergency room. I was so panicked and scared and overstimulated at that point that it actually seemed like a good idea.
We packed our eight day old baby up and drove her to the emergency room across town in the snow. She fell asleep in the car. I almost said that we should just keep driving around but I was terrified there was something wrong with her. I had cried so much that my eyes were almost swollen shut and people in the waiting room averted their gaze from my crazy, puffy eyes and screaming newborn.
The ushered us back to a room very quickly. The pitying looks from every nurse were painful. The looks that said "Oh...first time parents...". The doctor came to see us and said to go home and figure it out. I burst out crying - again.
The next morning I fed my baby her first bottle of formula. She looked up at me relieved and slept for the first time in what felt like days. I decided then in a moment of hormonal panic to formula feed.
I felt awful about it. I felt like a failure. I felt like my baby wouldn't need me for anything anymore. I felt like my husband would be angry that I hadn't tried harder. I worried about the cost of formula. I worried about everything.
When I look back I feel like I can trace the very beginning of my postpartum depression and anxiety to those two days. Those moments of desperation and despair.
That's where this journey started.
For an entire day my baby screamed and nursed. Screamed and nursed. Screamed and nursed. And then eventually just screamed. My breasts felt empty and sore. The screaming wouldn't stop. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to soothe her when she refused to eat anymore.
I called my pediatrician's nurse line three times before I finally just put the phone next to the baby so they could hear her frantic, relentless cries. They told me to take her to the emergency room. I was so panicked and scared and overstimulated at that point that it actually seemed like a good idea.
We packed our eight day old baby up and drove her to the emergency room across town in the snow. She fell asleep in the car. I almost said that we should just keep driving around but I was terrified there was something wrong with her. I had cried so much that my eyes were almost swollen shut and people in the waiting room averted their gaze from my crazy, puffy eyes and screaming newborn.
The ushered us back to a room very quickly. The pitying looks from every nurse were painful. The looks that said "Oh...first time parents...". The doctor came to see us and said to go home and figure it out. I burst out crying - again.
The next morning I fed my baby her first bottle of formula. She looked up at me relieved and slept for the first time in what felt like days. I decided then in a moment of hormonal panic to formula feed.
I felt awful about it. I felt like a failure. I felt like my baby wouldn't need me for anything anymore. I felt like my husband would be angry that I hadn't tried harder. I worried about the cost of formula. I worried about everything.
When I look back I feel like I can trace the very beginning of my postpartum depression and anxiety to those two days. Those moments of desperation and despair.
That's where this journey started.
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