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I yearn for more children. While I cherish my two kids, I often find myself imagining what life would be like with a third or fourth child. Unfortunately, expanding my family isn’t an option. After the birth of my son, now four, I was engulfed by postpartum depression. It left me emotionally shattered, leading me to misuse my anxiety medication in a desperate attempt to numb my suffering. I found myself taking three to four times the prescribed amount and often struggling to rise from bed. My mornings involved getting the kids ready for preschool before I would retreat back to bed until it was time to pick them up.
I eventually resorted to placing them in afternoon care because I felt overwhelmed being around them for extended periods. Admitting this was difficult. Alongside my postpartum depression, I battled severe anxiety that often erupted into anger. I grew increasingly sensitive to noise, which made me irritable when my kids played. I even began faking migraines, hoping my husband or mother-in-law would step in to look after them. This deception filled me with guilt and the feeling of being an inadequate mother.
My mental state deteriorated to the point of suicidal thoughts. Upon discussing my situation with my former doctor, I was informed that my depression was resistant to treatment, and many medications wouldn’t be effective for me. To me, it felt like he had given up on me. Consumed by fear and confusion, I found myself in the emergency room one Friday due to my suicidal ideation, leading to a weekend hospitalization.
Months later, I finally opened up to my husband about the severity of my struggles. I was admitted to a psychiatric facility for six weeks, where I received crucial help. Although it has been two years since my discharge, I didn’t leave the hospital completely healed. I underwent electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) every four to six weeks and attended weekly therapy sessions. Staying on top of my medications and learning to manage my anxiety became crucial. I can’t afford to slip up; it’s been an ongoing battle.
Now, I’m beginning to feel a sense of control over my conditions. I dare to say I feel “normal” again. Yet, it’s a bittersweet realization, as I ponder the possibility of not having another baby. At 37, I know there’s still time, but the thought of going through the turmoil I experienced with my other two children weighs heavily on me. I could’ve easily succumbed to my suicidal thoughts during that period, and the prospect of facing such feelings again is daunting. I also realize my husband shares these concerns. I often question whether my desire for more children is a natural instinct or if I feel robbed of something precious.
Perhaps it’s a bit of both. I have so much to be grateful for and celebrate within my family, yet I can’t shake the feeling of betrayal from my own body and mind. I envision myself cradling a newborn, inhaling that sweet baby scent, and breastfeeding. I think about sewing baby blankets that would match those of my other children, savoring their first words, and witnessing their first steps. I dream of our life as a lively family filled with joy, but I must pause those thoughts.
Instead, I cherish the memories of my children. I recall our laughter, the joy of building forts from couch cushions, their affectionate hugs and kisses, and the many “I love yous” exchanged. I reflect on the wisdom I hope to impart (even if it may be ignored) and the holidays we’ll celebrate together. I strive to find the good in each day and hold it dear.
I consciously release the dreams of what could have been and focus on what I do have, which is more than enough. My family is complete, and so am I.
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Summary:
The author reflects on her experiences with mental illness, particularly postpartum depression, and how it has affected her desire for a larger family. She shares her journey of struggle, hospitalization, and gradual recovery, while acknowledging the bittersweet reality of her situation and the love she has for her current family.
Keyphrase: Mental health and family planning
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