Oh motherhood!
You enjoy your pregnancy fantasizing about the amazing
journey your about to be cast upon. The endless nights staring into your baby’s
eyes in pure wonder. Lovingly gazing at your partner change a diaper. Should we
go with Bermuda blue or Belmont blue for the nursery? They’re both so cute and
capture the sweet essence of a baby boy so well. Walking the isles of Babies R Us and Target
drooling over everything. Every. Single. Thing. Your baby NEEDS them all, of
course. Your spouse will agree even if he doesn’t agree. The excitement of
dropping cash like you just won the lotto gives you hope that you’re going to
be the best parents EVER. You spent a little
extra cash on the machine that dispenses formula and warms the bottle to the
perfect temperature. I mean, we cannot be burning baby’s precious little mouth
over here. And what if, in a sleep deprived stupor, I don’t correctly measure
the formula? It’s literally a no-brainer to buy this $200 machine. *Side-note,
I wanted one, but was vetoed…Jared said had it been around when Preston was
born and we’d be able to use it on a second child he would be up for it. Evil
eye squint.
You read all the books preparing yourself for motherhood. I
read and re-read the what to expect pregnancy and first year editions. I was
ready. Prepared for a meltdown over candy and a strategic parent play to break
that bad habit quickly. Not like these other moms out there that let their kids
run like wild little savages. You have all the answers before you’re a parent. Jared, my husband, and I tried for Preston
for a year before getting pregnant. Ten months of pregnancy, being told what to
do, eat, drink, how to exercise, sex, what position to sleep in, even how to
breathe. Your life was nicely mapped out for you in a beautiful softcover book,
giving you chapter by chapter what to do. Everyone adores you. Strangers stop
you to tell you that you are glowing. You’re so sweet and kind. You’re a
walking angel carrying one of God’s children.
Then, the baby comes. You endure pain your mind cannot
imagine. But, when you see the human life your body has created from cells, you
forget all pain and stare into this soul God has given you. A choir of angels
and JC Himself sing Hallelujah as you lay eyes on your baby. (If you are lucky
enough to have this experience, I know this is my story, and some mothers did
not/will not feel this way. If you do not, please mention it to your doctor.) You
are shock. Serious shock. I created this human. My body did this. I grew the
most precious, beautiful, extraordinary little person. You leave the hospital
in amazement. We’ve waited for this moment for almost two years! It’s
happening! Then you have this human only to be taught how to swaddle and shoved
out the door once the bleeding has stopped. Thank you, come again.
The first couple of days were somewhat how I pictured it. Husband
at home, mom visiting, all the help you need. I tried breastfeeding, but it
wasn’t going as easily as I had planned. But, nothing is more exciting than
seeing your husband gaze at his son. Pride, love, joy in his face. It brightens
the day. Aww, the little squeal of a newborn ready for food. You’re ready!
You’ve been waiting on this. I’m nourishing my little baby. I’m doing it. I’ve
created life, now I’m sustaining life. All by myself! Look at me go. It’s a
proud feeling. When you learn what you’re doing.
This. Is. Life.
Then real life happens. Family leaves, husband returns to
work, people walk past you holding a baby and no more halo over your head.
There was one time I was walking into the store struggling to holding the baby
carrier and diaper bag with the entire contents of our home inside (just in
case, you just never know) and a man walked out and let the door slam in my
face. Wow. You’re a mom now, that means you shouldn’t expect people to be kind
to for doing your job. (But let a Dad take baby grocery shopping and it’ll be
posted all over facebook on how this saint of a man actually took his offspring
shopping while the wife stayed at home. Unheard of. I bet she’s a terrible
mother.)
You are alone with your thoughts and a sleeping baby. If
he’s not sleeping he’s crying. You are no longer gazing lovingly at your
partner, you’re existing. You’re giving a side-eye, raised eyebrow and pursed
lip reaction when he says it’s your turn to change the baby. You say nothing,
just slam down your drink and take care of business. But he knows. Oh, he knows
he just woke the beast. You continue to think of just how bad he pisses you
off. And if this asshole puts one more thing on top of the overflowing garbage
can, so help me God he will not make it to work tomorrow. You haven’t showered in days and you will
only take a shower today because your husband politely tells you that you’re beginning
to smell. Partly from sweat and being dirty, partly from being used as a burp
cloth. Spit up stinks, FYI. Brushing teeth, nah, just throw some mouth wash in,
you’re good. You’re not leaving the house anyway. And if you have to, you can
chew some gum. OK, new mom hygiene is out of the way.
