My Own Personal Hell: PPD

No one seems to want to talk about it. Like it's some kind of despicable kink or the cousin none of the family wants to claim. But, postpartum is real. It affects more mothers than most of the world cares to realize. And regardless of if the world acknowledges it, it's still taking far too many lives, and leaving its toll on the ones who pull through. What follows is my chronicles of battling this beast.

I battled depression from a ridiculously young age, and it only amplified after the passing of my oldest sister in 2005. I tried different meds, and felt like a zombie for quite some time. I hated it. I just went through the motions. Then I rebelled against my poor mother and refused any more. I learned to cope (or not, who knows?) I wasn't nearly as unstable and could deal with life again.

The years passed and I met my husband in a bar (lucky us, the bar scene actually paid off!). I'd been suffering pretty badly with the big D again due to leaving a miserably toxic on & off again relationship after 6 years, dating a friend who turned out to be the epitome of a wolf in sheep's clothing, and struggling with surviving while attending beauty school. My dear, sweet husband helped me see that the abyss I was standing at was not a dark hole but in fact the entrance to a new life. Cliché and all, he made me love myself and piece myself back together.

So I bet you're wondering where the postpartum talk comes in; how this whole story is relevant to the title. Well, a half a year into being with my husband (who at that time had been my fiance for a couple months) we'd gotten into a huge fight and nearly split. We reconciled before we went to bed, and the following morning he told me I was late and to go test. I laughed it off as me and my entire family were positive I couldn't get pregnant. I should've had the whole Cheaper by the Dozen family mobbing around with the way I "practiced" safe sex. But alas, instantly, both lines appeared on the test. I waited the whole three minutes, but it was a moot point. BOTH LINES WERE ALREADY THERE. I threw the test at my husband and proceeded to piss on three more sticks. I don't know what I was thinking, honestly. I was in shock. "There's no way I'm pregnant. I can't get pregnant," I kept repeating to myself in the bathroom. But I in fact was. I was elated. I always wanted to be a mom. It was the one thing I felt in my heart that would truly bring me happiness and bring me to peace with myself.

The months dragged on. It felt like I was pregnant forever. My attitude and demeanor bode fairly well throughout aside from the usual weepiness every now and then. The time comes to welcome my baby boy, Phoenix, into this chaotic world. The next few weeks I felt so horrifically emotional. I cried because he was so perfect, because he'd grow up, because I couldn't get him to sleep and I felt like I'd never slept before in my life. But my feelings didn't only stem from my new bundle of joy, but from all aspects. Bills, lack of money, losing my patience with my husband and my step kids, our living situation (my husband's brother and wife let us stay with them after a fall out with our previous roommates and it was a very undesirable set up), I mean EVERYTHING. I also lost my temper more often than not and I was actually legitimately worried I'd accidentally harm my precious, tiny, innocent little boy.

At my 6-week check up I talked to my midwife and begged to use a natural remedy, but strangely to her knowledge, there was no natural breastfeeding safe for me. I reluctantly accepted low dose Zoloft. It hurt. I felt like a complete failure. I couldn't believe I had to supplement my own chemicals with man made ones to keep my shit together.

It wasn't until I was without my meds for a week after a house fire destroyed our new rental we'd just moved into that I realized, shit. I need these stupid things more than I cared to accept previously. I was super snappy and short with everyone, and I just wanted to cry. I refilled my scrip asap, and felt myself again within the week. I do not let myself go without anymore. For my own sanity & to save my family from my wrath. It's a miserable existence hating the insanity in your own mind.

So ladies (& fathers, be on the look out & support your ladies!), please. If you're struggling with this bitch that is PPD, talk to someone. Admit your feelings and accept them. Get help in any way. Not every option is for everyone. Explore till you find what works for you. Do not let the bullshit stigma take you out.