[EXCERPT FROM ESSAY: TODAY I ASKED MYSELF: MY STORY][I AM A WRITER, NOT A DOCTOR. CLICK TO READ MEDICAL DISCLAIMER.]
[TRIGGER WARNING: PREGNANCY, DEPRESSION, MENTAL HEALTH, POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION, MISCARRIAGE, ETC.]
Nothing prepares you for motherhood, except motherhood, and I found my newly established sense of self submerged beneath a tidal wave of dedication and service to a newborn. The struggle itself isn’t just the lack of autonomy, but moreover, that every waking hour is dedicated to keeping your new baby alive, fed, and rested. The gaps left in between are just wide enough to survive. Days, weeks, and months pass, and you begin to wonder, “Will I ever feel like myself again?” More months pass, and you begin to question, “who was I again?”
In hindsight, I realize that there isn’t a more parochial, over-simplified term out there than the phrase “baby blues.” Even the more commonly used “postpartum depression” is a misnomer and doesn’t come close to encompassing the overwhelming range of moods, emotions, and anxieties outside of depression that a mother can face after giving birth. Understandably, these terms have come about as a way to normalize the inevitable hormonal turmoil the majority of mothers feel after having a baby. Still, I must admit, having experienced both clinical and postpartum depression firsthand, it does mothers a disservice to loosely define or sugarcoat terms meant to broadly describe the entire scope of our postpartum mental health.
From my standpoint, postpartum depression combines the biological uncertainty (i.e., you’ve had a hormone-producing organ ripped out of your body causing you to suffer from a condition the medical community has relegated to “the baby blues” but would be better described as “hormonal psychosis” due to the inevitable chemical turmoil your body is immediately subjected to upon birth) with environmental uncertainty (in the form of a completely dependent newborn who deprives you of sleep and renders you unable to care for even your most basic needs). Both these worlds of uncertainties collide, and the most frustrating part is that self-regulating is out of our hands and most of our wallets. It blows my mind that hospitals just cross their fingers and knowingly send mothers home without any mental health resources. The hospital called me regarding my breastmilk on multiple occasions, but never once to ask about my post-partum mental health, which are ironically interdependent issues. I’m sure the inability to ask about mental wellness has less to do with the nursing staff’s or OBGYN’s lack of concern and much more to do with hospital’s stipulations on such subjects, but the simple fact that the ability to ask each other how we are doing mentally has been buried under layer upon layer of protocol perpetuates the stigma that our mental health is something we “just deal with” by suffering silently, versus the legitimate health issue it is.
Sure, mothers have been having babies for centuries, but we were a tribal species historically. The phrase “it takes a village” used to apply to us, as there would be one woman to the left-hut and another to the right-hut to care for us and offer guidance. While our new, modern age of Western Civilization has afforded us many luxuries, it still has its drawbacks. This contemporary age of solitary independence means women who are isolated from helpful hands might need more thorough care, or at least a more comprehensive look at hormone levels and an option for counseling after we leave the hospital (anything short, in my opinion, is malpractice). And for those mothers who have miscarried and also experienced postpartum depression? My God, what absolute warriors. I could never look into the eyes of a mother who lost the precious life of her baby in-utero and try to tell her she might experience “baby blues.” Has there ever been a phrase that more largely distorted the truth?
…………..
And so, the sudden onset of new motherhood mandated yet again that I redefine who I was. I was deep in survival mode, preserving what little of my sanity taking care of a newborn had left me. My mental health seemed like a distant issue given the daily demands on my time. I could feel the ominous tidal wave of postpartum looming overhead, so I brought with me only the things that would fit in the lifeboat—my case of emergency truths—and began rowing, praying I would stay afloat. With me, I had my worthiness and my hope. Everything ancillary about me, like my personality, would have to wait out the storm.
Days after coming home from the hospital, I remember feeling helpless to control the emotions that would swoop in and overtake me. The mercurial nature is not unlike the helplessness of grief in that regard. I would sit in the rocking chair, nursing my baby, while tears uncontrollably rolled down my face, splatting in big fat droplets on the side of my son’s head.
“What’s wrong?!” my fiancé would ask, trying his best to hide the worry and astonishment from his expression.
“I don’t know,” I would admit, defeatedly, “I don’t remember how to stop crying.”
I hated being left alone, hated when my fiancé had to work or leave the house, which was uncommon ground for me, having spent the last five years purposefully isolating myself emotionally from the rest of the world. When had I become so dependent? What was this vice-grip around my chest every time I was left alone with the baby? By the time he made it home every evening, I would burst into tears, shaking with relief he had so much as crossed the threshold.
Who was I anymore? Would I ever be entitled to an identity outside of motherhood ever again? Was I destined to be an overly emotional, sutured, servant forever? Was I selfish for even thinking so?
I reconciled what I had brought with me: worthiness and hope.
I am worthy enough to ask for help. This too, shall pass.
And pass, it did. With time. And meds. Many women who experience postpartum aren’t so lucky, a statement I’m not willing to glaze over for the sake of comfortability. I was not as isolated as some mothers are, and yet I still deem that first wave of postpartum as some of my most challenging days—and I’ve stumbled around some pretty deep depths in my day. Hell is no place for a wandering face[viii], that’s for sure. As a society, we need to do better about separating new mothers from the stigma that asking for help somehow also makes them bad caregivers, perhaps by providing a more thorough mental health education, accessible counseling, and available resources during such a vulnerable time, especially to those of us who are more susceptible to the hormonally induced “lows.” We shouldn’t have to sacrifice our mental health for childbirth in the 21st century. Period.
But the one change we can all enact immediately (if not sooner) is that when a mother is brave enough to ask for help, believe her.
Until Tomorrow,
Tess
To read more of the essay, click here: Today I Asked Myself: My Story