Suppressing the Depressing Depression

Some blog posts are vainglorious. They are intended to show off my life or my thoughts. Some blog posts are all about me. Some posts are meant to be used for my own memory book. However, after reading It Sucked and Then I Cried, I realized that not everyone is as lucky as I am or as that author is. This post is not for my friends, although you’re welcome to read it. This post is not for me, as I don’t think I’ll forget this time. This post is for the woman sitting out there googling “pregnancy”, “depression”, “postpartum” and who feels alone because she has no support system. This Bud’s for you, girl. You’re not alone. We’re in this together.

I’ve never hidden my depression or my anxiety. Am I proud of them? No. Do I wear them like a red badge of courage? No. Do I hide them and pretend they don’t exist? No. Friends and family are aware of them. When people ask how I lost weight, I note that it’s because I went off my antidepressants. My depression, originally, was situational. As anyone who’s been in law school would know, that’s a situation that can cause even the most lighthearted to want to jump, screaming, off the nearest cliff. When I sat on the floor of a bathroom in the middle of the night screaming that I wasn’t good enough for my husband? I realized I needed to do something. So, I did. It’s not like I trot this out at parties, “Hey everybody! I’ve been depressed! I’ve been on meds! Let’s dance to Vanilla Ice!” However, I don’t hide it if the conversation warrants it. I went off the anti-depressants about a year after law school ended. Situation concluded.

When we started trying to conceive, we had some problems. Again, nothing of which I’m ashamed but not exactly a way to introduce yourself to someone new. I ruminated greatly over why I wanted a baby and whether I would be able to live without having one. I had terms to come to and did. Therefore, as expected, when those two little pink lines showed themselves? I danced. I jumped. I screamed. Then? I freaked out. All normal. So far. However, then I started to feel The Beast. The Beast is big and black. A cross between a bear and the smoke monster from LOST. It’s all consuming. I began worrying about weight gain, focusing on looking horrible, and feeling as though I did not want to be pregnant anymore. For someone who worked awfully hard at getting pregnant, this was not normal. I knew that. My husband was worried. My therapist was worried. Then, week 13 came and POOF! I was me again. Obviously, the pregnancy hormones made me go all wonky. Note to self.

Second trimester was fine, mostly. Although, it was noted by my happy legal-drug providing doctor, that normal people do not leave their houses then drive back to them two or more times to ensure that the garage door did indeed close and did not reopen itself. In my defense? It does this. About once a year. And you can get into our house if the garage door is open. It’s a safety issue, man. A total safety issue. Of course, the compulsion to do this multiple times in a row? Ok, admittedly, not the most of the normal. Fine. I kept myself on notice that if the third trimester was similar to the first? I would go on anti-depressants. I met with the psychiatrist. We talked about it. He gave me the best advice I’ve ever received – “A happy mama is a healthy mama and a healthy mama is good for the baby.”

Third trimester. Where do I begin with the third trimester? As pregnancy goes, it totally blows. People told me I didn’t look that large, but man, I felt like a Weeble. Only problem was, while Weebles don’t fall down? I couldn’t get up – from a sitting position, from a squatting to pick something up position, from a lying down position. I hated it. I was hungry but then nauseous. My anxiety, however, started becoming out of control. I’d check the garage door multiple times or try to tell myself, “you’re being a moron – you saw it go down and stay down. You don’t need to turn around.” I’d go back multiple times to check things like the baby gate that keeps the dogs in, the house doors being locked, the location of my engagement ring at night. I would do these two and three times. In a row. In the span of five to ten minutes. People started asking, “aren’t you excited?” In all honesty? No. I wasn’t. I was scared. I’d be up at night thinking about how my life was going to change. I would try to work, and all I could think about was how nervous I was about everything. I’d lie to people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Yup, excited. Yup, it’s wonderful. Yup, it’s just the best thing ever.

Of course, the more I lied to people, the more anxious I became about not being excited. Shouldn’t I be excited? Everyone else was. I didn’t want to be a mother anymore. I didn’t want to have a baby anymore. There was no going back at this point. Shouldn’t I have thought about this before now? Like, 9 months before now? Why aren’t I excited? Aren’t all new-moms-to-be excited? Should I be more excited? I’m too anxious to get excited. I don’t know what to do, don’t know how to do it, don’t know why I chose this path. How could I have done something like this? I had already filled my prescription for antidepressants. I knew that I would go on them two weeks before my due date. I almost made it that long. The final straw was the morning that I sat down on the floor of the bathtub and cried while the warm shower water washed over me. I cried because I wanted to be excited but could only feel anxious. I cried in the shower because my husband was home, and I didn’t want to freak him out. I thought the sound of the water could cover my crying. Apparently not. Although, I give him credit, he let me bring up the breakdown. Knowing that sitting on the tub floor while showering is not a normal, rational behavior, I bit the bullet – or the little white happy pill, if you will. I started it at the half dose. I was supposed to up from the half to the full dose after a week. I decided to wait until after giving birth to go up to the full dose. Note: the hospital wouldn’t give me the antidepressant until the second day. I should have snuck the pill in since they told me I shouldn’t take anything they didn’t give me. I needed that pill that first night.

