My PPD: The Un-fun Part of Being a New Mom

I knew it would be difficult to go back to work and leave Luke for the first time. Every mom finds it difficult, right? So I enlisted my mother to take care of him for my first week back. After all, I had first-hand references of her work, and I was confident that he would get more love and attention than he knew what to do with.

The problem, however, started for me two days into my return to work. My principal coldly denied my request to take a later lunch so I could best pump my breast milk. Though it was likely just lack of consideration on his part, I felt threatened. My emotional and physiological needs weren’t being met, and that made me feel like I wasn’t doing all I could to provide for my baby. I called Jeff crying so hard all he could do was listen to me wail on the phone and try to offer condolences through my sobs.

The crying continued. First I just called Jeff the next day at school during my conference period. Then I began to call him on my way home. Anytime there weren’t others around, I cried. And I called Jeff, because he has always known exactly what to say. Soon, however, I wasn’t afraid to hide my crying. And the next thing I knew, I woke myself up crying in the middle of the night.

I also wasn’t sleeping in the middle of the night. Luke was, but I wasn’t. Awake for long periods of time, all I could do was obsess about how the principals made me feel threatened at work. I still couldn’t stop crying. I wanted to turn in my resignation. I didn’t care about burning the bridge that I had crossed for eight wonderful years. I just didn’t care. I was in pain. I wanted the pain to go away.

It was during one of the long periods of middle-of-the-night wakefulness that I began to wonder if I was experiencing postpartum depression (PPD). I had truthfully expected to experience it, because I wasn’t new to depression. I began to take meds in 2002, after many years of feeling depression, anxiety, and loneliness. I had switched my pills during pregnancy, and then I had decided I would embrace the pregnancy hormones and try to deal with whatever happened, because I wanted one less thing to encumber the baby. There is a family history of depression, however, and it has been hard for me to fight against it. I also had a C-section, which tends to increase the occurrence of PPD.

The next day I called to make an appointment with my doctor to discuss my options. Unfortunately, when I got to the daycare to pick Luke up he was alone in his crib, sobbing, and he was overheated. He couldn’t be heard over the other crying babies in the room, and it broke my heart. I picked him up and held him tightly as I fed him his bottle. He didn’t stop crying. This made me cry more than I had cried before. I had already had horrible delusions that the daycare just couldn’t take good care of him, and I was beginning to feel like I had been correct. I cried the entire way to the doctor’s office. I cried in the doctor’s office.

When the doctor asked me if I wanted to go on disability I felt at that point that I had no choice. She doubled my medication and told me I could be off as long as I liked. All I could think about was getting out of the threatening environment of work and staying home to get better. I didn’t think about the fun I would have with my son. I thought only of trying to get better. I worried that my lack of joy would become apparent to Luke. I worried that I wouldn’t be a good enough wife to Jeff.

I was living in the ultimate paradox. I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t get out of bed. I wanted to play with my son, but I couldn’t smile. I wanted to go to work, but I couldn’t leave the house. I was starving—both literally and figuratively—but I couldn’t eat.

The interesting thing about depression is it doesn’t always manifest itself to others. When people asked how I was doing I couldn’t say how I really felt, because I was afraid I would start crying. Plus, I’ve been working on keeping up my outward appearances since I was in the tenth grade and my friend told me I looked grumpy walking through the halls.

It’s also very awkward. What do you say to someone with PPD? And who volunteers that information? I excitedly made my out-of-office e-mail reply when I was out on maternity leave, but I didn’t make one for this. It just didn’t feel right.

So right now it’s a day-by-day chore to get better. Each day is a little better, too. It’s weird that joy can be so elusive. But it’s wonderful that joy does exist.