If postpartum comes

Can we just talk for a minute about postpartum depression? Like really talk? 

When I had our oldest, Elliott I remember there being a short period of time when I felt a little hopeless, sad, overwhelmed, and frustrated. All things that I easily passed off as being a new parent. You didn’t really hear a lot about postpartum then. Or at least, I didn’t. What I experienced with Elliott though, paled massively in comparison to what I would face after our twin girls were born. 

We misscarried a few weeks after finding out we were pregnant with our second baby. That was really hard. Even though we only knew we were pregnant for a short time, and I wasn’t very far along, both Jesse and I were thrilled to be having another baby. It was heartbreaking to lose something we wanted so badly.  

We kept trying, and nearly ten months later were shocked and excited (and terrified!!!) to discover that we were pregnant with twins. Even though multiples run in my family, it genuinely never occurred to me that I could have more than one baby at a time. 

almost two months from delivery.

As you would expect, the pregnancy was exhausting. In the spirit of honesty, I will divulge that I spent ninety percent of every day in bed with my one and half year old next to me. We lived on pop tarts, peanut butter sandwiches and cereal, because those were the things that took virtually no energy to make. 

When Elliott was awake we would watch Nick Jr. and Disney Jr and when he was napping I would watch the discovery channel, TLC network, and pretty much every episode of law and order. Elliott’s room was directly across from ours, so when he would wake up from his nap, I would shuffle across the hallway, drag him and few toys into my bedroom, and we’d snuggle up. When Jesse left for work in the morning, we were in bed. When he got home at night, we were in bed. I couldn’t wait to not be pregnant anymore. All of the things I would do! All of the places I would go!!! 

It was a whirlwind delivery, and it took nearly six hours from the time I delivered them to the moment I finally got to meet my babies. In the delivery, Sofie cried immediately, but Ruth was silent. Everyone was silent. Everyone in the operating room held their breath while the numerous nurses and Dr worked through (what felt like forever, but) was ultimately less than a minute, before she breathed her first breath and cried. Because of that (along with a few unnecessary mistakes), our daughters ended up being transferred to the NICU at a hospital that was twenty minutes from the one I delivered at. 

I sobbed from my wheelchair as my babies were transported together in one incubator strapped to a stretcher, and carried in an ambulance to the other hospital. They had several little tubes going in different directions, and they looked so small wrapped in their little burrito hospital blankets.

My Dr told me it was my choice, but that he was willing to release me early from the hospital, and I didn’t even hesitate in my response that I wanted to be discharged as soon as possible. I still remember sitting in the waiting room of the NICU - having gone directly from one hospital to the other - and looking down at my ankles that had turned into giant swollen trunks of what I can only assume was water retention. I remember thinking they weren't my legs. I felt detached from my body. All I could really think about was if my babies were going to be OK. 

By NICU standards, my girls were beasts. Ultimately, they only needed to be in their little NICU incubators for a week. There were three babies who were there when we arrived and still there when we left, and I know there are millions of babies whose stays are much, much longer. We felt grateful that they improved so quickly. I was ecstatic the morning I called the hospital (which I did every morning to find out if they had both gained an appropriate amount of weight) and they told me, I could come and get my babies. I literally skipped down the hallway, shouting “They’re coming home! They're coming home!” (One week postpartum delivering twins, guys. That’s how excited I was.) 

I’m sharing all of that, because I feel like it’s important to tell the story of my joy, the process of bringing them here, and how much we loved them, because I want to make it clear, that those things don’t matter. I didn’t love my babies any less than any other mother. It isn’t the love for your children that saves you from postpartum depression, and it isn’t a lack of love or desire to have them that puts you in it.  

I honestly couldn’t even tell you how long it was after that, when the weight of everything started to press in on me. Pretty much everything from that moment on, is still a blur. My next substantial memory was locking myself in my bathroom with one of those sweet new babies in my arms, and I was crying uncontrollably. I couldn’t even tell you why. I remember Jesse banging on the bathroom door telling me to hand him the baby, because he was worried about her being in there with me. 

