Thank you, hormones. I really didn't need your help. I was born a worrier, into a family that is absolutely seething is anxiety. The PTSD that I struggled with after Iraq certainly pushed me a little more firmly in that direction. The usual newborn-stage exhaustion can make any mom a little anxious. But the postpartum hormone dive was what really put the nail in the coffin. This was no mere "worrywart" stuff. This was treading the ragged edge of panic.
Every night, I dreamed of Sam dying. Usually because of something I did, or failed to do. I left the door unlocked, and he got outside. I slept through some crisis, and didn't save him. I wrecked the car. I didn't buckle his car seat properly. I dropped him. All day long, I dealt with periodic surges of adrenalin; moments where a concern would pop into my head, and I couldn't relax until it had been addressed. The baby had been sleeping for thirty minutes...or was she sleeping? Was she awake, her brain starving for stimulation? Had she stopped breathing? Maybe she had stopped breathing. I'd better check. It looks like she's breathing. But maybe she's unresponsive. Better poke at her. Ok, she's fine...she's also awake, and furious. But she's ok. Wait, what has Sam been doing this whole time I've been with the baby? What if he got into the cleaning products and poisoned himself? Did you leave dishwater in the sink? He could drown in that, if he climbed up on the counters. The counters are granite. If he hit his head on those, he could cause serious damage. Your son could be lying on the floor with a subdural hematoma, and you've been standing up here watching the baby sleep! What kind of mother are you?! There are so many things that could happen, and you will never be able to protect all these kids from all those things. You are going to lose one of them, and it will be all your fault.
Written out like that, it seems pretty obvious that something was wrong. But, at the same time...I was happy. Incredibly so. I had, literally, gotten everything I'd wanted, everything I'd dreamed of, and more! My kids were beautiful. My husband was wonderful. My home was perfect. I wasn't depressed. My hospital paperwork asked about depression; warned to watch for it. But I wasn't sad. I didn't feel hopeless. I didn't feel suicidal. I just felt...scared. Most of the time. I knew how to handle being scared. You just push through it.
It all came to head when Astrid was a week old. BJ needed to go into Sioux Falls, and he asked me if I wanted to go with him. The question paralyzed me. If he went, and I stayed home with the kids, something could happen to him on the way. Or, something could happen to us out here, and I wouldn't have him here to help me. But, if I go with him, we could all get in a car accident. If that happened, he and I could both be killed, and the kids could be orphaned. Or the kids could be killed. And then what? He would blame me. He would leave. I would lose my whole family all because I was silly enough to load us all up in the car and put us all at risk just because I haven't been out of the house in a week...
BJ gave me a look. "Whats going on in your head right now?" he asked.
I broke down. I told him how I was feeling. The weird, paranoid path my thoughts led me down. The panic that was constantly pushing at me, surrounding me. The energy I was putting forth to force it back.
He did what he always does in difficult circumstances: he took charge. "Here is what you are going to do: we are all going to town. Everything will be fine, and I will be there to help you. But first, right now, you are going to call your midwife, and you are going to tell her exactly what is going on, ok? Because this isn't supposed to be how it is for you."
My midwife, of course, had heard all this before, and knew what to do. Unlike me, her office knew that postpartum anxiety is something that happens, alone, or in connection with the more commonly talked about PPD. They called in a prescription for me, that very day. Prozac, a low dose. Safer for Astrid, by far, they assured me, than a mother who was being driven crazy with worry. It could take about 6 weeks to kick in, but, in the mean time, keep talking, and do whatever you can to relax. I hated the idea of "drugging myself" so that I could parent, but I clearly needed some help. It felt like failure, but I filled the prescription, and took the pills.
It didn't take six weeks. One morning, about three weeks after starting the medication, I woke up and felt...better. Calm. Relaxed. Comfortable. Astonishingly, the medication didn't just lift the panic that had set in after Astrid's birth; it took away the feelings of anxiety that I'd been dealing with for so many years, I didn't even recognize them until they were gone. It felt like taking off a heavy backpack that I'd worn for so long I didn't even remember what it felt like not to have it weighing me down. Not only that, but focus and organization, things I'd always struggled with, suddenly seemed easier to me. The house stayed cleaner. I didn't lose things as often. I slept better. I enjoyed life more. I never noticed a single negative side effect.
The plan was for me to take the medication until the following spring. My midwife said she'd had better luck taking people off meds when its getting warmer and it's not so grey and bitterly cold. Small wonder, that; Minnesota winters can be enough to push anyone to edge of their sanity. When the time came, however, I asked if it was necessary. Did I have to go off the medicine? The short answer? No.
I have often talked to women, friends in real life, or online, who are in the same position I was in. And I hear them say what I thought: That going on an antidepressant was a failure. That it somehow proved that they weren't good enough, strong enough, smart enough, loving enough, whatever enough. And I tell them: it was a miracle for me. It was the difference between enjoying this first year of Astrid's life, and letting it pass in a blur of panic and fear. Being an even more sensitive and empathic child than average, that would have had a major impact on Astrid as well.
It's not all gone. I know that. I'm still, by nature, a worrier. Rather than raising my dosage, I find that running and yoga tend to keep that tendency under control. So, too, does journaling and talking about my worries. I have, on a couple of occasions, had to fight off that feeling of panic, but not all day, every day. Most recently, when Bryn babysat while BJ and I ran to the store, I called her on the way home, just to check in. When she didn't answer, my mind started racing through all the different terrible things that could have happened. I let BJ know. His calm manner is one of the things I love most about him. He was understanding, level headed, supportive, and reassuring. No wonder this guy is such a good nurse. And, in the end, he was right; the kids were happily watching television and eating crackers, and just didn't hear the phone ring.
I have enjoyed this past year. With all it's ups and downs, it's challenges, and it's notable lack of nights-slept-through. The fact that I can say that, is a gift. A gift given to me by medical science. I was a fool to have ever thought of it as failure. Don't deprive yourself of a chance to enjoy your life. If you think you are dealing with postpartum anxiety or depression, or, honestly, any kind of anxiety or depression, talk to your doctor and do something about it. You have nothing to lose, and so very much to gain.
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