The Postpartum Horrors of Motherhood

So many times throughout both my pregnancies, I heard how much of a blessing I have and how I should be thankful because not everyone gets a chance to be a mother. They spoke about the beautiful stages I'll experience, how bonded I'll be with my children and how I'll go from a nice, clean home to sticky faces and messy hands. While I'm thankful for all the things I've been given, no one wants to talk about the depressing side of becoming a mother, whether it's your first or your last.

I became a mother for the first time at the age of 16. I got married during my pregnancy. I know, I was very young, but I wouldn't change it for the world. Up to the point I was going to give birth, my family, my in-laws and friends told me how I was glowing. They told me I'd be an amazing mother and that I would adore motherhood. I couldn't wait to meet my firstborn. I counted the days until she was scheduled to arrive.

I had a healthy pregnancy. I had a little swelling, but no blood pressure or sugar issues. At 37 weeks and 5 days, I had intense pains. I rushed to the hospital, worried for myself and my baby. Turns out it was Braxton Hicks, but they told me they needed to induce me because her heart rate dropped every time that I had a contraction. I opted for the epidural because at 16, my pain tolerance was very low and no one tells you that induction is actually more painful than going into labor naturally.

After a surprisingly quicker than normal labor, I had her. She was 5lb and 13oz. She was perfect in every way possible. I was so happy. The first week was my happiest week I could ever recall in my life. She would stop crying when she heard my voice, when I held her or even just stroking the small peach fuzz on her head. I looked at her in awe, wondering how such an imperfect person could make something so perfect.

Within the next few months after her birth, my husband had to go back to his 40 hour work week. I noticed I was becoming irritable, not eating properly, crying much more than normal and having major anxiety. Hearing my daughter cry activated a fight or flight response, but at the same time I dreaded it when she cried. I remember once when she was crying, I had a moment of irritability hit and I said in my head, "Shut up! You're fed, clean diaper and I'm holding you! What more could you want?". I immediately was terrified that I thought that about my small, beautiful baby. I put her down, walked away for a minute and called my doctor immediately.

Within a week, I seen my family doctor. I told her how I've been showering less, not brushing my teeth and having intrusive thoughts. I was ashamed. There were times I looked down at kitchen knives as I cooked and immediately my head went, "just slice it on your arms" or I would stand on our second floor and I would envision myself jumping off, free from all the thoughts and stress. I told her all of this, terrified that I would get my baby taken. I begged her to not call CPS (Child Protective Services) on me. So many mothers have came forward to those who they trusted just to be reported.

While she was very concerned, she assured me it happens more than I thought. She gave me a diagnosis: postpartum depression. She recommended that I not only take medication, but at the very least take therapy. She let me know that just because you are a mother doesn't mean you have to bottle it all up and "be strong". It's okay to need help sometimes. It's okay if you need to be seen and heard. Just because you had a baby doesn't mean you are any less human or important than you was before.

If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, violent tendencies or feeling mentally different than before you gave birth, reach out to your doctor or OBGYN. Here is a link that may help you on your journey to reach out for help as well as a screening quiz to determine if you may or may not have postpartum depression.*

*Note: The screening quiz is not an official diagnosis nor should it be treated as such. Please visit your doctor for any medical advice or a diagnosis.