That scared me. It obviously scared him. I remember thinking - How could he think I would hurt my baby? - but I also remember thinking something was wrong with me, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. I just… wasn’t me. After a while of hysterical sobs, I calmed down, and came out of the bathroom. Again, I couldn’t even tell you what drew me out, or what happened during the massive chunks of time from that moment, to when we moved from Utah to Southern California when the girls were six months old. 

The next few years of memories I have, are sporadic at best. Imagine flipping through slides on an old projector where most of the images are damaged, that’s what my memories are like. A clip of laying on the couch in my living room. Then, blank. A clip of potty training my son. Blank, blank. A clip of talking to Jesse on our bed. Blank. A clip of eating dinner around the table. Blank, blank, blank. A clip of the girls first birthday party. Blank again. A fight here. Crying there. Blank, blank. It’s like a three year gap in my life, with only a handful of moments to remind me I lived it. 

I have so few memories of that time, and I honestly can say that most of them aren’t good. Most of them, I want to forget. I want to forget how alone I felt. I want to forget how neglected my babies were. I want to forget how sad I was. I don’t really talk much about how bad it was, because it wasn’t really until years later when I was better, that I realized how sick I actually was.

Also, it’s painful, and I’m ashamed. 

I never hurt my babies, but I ignored them. I ignored them, because I couldn’t be their mom. I was so broken. The most difficult thing about postpartum, is that it’s nearly impossible for your brain to be clear enough to realize why you feel broken. Or that you are even broken at all!

I won’t go into all of the heartbreak I felt, but I will (because I think it’s important to be honest) tell you that it got so bad, that Jesse would come home from work and ask if anyone had eaten. That was something we didn’t do. The thought of making a bottle for my babies, felt impossible. That’s not something that should feel insurmountable, but it did. He would come in the door (and even though we were usually fighting - because I also didn’t know why I felt so disconnected to him) he would immediately feed our three babies, and then make me something to eat. I laid on the couch all day. The voice in my brain would tell me that I was lazy and worthless and I just didn’t have the strength to function in the capacity of motherhood. I was a failing mother, and a worthless person. That wicked voice was really loud most days. 

This image says a lot more than I realized at the time about what was going on between us when this picture was taken. 

I think the hardest thing of all for me to come on here and admit, is that I never got help. I never really knew what was wrong with me, until my girls were almost three years old and I started to feel a little like a human again. Most Dr’s will tell you that postpartum can last up to a year, the worst of it for me was roughly that, but overall mine far surpassed that estimation. 

I wish I could tell you that someone realized I needed help, and stepped in to helped me, but honestly, no one really knew. I knew I was sad, but I also knew people didn’t want to be around sad me, so I would be happy around people and sad again the moment we were alone. Jesse thought I hated him, and that wasn’t true. I hated me. I hated everything I felt inside. I wanted to feel like a person again. I wanted to feel like myself. But since no one knew I needed help, no one knew how to help me. Even my husband, -who I have to say, as far as husbands go, is pretty dang awesome- generally just felt frustrated by the fact that I wasn’t the woman he married. In his defense, he didn’t understand. Neither one of us did. 

I suffered and struggled and pretty much cried my way through the first three years of my daughters lives. I held them and loved them, but somehow simultaneously felt completely detached. I felt like the chain connecting us had been clipped somewhere where it should have been strong and impossible to break. 

To pour salt on that wound, the hard drive with a good portion of the pictures from those years of their lives, was dropped, and to this day, we’ve been unable to recover the photos. I still have it though! I’m hoping someday we’ll meet a tech genius who can restore the images of those moments in our first years together that both my heart and my brain lost.

when I was posting this picture, Jesse said:  "That was a fake smile."  EVEN WITHOUT KNOWING WHAT THIS POST WAS ABOUT, HE COULD SEE AT A GLANCE THAT MY HAPPINESS WASN'T GENUINE. 

Postpartum is a fog that distorts your life. It comes quietly and broadly shadows your memories. It isolates your mind from reality. While it isn’t something you can really plan for, it is something that everyone should be aware of. When I had my babies, I didn’t even know I should be concerned about my mental health. I honestly had no idea what postpartum was. No one told me I might have a hard time after I had the babies I wanted so badly and loved so much. And while postpartum depression is talked about a lot more now than it was when I was first having kids, it should be discussed more.

