Updated: March 2, 2018
Originally Published: Feb. 22, 2018
Amidst the chaos of a wailing infant and the agony of nursing with cracked, bleeding nipples, I realized I had lost sight of the silver lining. The experience of motherhood, which I had romanticized as the blissful fourth trimester, had morphed into something I could barely endure. I was pale, exhausted, and so starved that I was no longer even hungry.
Though I knew parenting was challenging, I felt that my emotional turmoil was anything but typical. Each time I nursed my daughter, anxiety and nausea washed over me. The strict sleep safety guidelines made me feel as if my precious little one was a ticking time bomb. I was consumed by paranoia; how could I possibly sleep with her on my chest? Didn’t everyone know that “back is best”? I vividly recall one night spent in the nursery, desperately trying to get her to latch, only to be met with refusal after refusal. After five hours without a drop, desperation drove me to give her a pacifier and contact the breastfeeding emergency hotline (a phrase I once chuckled at in parenting class). Afterward, I handed her off to my husband, attempting to pump just an ounce for her, which she eagerly drank.
As I navigated this new role, I felt like I was losing my own identity, morphing into a martyr for Team Carter. I had never loved anything so profoundly that I would sacrifice my well-being for it; yet, the weight of this love felt suffocating.
Initially, I had received the standard support: my mother stayed for two weeks, friends brought meals, and loved ones popped in occasionally with gifts. So, when that support faded, I found myself in a state of panic. What was I supposed to do? I imagined a transition filled with uncertainty and bonding, but instead, it felt like wandering through a pitch-black room where everyone could see me but I couldn’t see them. I felt utterly helpless, yet I was solely responsible for this tiny life.
My postpartum depression was what some might call “high functioning.” I went through the motions, juggling tasks while feeling a constant undercurrent of fear. My appetite plummeted each time I nursed—thanks to undiagnosed D-MER—and when I tried to express my feelings to my husband, I sounded dramatic and incredulous.
Eventually, after some self-reflection, I found the courage to tell my husband about my unusual postpartum experiences and took my concerns to my doctor. He handed me a questionnaire, and I knew my answers would raise red flags. After reviewing my responses, he asked about my feelings and daily achievements. I spoke candidly, acutely aware of the darkness looming over me. However, he suggested I was being too hard on myself and encouraged me to spend more time outdoors and enjoy a date night.
What followed was incredibly difficult. I had summoned the strength to request this appointment, fill out the questionnaire, and ask for medication, only for him to overlook my pleas because I appeared so self-aware. He had no idea how much energy it took to get that far. With my daughter in the stroller beside me, I firmly stated, “Respectfully, I know myself well enough to recognize that this isn’t normal for me, and I want to try medication.”
Why is self-awareness seen as a disqualifier in mental health? It’s actually more concerning that I knew how depressed I was—it meant I had experienced it before. Back then, my struggles didn’t impact anyone else, and I could function enough to seem merely antisocial. Motherhood forced me to confront the fact that merely getting by wasn’t living. It illuminated just how much I missed my true self.
Today, I still battle depression and the accompanying lies, but one falsehood I refuse to accept is that functionality means health. Seeking help is an act of bravery. We don’t have to carry all the burdens alone to prove our worth. Sometimes, the bravest choice is to set a few burdens down and allow our wounds to be seen. But why expose ourselves and reveal our scars? What if it changes nothing in the present moment?
I choose bravery for that inner child who always dreamed of being a parent and for my children, who may one day find themselves in similar shoes. I aim for authenticity and strive to make transparency the norm, so they won’t feel compelled to hide their struggles.
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In summary, reaching out for help is a courageous step. Despite feeling dismissed by my doctor, I learned that being aware of my struggles is vital. Motherhood has taught me the importance of transparency and the necessity of seeking support.
Keyphrase: postpartum depression and seeking help
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