This is Hard. My Postpartum Journey.

This is hard. One little statement, so many applications. I have said it while exercising, while attempting to tie my shoes while pregnant, while being induced, while struggling to breastfeed, and most notably the day I knew I needed help with postpartum depression and anxiety.

If you knew my story, you would know better than I did that I was a ticking time bomb for PPD. My pregnancy checked all of the boxes: stress, job loss, relocation, assault by a family member, Preeclampsia, induction, traumatic birth, lack of recovery support, breastfeeding issues. Somehow, though, I had convinced myself that all of these experiences would make me stronger. They would, right? I mean, how else would I earn all of my shiny motherhood badges if I were not struggling in some way? I pushed through, treading water.

Meeting Zoey for the first time, the day after she was born.

My partner went back to work when I was four days postpartum, I was alone trying to breastfeed a baby and recovering from a C-section. No visitors, no help, no food. In retrospect, not because people did not care, I was always just so “together” that my friends and family never thought to offer. Nevertheless, I was ok, right? Over the next few weeks, I went through the motions with lactation visits and recovery. This struggle made me stronger, right? My badge surely had to be in the mail! This is just what mothers go through, this is all normal. This feeling of being stuck in this body I did not recognize with a mind I did not recognize was normal, right?

Soon, these badges of honor began to feel heavier and heavier to carry around, but I was too scared to lose them. I had to breastfeed, I had to have a clean and perfect nursery, I had to make homemade baby food and wear my daughter at all times. Those were the things that would make me feel better, right? The more I tried to veil myself with this mom facade the more I lost myself in the life we had created. I felt so isolated and lonely. Every day I put on an Instagram smile, posted pictures of me holding my precious girl or bragging about how amazing she was, but the water got deeper and deeper each day. The compliments began to sting; “you’re such an amazing mommy!” felt like a blow to the stomach, I would burst into tears. I knew that the person I was portraying was not an honest depiction of the turmoil that was happening inside, or the drowning feeling I dealt with every day. I was hiding something, a dark something, a mean something. A something who wanted to set fire to the mom badges and run away forever.

There were definitely happy days, this was one of my favorites. Zoey’s first beach trip!

After returning to work, I felt better. I knew it was not normal in my head, I dreamed of staying at work all day. I hated going home. I began to resent my daughter and Joshua. I kept telling myself it would all pass; this was all just a part of earning my “working mom badge.” Everyone experiences this fog, this darkness. I just need to exercise more, and take more vitamins. In all of this stifling of my own emotions I continued to receive “social media support.” I mean, who could not tell that my daughter was the light of my life, and I was obviously so happy with motherhood, right? I pushed through and silenced myself; I could not let everyone down. I could not let them see how hurt I was, how far from my former self I was. It was going to pass. I just needed to switch to an organic diet and use more coconut oil. All the coconut oil in the world could not prepare me for what I had coming.

One day I got a call from Josh, he sounded rushed and excited. He told me that his company needed a team of people to go work at a plant in Pennsylvania for six weeks. We live in Southern California, so that was a very big deal. He would get a big bonus, lots of overtime pay, and be able to see New York! Oh man, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm, not. He left in three days. I was on my own. My source of accountability, my rock, my backup and my biggest fan was now thousands of miles away. I was alone with the person that had made my life so dark and scary. But it was only six weeks, right? This was just another bump in the road, and I would surely earn a badge for this! So I cooked, and cleaned, and worked, and started back to school, and cried every night. I kept dreaming of driving away or off the freeway. I just knew my daughter would be fine without me. She would not even remember me. When this thought passed through my head I called Josh, sobbing. I did not know what to do. I was cemented to the place I stood, if I moved I would fall into the depths and be lost. I remember that feeling, of literally not being able to move out of fear.

This picture still gives me chills. It was taken the day before I finally broke down.

Of course, Josh was not happy this was happening while he was away. I told him I would be ok with him leaving, right? What did I expect him to do from across the country? How was he supposed to feel about me being with our daughter? He was going to call someone to come get her. I felt like the worst mother in the universe. He did not trust me with her, at a time when I should not have even trusted myself. So I hung up the phone. I wiped my face and grabbed my purse and we got in the car. I had no idea where to go; all the pamphlets on PPD were still in my labor bag, who should I call? I cannot just Google this. This was all too hard. I drove to my Urgent Care facility, the whole time trying to keep my car on the road, my innocent, sleeping daughter in the backseat. I was taken right back and a doctor came in looking pale and scared. I guess it was not common for moms to seek out help like this, it should be. He stated they had no psychiatric services available, but that my insurance had a hotline to call. So I was taken into a room to call.

I sat there, attempting to pour my heart out, to find some relief from this phone, while holding my fussy 7 month old, with a nurse standing over my shoulder. I could not get it out, I could not make anyone understand that I was just so done. Finally, another nurse walked over and picked up my daughter, she said loudly, “It’s no wonder she is having such a hard time, this mom needs help and everyone is just standing around watching her go at it alone.” In that moment I had clarity, I knew that these circumstances were not my fault and that by becoming a mother I had not “asked for this.” I was not getting any stronger by not asking for help, I was drowning myself. I had the power to ask for help, and when I got off the phone I had a plan, and I knew that I had to do whatever it took to make this work.

Our first hike after I got help in our new baby carrier.

I am happy to say that after going through many outlets and dealing with insurance issues, I finally got help. I am speaking from the other side, the side with a clear sky and a love-filled heart. The side that has experienced the stigma and lack of knowledge of PPD. The side that wants every mother to know that she is not alone. It is hard, and so much work. It felt as if I was going to have to tell everyone I was a liar, I was not a good mom. But you know what, the strongest woman I have ever had to be was in the moment I had to admit to being my weakest. Being a great mother is not defined by how many badges you have, or how many vegetables your child eats, or how many times you post about all the trendy motherhood things. Motherhood is doing the best to ensure that your child has a mother, a healthy one, to keep them safe and show them the meaning of strength. I hope that one day I can share my story with my daughters and empower them. To let them know that asking for help does not make you weak, it makes you honest. To deter them from stifling their raw emotions, and embracing the struggles we have as mothers as normal. And I want you to know that if you are suffering, that you are not alone. Many of us are out there with you, in that same darkness. PPD is not a rite of passage, it is not just a bump in the road, and it is not permanent. I promise you, it is hard, but it is worth it.

If you ever feel for the safety of yourself or your child, please call 911, or go to your local emergency room, they are equipped to handle these things, I promise you.

Call your HR department; many have benefits included such as hotlines and special psychiatric services.

Your OB office will also have information for you, and most hospitals will have information on PPD at discharge. Keep those pamphlets on your fridge from the moment you get home. Even your PCP will have resources and referrals to therapy and psychiatric support.

Some helpful links:

http://www.newmommymedia.com/episode/postpartum-depression-breastfeeding-friendly-treatments/

http://www.postpartumprogress.com/the-symptoms-of-postpartum-depression-anxiety-in-plain-mama-english

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

http://www.1800ppdmoms.org/

http://www.motherisk.org/

or call 1-800-PPD-MOMS

National Suicide Prevention Hotline:

1 (800) 273-8255