As the kids get older, you’ll find yourself hearing the word
“why” all day long. Seriously. But not just from the kids. From your own damn
mouth. Tilted head, eyes wide, why? You’ll stare in amazement at your little
human again, but this time wondering WTF? What the actual F is going on here?
Why would you lick the window? Why do you think the toilet bowl brush is your
toy? Why are you eating a dog treat? Why did you slam your brothers head down?
WHY DID YOU THROW THE BALL IN THIS HOUSE, I LITERALLY JUST TOLD YOU NOT TO
THROW THE BALL AND YOU LOOKED AT ME AND THREW THE BALL??? Why is that quarter
in your mouth? Why did you hide my car keys and cell phone again? Why are you
using me as your personal playground…go play! For the love of all things,
WHY?!?!?!?!?
You’ll recall the books you read. I don’t remember this
part. The part that says I won’t ever sleep again. The part that says I will
not get dress again unless it has the words “athletic wear” in the title. Where
was that part about me questioning how many days I’ve worn this crusty shirt.
And the part where I just quit questioning things all together, because it
doesn’t really matter what I have on this crusty shirt, I’m too damn tired to
walk upstairs and change it. Plus, as soon as I change someone will have a booger
to wipe on me anyway. So what the hell, I give in. Plus, we’ve covered new mom
hygiene, I’m assuming it changes somewhere around the time your last child
enters college.
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to use the bathroom
with an audience, squeezed into a 3 foot wide half bathroom? Neither did I, but
it’s life with kids. And if you have a dog, he’ll surely find his way in there
too. The kids will fight over who’s going to stand closest to you, one will
step on the dog’s paw and he’ll let out a screech that will in turn bust your
child’s ear drum and he’ll scream bloody murder. You’ll yell at everyone to get
out so that you can wipe in peace. You shut the door and lock it. But, the kids
behave as if they’ve been left in the desert for dead and cry for you, jiggling
the door knob until your guilt forces you to give in and open the door so that
they can see that you’re alive. Don’t bother sneaking off to take care of
business. They will turn into little secret service officers that are trained
to protect you from the evil lurking in the bathroom. They have a special set
of skills, they will find you.
This is my chapter I’m adding in for you moms and you
soon-to-be moms. So that when REAL life hits you over the head like a ton of
bricks, you know you’re not alone. This is motherhood. You’re elbow deep in
shit, vomit, snot, laughter, joy, tears, and for some of us alcohol. So don’t
shame yourself. Don’t fret when your fantasy gets karate kicked and falls to
the floor like a crazy expensive vase. That was a fantasy. This, my dear, is
real life. So enjoy.
My story
I’m assuming my anxiety started the moment I laid eyes on
him. My life, now no longer mattered. I was here only as a vessel for this
little man. I was only here to serve and protect him. I remember physically shaking
the first night when he was screaming and I was trying frantically to get him
to latch and feed. The nurse was visibly frustrated and was probably the worst
person to be around a new mom trying her damnedist to make this breastfeeding
thing possible. It was beginning, but I didn’t see it, I thought this was
motherhood. It meant I was going to lose sleep over breast milk. It had to
happen. If it didn’t that meant I didn’t care. I was on an adrenaline high for
our hospital stay. I honestly don’t think I got more than an hour sleep the
whole weekend. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Not in a awe, I love this baby
way, but in a, if I turn my back someone may come in here and take him from me.
Or what if someone drops him? How will I know? I’ll just keep watching him to
be safe. But, this isn’t motherhood. THIS is postpartum anxiety.
My anxiety took a turn for the worst when Preston was around
2 weeks old. He began to have colic. Luckily, his pediatrician warned us that
this happens in some babies. Uncontrollable crying marked as more than 3 hours
a night, for more than 3 nights a week, for more than a 3-week period. The
worst thing I have ever lived though is colic. Your two-week old baby is
screaming his head off and you have to be content with not know why your baby
is being tortured. No one knows. Some say personality, some say temperament,
some say diary intolerance. Either way, we tried everything to soothe him. The
sweet smell of lavender bath, followed up with a nice little baby massage with
lavender lotion did not help in the slightest. Colic carry, nope. Switching
formula, nope. Swaddle, hell no. I just had to rock him as he cried for 3 hours
a night. When you become a mother, you change, mentally and physically. You
will also have a physiological response to your child crying. Maybe your breasts
will leak milk, heart rate increases, sweating, etc. I was no different. So for
the nightly colic spell, my body would be experiencing it also. Emotionally I
felt terribly guilty that I was his mother and I could not fix this for him.
