I'm totally a fun person. I hate to be serious too often, but there is a time and a place. There is something that's been weighing on my mind lately, so I guess this IS the TIME and PLACE.
I've been reading a lot of blogs lately about people posting about Postpartum Depression and all the consequences of it. I'm not here to give you facts and scare you. I'm here to tell you my story. If I can help one person then I feel I've been helpful. If nobody reads this and it just hangs out in cyberspace, well, at least I got it off my chest.
With my first born, Ariel, all people talked about was PPD and what to look for and when to seek help and not to be ashamed. I couldn't understand how someone with a perfect new baby at home could POSSIBLY be depressed. Fast Forward two years.....
December 10, 2006, Happy Birthday Baby Belle!! Semi-easy labor, smooth delivery, wrinkly faced beautiful baby girl #2 graced us with her presence. She was a beautiful perfect little brick. Eight pounds 8 ounces of pure girl football player. They placed her in my arms and my first instinct was to try to nurse her. She wanted NOTHING to do with that. I tried and tried. She cried and cried. Finally after she was about 24 hours old the nurse offered her a "cup" of formula. She gulped it all down and fell fast asleep. She was hungry. I was starving my baby. This is where it all started....
As much as I tried to nurse her, her latch was awful leaving it VERY painful for me, but I plugged on. We got home and I decided that if she loved the bottle so much that I'd pump and she could still get the milk. HA! I pumped for 20 minutes and didn't even cover the bottom of the bottle. (With Ariel, I could pump for 5 minutes and get 7 ounces.) I felt like a failure. How can I take care of this brand new baby if I can't even feed her. What kind of mother can't even feed her baby??
Still, with resentment, I plugged on. Every day someone new would ask, "How are you feeling? Any baby blues?"
And my response..."Nope. I feel great." And I DID. I felt good. When I think of the word depression, I think of someone sitting around all day crying. I didn't do that. I had too much other stuff to do than to sit around and cry.
I kept myself busy. Baby Belle was COLICKY!!!! She wanted ME and ONLY Me. Poor Aaron would try and try to calm her down so I could make supper, take a shower, pee, etc. WAIL, SCREAM, HOLD HER BREATH. The second I took her she'd calm right down and snuggle in.
I don't know exactly when my PPD started to affect my everyday life, but it took awhile for me to realize what was going on.
I didn't get all "sit on the couch and cry", I got weird. I did things that I would NEVER have done. I became a drinker. I'd get a sitter and Aaron and I would go out and I'd get smashed. Every. Weekend. I didn't think anything of it. I was bored and looking for some fun so I decided that getting my tongue pierced was the thing to do. To be 100% honest, I don't even remember having it done. I remember driving there and I remember bits and pieces, but I honestly don't remember it being done. I was that out of reality.
The breaking point for Aaron to start to question me was shortly after I got my tongue pierced. W were out in our favorite bar (it's still our favorite bar) and I don't know what happened, but all I know is that I ended up making out with one of his friends (who has become my best friend) right in front of him. The only reason I know it happened is because I saw pictures. I totally broke Aaron's heart that night.
My friends at work even told me I was different. My family all told me they were worried about me. How could I have PPD. I was having the time of my life. I was paryting and living the life. Someone else's life.
At times, I wanted to take the girls to daycare and just run away. I wanted to run away from everybody questioning me. I wanted to run away from all the responsibility of two children. I wanted to just start over. Something in the back of my head said, "Do you really want those babies to think their mama didn't love them enough to stick with them?" That was the beginning of my recovery. It was a LONG, HARD recovery, but I had an awesome support system that helped me through.
There are about 3 months of my life that I don't remember. Three months of my kid's lives that I wasn't there. Three months of MY LIFE that I'll never get back.
It took me about six months to recover from and 10 months to admit my PPD. Looking back, I feel horrible. I see it now. I did NOT see it then.
If you or anybody you know shows ANY signs of PPD, PLEASE, blindfold them and DRAG them to a doctor. Don't let it go to far. Who knows what can happen.....
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