So, in an attempt to help someone else (anyone else), and in the hopes of starting a ripple effect that will hopefully reach someone who needs to be helped... whoever you are, wherever you are...…

ASK. Ask that mother who has a new baby how she’s feeling. After she tells you she’s fine, ask her again. Ask the mom with two, five, ten kids if she’s ok, and after she tells you she’s fine, ask her again. Ask the woman with the three year old who seems like she has it all together, how she’s doing. And then, after she tells you she’s fine, ask. her. again. And then, check up on her. Keep checking. Keep asking. And also, if you -in your own mothering can’t seem to keep your own head above the water, don’t beat up on yourself. Don’t give up. Enlist the help of others. 

If postpartum depression comes, ASK. Ask for help. 

Few things are more isolating than motherhood. Without even meaning to, you close yourself off from the rest of the world. You wrap yourself up in the title of motherhood and forget to breathe. You bury yourself in the needs of your children and then inevitably, suffocate under the pressure.

As women generally, we have a tendency to pile on mounds of responsibility anyway, we always think we can handle more (or we think it doesn’t feel like “more”) and then before we know it, our legs collapse beneath us. Even without the help of postpartum depression, it’s easy to sink into a really lonely place. 

I have always suffered from an over abundance of “I’m sure It’s fine, I don’t want to overreact”. I would honestly let my house burn halfway to the ground before I would call the fire department, because I wouldn’t want to inconvenience them if it weren't actually burning. I’m that mom that puts off going to the Dr, (partially because I’ve seen a lot in my mothering years, and I’m learning what’s serious and what isn’t, but also,) because I don’t want to get to the office and realize my kid is actually fine. For me, asking for help isn’t something I just do. I have a really bad habit of talking myself out of help because... I’m probably fine. We’ll figure it out. I just need to get out a little more. Maybe I’ll just watch another movie… (As if your core mental health can be cured with the right rom-com.) 

Why do we do that? Why do we wave at people on the shore as we sink, and then smile instead of yelling “Hey! I think a shark just ate my leg and I’m caught in a riptide. Any chance someone can toss me a life vest?”

Why is it so hard to ask for help? 

I am so guilty of this. I usually just think that through sheer force of will, I will be able to patch my sinking ship and still give a thumbs up as it goes down. 

Also, please don't read this and feel bad about all of the women you haven’t helped, because it’s also unfair of me to tell people to help others when -because I’ve been trying to stay afloat for so long myself- I haven’t been able to help anyone else myself. The truth is, you can’t keep someone from drowning if you are drowning. You can only help if you’re capable of helping. That’s why it's important to be reminded to ask (and then listen) because sometimes that’s a massive task for the tired overwhelmed Mom, and it’s all you can do. Do what you can with what you have. Don’t run faster than you have strength. All of that.

If you are in a place that feels a little like being stuck in tar, and you're finding it difficult to pick your baby up to feed them (or you!), tell someone. Anyone. The best advice I can give you if you are the one dealing with it, is to let those close to you know that you need help, and then -and this will be the hardest part- let them help you. Let yourself be helped.

I was so afraid of slipping back into the black hole of postpartum depression, that when I found out I was pregnant with Fiona, I told Jesse over and over again to watch me. I told him he needed to be my eyes because I was afraid I wouldn't notice again if postpartum depression consumed me. He followed through. After Fiona was born, he asked me at least once a week (if not more) how I was doing, if I needed help, if I felt sad, and if I needed him to take me to the Dr. Those years after the girls were born, was such a dark place for both of us, that I think he was just as afraid of going back there as I was. Ultimately I didn't really deal with postpartum with my last two babies. That's the strange thing about postpartum depression, it comes without notice, it dodges some years and consumes others. It never hurts to tell those close to you, to help keep an eye on you. Doing that one thing could ultimately save you from years of heartbreak and lost memories. 

If even in a small fleeting moment of clarity, you recognize that you aren't you, try to find the strength to tell someone that you need them to help you. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t tell yourself It’s fine and that it will pass in a few days only to realize you lost three years of your life and the lives of your babies. 

Call someone. 

Tell someone. 

Ask for help.

Let people help you. 

You aren’t alone. 

You aren’t broken in a way that can’t be fixed. 

If postpartum does come, remember that I have been there, and you are not alone.