I sat awake for hours. I’d had the nurses take the baby to the nursery. I missed him. I worried about him. I walked down to the nusery to look in on him before going to sleep. Sleep that refused to come until 4am the next morning when I finally had them bring him back in. The following night, I asked for a sleeping pill. I managed all of six hours of sleep before the anxiety of him not being in the room woke me up again. I got home and promptly took my full dose of the antidepressant.

I knew that going on medication would mean that I couldn’t breastfeed. I was ok with that. In fact, one decision that I’ve made for my family that I’ve been most comfortable with was not breastfeeding. If it works for your family? That’s fantastic. It wasn’t for me. I knew that from before I got pregnant. I’m not nature mama. The idea of a child attached to my boob was not for me. The idea of sharing my body longer than I had to for pregnancy was not for me. I really wanted wine. And beer. And wine. I also knew that I wanted antidepressants.I wanted the antidepressant that I knew worked because I didn’t want to take any chances. That particular drug is one not around long enough for the effects to be clear. Therefore, I wouldn’t be breastfeeding. Hey, at least I had an excuse that the breastfeeding Nazis could understand, even if they didn’t like it. It was a great excuse. I’m not going to lie to you.

The first week home I don’t think would have been as happy as it was if I hadn’t made the decision to go on medication. I was happy. I enjoyed my son. I enjoyed changing his diapers and even partly enjoyed getting up in the middle of the night to hold his small body while I fed him from his bottle. Sure, I had a few breakdowns. That first day home, the dog yowled for five hours straight. I knew that the adjustment would be difficult. However, as every new mother must have, I had my visions of what being home, on my couch, with my family would be like. When the dog yowled and barked for five hours straight? I cried. I screamed. I hid in the bedroom. A few weeks later when we had another issue with the dog (which has since been resolved), I called my husband at work. I screamed. I cried hysterically for an hour and a half. I couldn’t take it. All of this while I was on medication. I cannot begin to even imagine the tantrum I would have thrown otherwise. Are medications magic pills? No. Do they solve all your problems? No. Do they erase any and all anxiety? Hell no. Do they, however, allow me to cope in a way that is mostly normal without my husband wanting to push me off the nearest cliff? Yes. If that is what they can do, then I’m all for them. I won’t say that I love being on them. I will say that I love the mother I can be because I was willing to take them.

Parenthood is excruciating – excruciatingly beautiful, excruciatingly hard, excruciatingly tiring, excruciatingly difficult, excruciatingly amazing. Life with a child is like seeing the world in hyper-color. Everything is more focused. Everything is more concentrated. Life is lived in two hour increments between sleeping, eating, diaper changing, and playing. Watching my child grow and discover is an amazing experience. Waking up in the middle of the night to feed him is a tiring experience. Walking him around for an hour while he screams his face off is a frustrating experience. I wait, some days, for the 8pm hour when he finally decides that he’s had enough of me. I count the minutes. I count the seconds. I put him in his crib and walk out, breathing a heaving sigh of relief that another day has passed. Then, about an hour later, I find myself looking at his pictures, wishing he was with me so I could snuggle him. I look forward to him waking up the next morning so that I can see his little toothless, old man smile. I know that after the first fifteen minutes or so the day will rapidly deteriorate to an endless cycle of feed, change, play, do chores. I also know that there are parts of the day, sitting with him while he sleeps on my lap, watching him find his feet, watching him stare up at me and look for me, that I wouldn’t trade for the world. By suppressing my tendencies, I have been able to chase away the racing thoughts and enjoy the times that are enjoyable. By suppressing the depression, I have been able to cope better with the times that cause me to want to run to the nearest hotel and never return. I know that I have a supportive husband, as well as family and friends. However, I also know that making decisions that benefit my family was difficult and that I will live with those decisions. My antidepressant medication doesn’t make me perfect. It makes me able to be me. The me that wanted to be a mom in the first place. The me that can look at my child’s poop-filled diaper after an hour of screaming because he’s been constipated, wipe his butt, and then tickle his tummy. Supressing my depression has allowed me to be the mom I’ve always wanted to be – one who tries her best whether I succeed or fail. I know that I have tried my best. And that’s the best that I can ask for.

And now, a gratuitous picture of said adorable child: