When the first eight weeks of life with my new son had passed, I breathed a sigh of relief. I finally felt like we were getting along well. I was healing from the very difficult delivery, and while I was tired, it was manageable. I was getting the house in order, we were getting back to ourselves. We had found something of a routine.
Then, around week thirteen, things began to change. The sweet, happy baby wasn't sleeping as much, he was crying all the time, he wasn't happy. Nursing him was becoming a dreaded task. My back ached and I was so sore from the long cluster feedings. He was only sleeping for an hour or two between feedings and was crying or fussing almost all the time he was awake.
I began to feel overwhelmed.
Clearly I was not doing a good job. He was sad.
What if I had hurt him in some way and didn't know?
What if he just didn't love us?
What if he knew we were terrible parents?
How could we help him to calm down?
Why was he so upset all the time?
What if he was really sick?
Why is he scared of every little sound?
Why was he so sad?
What if someone came by and saw how unhappy he was and called the police? What if they came and said that we were hurting him and took our darling son away?
How could I help him?
What was I doing wrong?
My thoughts began to spiral. I dreaded him waking up. I dreaded trying to feed him. I was anxious all the time. I wasn't sleeping. He would cry when he was hungry and my whole body would tense. My milk would stop. He couldn't eat.
I began to think of all the things that were wrong with me. I lost my ability to be objective. I wasn't able to reason. I began to wonder if I really loved him at all.
Everyone who'd been so helpful about breast feeding had said that when I looked at him, when he was hungry, my milk would let down and I would be able to feed him. Yet, the opposite was happening. I would try to nurse him, but nothing was coming out, so I would have to relax and pump and give him a bottle. I did LOTS of online research and called the pediatrician. The helpful nurse told me I should try Fenugreek. (It is a natural supplement that increases milk production and has the bonus feature of making you smell like maple syrup.) It helped, but only for a matter of days.
The bottom line was, he wasn't sleeping, he was crying all the time because he was hungry all the time. I felt like the biggest failure. I was eating more calories, taking the supplement, drinking 80oz of water a day, getting out and walking with the baby, trying to relax, eating oatmeal... and nothing was helping. I wasn't sleeping because he wasn't sleeping, and he wasn't sleeping because he was hungry. I couldn't make enough milk because I wasn't sleeping.
After encouragement from my dear cousin, we started him on formula. He nursed, then drank 8oz of formula and slept for five hours straight.... It had worked. It was amazing. He was full. He was happy again. The problem was that it was really hard on me. I had failed at the most basic of maternal responsibilities. I was the worst mother. I couldn't even feed my child. The next few days were a blur of overwhelming guilt, relief that he was no longer hungry, and marginally more sleep. Then, I began to question why... Why had my milk so suddenly stopped? Why couldn't I get the supply up even with all of my efforts and longing to provide for him? What was so wrong with me?
That is when I was told that I might have postpartum depression. Impossible, I thought. It starts within the first eight weeks, and that feels like ages ago. Then, with the help of Google, I began to educate myself.
I learned that not only can postpartum depression begin any time during the 18 months after delivery, but that it most commonly begins three to six months after your baby is born.
Why had no one told me?
Why did they not warn me in any of the eleven classes I attended before the baby came?
Why are women and their partners not warned to look for the signs during all of the danger months?
I was still in denial until I started reading the symptoms of postpartum depression online... I had almost all of them. I was weeping openly every time I had to feed him formula, every time I had to pump because he couldn't get any milk while nursing. I am still sad.
I am still irrational with my poor husband.
I am still angry much of the time.
I am still having difficulty getting to sleep.
I am still guilt stricken that I cannot feed my son.
I am still anxious all of the time.
I still check the bath water six times before I put him in it to make sure it isn't too hot or cold.
I still panic when he cries for more than a few minutes that someone will think I am neglecting him.
I still take his temperature repeatedly throughout the day.
I am still being a terrible wife and my house is in shambles.
I am still terrified that something will happen to him in his sleep.
I am still afraid that there is something wrong with me and that I will ruin his life.
I am still afraid that my depression will change his world view.
I am still angry that everyone else can manage it all work, school, baby, babies, clean house, and make dinner, and that I can't even manage to feed my son when it is all I try to do all day long everyday...
But now I know that I need help.... Now, I am getting help.
I am going to get better. Now, I can write all of this down and share it with the world because I am not going to let these thoughts, fears, anxieties, and anger control me. I am striving hard to defy them. I want to be more than the sum of my inequities. I want to be the mother my perfect, wonderful, happy son needs and deserves.
I want to share this with others to let them know that they are not alone. There is at least me, unable to feed me child, do chores, and stop worrying.
These problems are not normal, but they are common.
They are not healthy but they are not your fault.
They are not a reflection of your love for your child.
They are tricks your mind and body are playing on you.
They are temporary... they are temporary... they are temporary.
You can survive and provide a good life, be a good mother.
Now, if I just repeat all of these last lines to myself over, and over, maybe I will start to believe them about me...
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