In the midst of juggling a wailing infant and managing my own physical discomfort, I realized I had lost sight of any hope. The situation was unsustainable; I was pale, sleep-deprived, and so starved I felt indifferent to food. This was far from the blissful fourth trimester I had envisioned.
While I understood parenting came with its challenges, I knew deep down that my feelings were not just a normal part of the experience. Each time I nursed our little one, a wave of anxiety and nausea would wash over me, compounded by the fear that our precious baby was somehow at risk. I felt paranoid, overwhelmed by the safety guidelines that made me view my bundle of joy as a ticking time bomb.
Didn’t the doctor understand that I couldn’t let her sleep on my chest? Didn’t he realize the “back is best” mantra only added to my anxiety? I vividly remember the night spent in the nursery, desperately trying to get her to latch, only to be met with refusal after refusal. After five long hours without any nourishment, I felt like a complete failure. I gave in, offered her a pacifier, called the breastfeeding support line—something I once scoffed at in parenting classes—and ultimately passed the baby to my husband while I attempted to pump a tiny ounce, which she eagerly consumed.
As I navigated this tumultuous time, I found myself becoming a martyr for Team Lee—do or die! I had never felt such profound love that I would sacrifice everything for it, yet it didn’t feel healthy. Instead, it felt suffocating, like an avalanche crushing me beneath its weight.
Initially, I had received the typical support: my mother stayed with me for two weeks, friends brought meals, and family popped in with gifts for the baby. But when that help dwindled, I felt panic set in. What was this transition supposed to look like? I expected some uncertainty, perhaps a bit of urgency, and moments of bonding, but not this. It was as if I was wandering through a dark space where everyone could see me except for myself—utterly helpless yet fully responsible for the care of another life.
My postpartum depression was what some might call “high functioning.” I was going through the motions, managing my responsibilities, yet I felt a constant undercurrent of fear. My appetite was non-existent due to a condition called D-MER, and every time I attempted to express my feelings to my husband, I came across as incredulous and overly dramatic, although inside I was in turmoil.
After much reflection, I finally found the courage to explain my abnormal postpartum symptoms to my husband and brought my concerns to my doctor. He handed me a questionnaire, and I believed my answers would raise red flags. As we discussed my feelings and daily accomplishments, he initially suggested I was being too hard on myself and encouraged me to enjoy more sunshine and schedule date nights.
What transpired next was incredibly disheartening. After gathering the strength to ask for help and request medication, it felt as if he was dismissing my concerns because I was too self-aware. He had no idea how much energy it took to arrive at that moment. With my daughter in the stroller beside me, I firmly stated, “Respectfully, I know myself well enough to understand that this isn’t normal for me, and I would like to explore medication options.”
Why is it that self-awareness can sometimes disqualify us from receiving the help we need? To me, it’s more concerning that I was cognizant of my depression, as it indicated a familiarity with my struggles. In the past, I had faced my darkness alone, functioning well enough to appear merely antisocial. Motherhood illuminated the reality that merely getting by was not a fulfilling way to live; I missed the person I used to be.
Today, I continue to grapple with depression and the false narratives it spins, but one belief I’ve shed is that functioning equates to being healthy. Seeking help is an act of immense bravery; we don’t have to juggle every responsibility to prove our worth. Sometimes, the most courageous choice is to drop a few burdens and reveal our wounds to the world. Why expose our scars? Even if it doesn’t change the present moment, I choose to be brave for the child within me who aspired to be a parent and for the children I am raising, who might one day walk a similar path. I choose transparency, hoping to create a culture where future generations feel safe to share their struggles.
If you found this article resonant, explore our other content for more insights on parenting and mental health. For those considering family-building options, you might find our post on artificial insemination kits helpful, and check out this resource for a deeper understanding of the IVF process. Additionally, my insights were inspired by discussions found at Modern Family Blog, an authority on parenting topics.
Summary:
In this candid account, Jamie Lee shares her experience with postpartum depression and the challenges of seeking help from her doctor. Despite feeling overwhelmed and anxious, she discovers that acknowledging her struggles is a brave step toward healing. By advocating for herself, she highlights the importance of transparency and support in parenting.