Being unable to sleep following the birth of my last baby gave me the first clue that something was wrong. I would lie down, exhausted, but my heart would be racing as fast as my mind. Then my whole physical being would get in the act: my hands trembling, my stomach in spasms, my legs twitching involuntarily and my head and neck throbbing in pain to a rhythm I had never felt before. Taking a deep breath was a challenge.
My emotions were like a maddening game of Marco Polo. They seemed to break through the surface, sending me blindly off in an attempt to regain control, unable to catch up before they would resurface in a totally different direction.
When I saw myself in the mirror, it felt as if I were looking at the face of a stranger. My eyes were lifeless and hollow. I had lost all joy, and any hope had diminished to a distant memory. I literally could not recognize myself. Postpartum depression had stripped me of the very core of my being. Nothing seemed steadfast. I felt utterly alone.
I gave birth to my baby in July. I was unable to seek the help I truly needed until November.
I watched the news on Thursday morning as the image was played over and over again of Andrea Yates being led to a police car in handcuffs after she confessed to drowning her five small children. I wondered, if she had been watching the same footage, would she have recognized herself? I would guess not.
In my experience with postpartum depression I never had any thoughts of harming my children. I’m grateful I was spared those feelings. But I spent five months in the darkest place I’ve ever been. I’m a woman who had available resources, close friends and family, a present and loving husband and the financial ability to seek out assistance. With access to all this, I still put on the face of being in control. I still insisted to anyone who asked that I was “fine.”
Why did I do that? Looking back, I can give two reasons. The first is shame. I couldn’t admit to anyone, even my husband, that I was having a hard time coping. How do you express that you are in complete despair when everything you’ve been told or seen in the media represents new motherhood as the happiest, most fulfilling time in a woman’s life? How could I admit to my doctor that I couldn’t seem to control my emotions and that my physical body was foreign to me? I didn’t know anyone else who felt this way. Who, then, would understand?
The second reason is immobilization. This is the harshest reality of depression. I couldn’t make a move on my own. Depression robbed me of any energy it would take to make an extra phone call, get an appointment or even try to explain how I felt.
When I finally did make the call, I was fortunate enough to find a doctor who understood, who listened without judgment and took on the responsibility of helping me when I couldn’t help myself. She explained and examined my symptoms; she consulted and comforted my feelings. She educated me on the reasons for PPD, from the hormonal factors to the physiological factors to the psychological factors. Most important, I received the proper tests and the treatments I needed, included counseling.
My parents’ generation would refer to pregnancy as a woman being in a “delicate condition.” I feel that the most delicate condition starts after the baby is born. We need to dispel the motherhood myth and acknowledge that a woman is undergoing a time of incredible biological, emotional and personal change. This is not a time to send her on her way 24 hours after giving birth to care for an infant who needs around-the-clock care. I encourage anyone who knows a woman with young children to check in with her.
Even if she insists she’s “fine,” follow through with her. Don’t let the days pass. Time is critical, because if she is suffering symptoms of postpartum depression, the sooner she can receive treatment, the sooner she will be able to cope. Make the phone call for her. If one doctor doesn’t seem to understand, find another one for her. It’s an act of love that could be lifesaving.
I sleep much better now. The physical symptoms of my postpartum depression are gone, and the emotional issues, though I still have bad days, are finding a resolution. I’m certain a resolution is much further away for Russell Yates. His loss is unimaginable. Not only are his little children no longer with him, but it appears he lost his wife to postpartum depression.
Before I put my head down to sleep this week, I will bow it in prayer, along with the rest of the country, and ask that out of the agony of this tragedy there will come a purpose.