Physically I felt like I had just run a marathon but like I had just downed a
pot of coffee…exhausted, but couldn’t close my eyes. Psychologically I was
breaking down. You know they use crying babies as a torture method, right.
Hypothetically speaking, of course.
I can’t tell you when the thoughts began. I’m not really
sure what are considered “normal” parenting thoughts and what is considered
PPA. I don’t know where to draw the line. I don’t know that I would have even
recognized that I crossed the line while I was in the fog of PPA. At the time,
I didn’t realize I was suffering from a mental illness. I just thought this is
what mother’s do. I’ve heard it so many times, “It’s a mother’s job to worry.”
“I will be 80 and you will be 60 and I’ll still worry about you.” It became
ingrained in my person that I would worry because that’s what I was taught a
good mother did. We worry, we stress, we foresee the needs and wants of our
family to ensure a smooth day/event. That’s what we’re called to do.
Maternal guilt. It’s two words that will haunt any mother,
mental illness or not. We live to feel guilty over what we’ve done or haven’t
done enough of. I was taking supplements to increase my milk supply that was
causing Preston to have a negative reaction. Guilt. I was only pumping 2 ounces
of breast milk a day, after hours of pumping, squeezing my breasts for every
last drop, crying and yelling at myself. Guilt. My mom telling me the story
about how she had to take a shower to relieve the pressure because she made so
much milk it caused her to be in pain. Guilt. We found out later Preston had a
milk protein intolerance and would need to be on specialized formula. Guilt! If
only I produced enough milk, this wouldn’t be happening. Apparently I’m a
horrible mother and don’t deserve this child because I can’t even feed him.
What would happen if we didn’t live in the 21st century and didn’t
have formula, my kid would starve to death because I’m a bad mom. I didn’t make
time for art play today. Guilt. Diapers are expensive, I need to save my family
money so I should do hours of research on the best diaper for the money. Guilt,
that I wasn’t saving us money and guiltier that I just spent an hour and a half
researching the cost of diapers instead of reading to my child. After all your
child will be reading tread tires unless you get a full 20 minutes of reading
per day. There was one time my mom was visiting and her and Jared were chatting
in the living room, I was in the office doing my due diligence of researching
colic. Trying to find that missing puzzle piece. I remember smelling myself and
telling myself I was going on day 3 without a shower, but I couldn’t shower
because Preston would be waking soon to feed before his colic began. I had to
keep googling colic and reading every article, tonight was the night I was
going to find the magic key that solved the puzzle. I began to hear the
conversation coming from the living room. My mom was saying how lucky I have
it, how spoiled I am to be a mother that gets to enjoy every moment of her
child. Not to feel guilty of missing milestones. I stood in the doorway and
listened until I heard Preston’s hunger cry. I quickly ran in and the tears
began to flow. Women would kill to be in my shoes, allowed the choice to go to
work or stay at home with your baby. I took it for granted. (The funny thing
about guilt is, if/when my mom reads this, she will feel guilty. Guilty for
saying something that cut me so deeply, guilty that she didn’t see that I was
suffering. It doesn’t go away. You will always feel the guilt.) The guilt runith
over like 2 liter of soda that had been violently shaken and then opened.
But, what happens when those thoughts become too much? I
began worrying about things like his diaper changes. When boys pee, sometimes
it goes up towards their face, what happens if his diaper isn’t on tight enough
and he pees up and it gets in his face and he drowns? What if the diaper is on
too tight and it cuts the circulation off in his legs? What if I don’t put an
exact level scoop of formula in this bottle and it makes him sick again. What
happens if our apartment catches on fire? What happens if someone breaks in?
Can I defend my family? What happens if my car breaks down on the railroad
tracks and a train is coming? What happens if a ghost tries to take him, like
in the movies? How would I defend him against that? What if…What if…What if…it
kept it up at night wondering. Sleep became fleeting. I needed to hash out
plans for all of these situations. I can’t get caught sleeping on the job.
