postpartum progress

It stole things sacred, closest to my heart.  Things I had longed for since memories began forming.  Memories.  It stole memories...tender moments with my firstborn.  Friendship, peace, and laughter. Confidence.  Patience.  A clear head. Intimacy.  And sleep...lots and lots of sleep was stolen.

Postpartum depression, anxiety, and OCD ravaged my mind and my body.  I couldn't stand my husband.  I lashed out, was hyper-vigilant(more like hyper on steroids), desperately wanted to escape my racing thoughts.  Zero energy, but unable to ever rest.  I would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, for seemingly no reason.  I attended to each of Ace's needs, but was so disconnected.  Dread hung in my gut like an ACME anvil.  I worried constantly that something terrible would happen to one of us, or all of us, and, of course, it would be all my fault.    I was always sure I would walk in and Ace would have stopped breathing in his crib, or that some sort of boa constrictor would get into his crib and kill him(pretty rational fear, right?)...so I checked on him over and over and over.  Was the door locked?  Is his nutrition REALLY what it needs to be?  What if I miss something?  Panic attacks wrecked my days.  The littlest things could send me into a rage...I wouldn't hurt anyone, but the out of control feelings and intense anger was frightening, and because I was sure that if I talked about it, I would lose my baby and my husband, I didn't talk.   I didn't just have a lack of interest in relationships with friends, I didn't want to see anyone...really, I didn't want people to see me - even my closest friends.  I resented, even loathed dear friends who didn't have kids, and especially my husband.  I felt so alone and so broken.  I couldn't feel gooshy love for my baby that I had envisioned and longed for all those years.  I was always on edge, my nerves fried to a crisp.  I did have many "good" days, and have some happy memories of life with Ace as a baby.  But for the most part I was flat...or irritable.  Depressed.  Anxious.  Ornery.  Bitchy.  Grumpy.  Impatient.  Easily irritated.  Exhausted.  Jumpy.  Empty.  Incapable.  Obsessed with and rigid in my rituals and routines. I was inundated with morbid thoughts, thinking, "what if," a neighbor raped me on a run "what if" I drove into a retaining wall, or dropped my baby on the cement, or he stopped breathing or Mace lost control and drove into a tree on the way home.  "What if" I took too many pills, or passed out on a run...or, speaking of running, many times thought about running and never stopping, never looking back...leaving "all" my misery, dread, and worries behind.  Because I couldn't get on top of house work or cooking or hobbies, I literally couldn't make myself even try.  I knew I would fall short, and couldn't handle disappointing myself or my husband or my family.  "What have I done?" I wondered..."how could I have possibly been a good or even any sort of capable mom?"  I resented my baby whose well-being rested heavily in my hands, on my "performance."  I loathed him...but I couldn't stand to be away from him.  I desperately needed him to be near, but often grew irritable with his happy babble and baby-isms(including but not limited to pooping, puking, peeing, crawling, hunger, need-to-be-held). Pretty sure I grossly overreacted to eeeeeverything even remotely upsetting in my life.

But I was doing everything "right."  I was breastfeeding, drinking gobs of water, eating, exercising, running and/or taking walks with baby.  But it just barely all kept me from sinking below the surface.  I was making good choices physically and nutritionally, but couldn't lose the baby weight, and my body was lost to motherhood.  I often found myself succumbing to this "new" me, but desperate for the "old."  I was miserable, and so was Mace.  Praise God for the resilience of babies, yes?

I'm so thankful for people in my life whose brave refusal to let me continue down the PPD/OCD/Anxiety path, along with their experience with mental health and a glimmer of hope that my life could be restored led me to seek treatment.  So grateful for the ability to receive professional care and guidance.  Not sure I'll ever be comfortable saying I'm "cured."  But a survivor?  Hell to the yes.  Every. single. day.  And PPD?  You stole much from me, but there are some things I refuse to let you keep...yeah, most of what you took ;).  And there are some who say, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger..."


(ps check this gal out.  she inspires and encourages me and her site is fab)