Those thoughts became louder and louder in my head. OK, we
have hatched a plan in case our apartment catches on fire and we cannot make it
out the front or back doors, and if a ceiling joist fell on top of me and
crushed my leg (I would just tear my leg off, obviously)…BUT, what if we can’t
get out? What if the firemen only see me and don’t save Preston? What if I
can’t get his car seat out of the car or him out in time before the train
crashes into our car and a nice person swoops in and saves me, crushing him. My
mind forced me to a place that no parent can dream of, the mortality of our
child. It is unnatural. It goes against the circle of life. I will die before
him. And when I do, I will leave him a sweet note that will ease his heartache
and leave him with peace. If he leaves before me, what would I do? How could I
exist without him? My illness made me mourn a child I had not lost. Say goodbye
to him every night, as this would be my last night with him. I could not
protect him. I was not fit for him; I couldn’t even complete a basic task like
produce breast milk. My body worked against me. It’s done it before, it will do
it again. It’s time to prepare yourself. I began telling myself I deserved to
endure the colic spells. It was my fault my child was in pain. I was ungrateful
for being giving the opportunity to stay at home with him. And since I didn’t
enjoy every single moment of every single day, I was an evil woman.
Every night I would lie in bed crying, picturing myself
standing over his headstone. This is your punishment, you must punish yourself
for being unworthy of being his mother. You will feel this pain every night.
You will feel this pain every day, knowing what you will lose soon. The feel of
his skin, the soft touch of his hand against your hand. You will lose this. You
do not deserve this little boy. Every night for months I created a different
story in which Preston had not survived and I was overcome with loss. Grieving
for my baby back, although he slept in the next room. I had to prepare myself
for the day it would come. Maybe if I can just prepare myself mentally it won’t
be as big of a blow to my heart when it happens. I began to teeter between
wanted to hold him every second of every day and backing off as not to find
myself getting too attached to him before my world shattered into gazillions of
pieces. I would always be off. I would never again be the same woman.
Finally, I accepted I would not live if Preston did not
live. I had truly accepted my fate. I began to plan how I would commit suicide
after Preston’s funeral. I had to have a place where it would not be Jared that
found me, I couldn’t do that to him. But, my body had to be found so that they
knew Jared didn’t kill me. I had planned on hiring movers before I followed
through, so that Jared would not worry about packing up the apartment that was
filled with momentous of his family that was ripped from his arms. He didn’t
know it was coming, but I did. I could feel it in my body. Death loomed. Death
loomed because I couldn’t save my baby. It was all my fault. I had to find a
way to let Jared know, how would I word my letter to him so that he understood
and wasn’t angry at me? I had accepted my mortality; I was content with it.
It’s a very dark place to swim. I woke him one night after my nightly ritual of
playing out how Preston’s funeral would go in my head. I told him bluntly, “I
will not survive when something happens to Preston.” He replied that I couldn’t
think like that and I needed more rest, Preston was safe.
But, is he safe? You should check on him. Don’t get me
wrong, EVERY mother will stand over her sleeping baby to ensure they are
breathing. It’s a rite of passage. We are scared to lose this little one we
admire so much. We want to make sure we can see their chest rise and fall with
each little breath they take. You will find yourself holding your own breath
while you wait to hear theirs. Embrace that. Know that it’s ok. I did the same
thing night after night as most mothers do. But, you become confident that you
are doing the right thing and the new mommy anxiety wears down and you settle
into your role.
I began having night terrors when Preston around a year old.
It was always that a group of strangers were breaking into our new townhome to
kidnap Preston. There was always the same guy, big and muscular…I couldn’t
fight him off. A few times in the nightmares, I was shot. I would wake up
holding my stomach where I had been shot. It felt so real. In my mind, I felt
like I was being given foresight to prepare myself for battle. So, I began
sleeping on the floor of his nursery so that I would have the upper hand and
catch the intruders off guard. Jared ended up buying a video monitor for me, so
I could return to our marital bed. It helped, I could see him and hear him
breathe. They began to trail into drowning and I couldn’t reach his hand,
Preston sinking deeper and deeper into dark water until I could no longer see
him. Me diving deeper and deeper trying to find him, I would wake up holding my
breath. I have them to this day, although not nearly as often. The same two.
Preston is drowning and I can’t reach him or a spirit is taking him and I can’t
save him. I am able to manage and process the terrors now. I take this as a win
and a step towards healing. I also have the tools now to pinpoint triggers that
are causing my anxiety to spike, leading to these terrors.
In the mist of PPA I had no idea of the sheer amount of
stress it had on my body. It wasn’t until I was healing and had an anxiety
attach that I felt the load that I had carried for years. I literally could not
believe I had felt that way for so long and hadn’t noticed. I didn’t notice my
joints stiffen, my blood seem to thicken and not move as freely through my
body. My heart jumped and skipped around in my chest. My muscles were heavy and
weak. My bones hurt. I was sitting at the dining room table, Jared and I
discussing the final closing details on our first home. There was a mistake in
paperwork and it was looking as though we wouldn’t be able to close in 2 days
as we had planned. I sat there head down when I noticed the familiar feeling. I
recognized it, this is how I used to feel. How my body used to feel. It was
strange to be aware that I had felt like this, but hadn’t noticed that I no
longer felt this way. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body anymore. At that
moment I was proud of myself. I was proud that I recognized it. I stopped the
train before it left the station. I took a nice long shower and figured the
worst thing to happen was that we didn’t close on the house in 2 days, but had
to wait until next week. I had conquered this battle. But, I’m still fighting
the war.
Accepting Help
I’m so lucky to say I’ve cross the hill of my illness. I
still have anxiety. I always have. I always will. It’s my personality to worry.
But, I’ve come a long way to recognize thoughts and triggers. I’ve created a
picture in my mind that my anxiety is a train, and I have to stop it from
leaving the station. Anxiety isn’t bad all the time. It has its perks. But you
must know how to control it. We have to be given to tools to recognize anxiety
and depression so that we can catch it early on. To stop the train before it
leaves the station, or to back it up.
We must remove the stigma of mental illness. You would not
stigmatize a person with cancer, the illness is not in their control. I assure
you, neither is mental illness. I did not wake up one day, get dressed, and say
F it, I’m going to drive myself batshit crazy, it’ll be fun. I want people to
know that I am not PPA, my being reaches far beyond this illness. I am a
mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend. I am funny and serious, loving and
thoughtful, spacey and all over the place, tough and soft all rolled into a
nice plump package. We are more than our mental illness. We are what drives our
family’s successes, if that means the kids ate something other than goldfish
and chicken nuggets or your child graduating from college and living their
dreams. We are the cornerstone of our family. You have permission to seek help,
to care for yourself. It is necessary. Yes, you are “mom enough” even if you
get help for mental illness. You are enough even if you aren’t happy. You are
enough even if you stare at your sleeping 5 year old in fear they will stop
breathing. You are enough, because you are you. You are being a good mother by
caring for yourself and filling up your cup. I love the quote, “You can’t pour
from an empty cup”. As mothers, we have pitchers. We give our everything our
family, everyday pouring more and more love and acceptance into our little
human’s lives. We owe it to ourselves to fill up our pitchers so that we can
continue to give our children what they need to have happy and fulfilled lives.
This has been an uplifting and terrifying writing
experience. I have only confessed how deep into my illness I was with my
therapist. To open up gives me encouragement and shows me how much progress
I’ve made towards the happy and healthy life I would like to live. I hope in
some way or another this has helped you or someone you know. I didn’t know I
needed help until I was on the other side of my illness. Looking back now, I
can see how irrational these thoughts were, but in the moment it was as if you
gave him an uncut grape to eat, essentially trying to choke my son. I did not
think how I felt was any different than any new mom. My only advice to you is
to find a close circle of friends that you trust to be open about feelings,
even if you think it’s normal. Sometimes it’s easier to write, so emails work
great instead of face to face if you’re scared of opening up. Spouses, grandparents,
friends, parents…ask direct questions; how many hours of sleep do you get a
night? How do you feel when you wake up? Would you like to go take a shower? Do
you need coffee? Or just don’t even ask a question, just show up with a coffee
and tell them to go shower. Let them know there is light at the end of the
tunnel, especially when they’re in the thick weeds of parenting, no matter the
stage. They need to know they have a trusted circle and encouragement to take
time for themselves.
Sending love to you all!
