Postpartum depression is a real thing. I can’t believe I even feel the need to start with that sentence but I do. I hear people throw around cutesy little phrases like “baby blues” and I shudder. I remember looking down at my son for the first time and only having one thought continuously running through my brain: “How in the world am I going to keep this child alive?” As a child, every pet I ever had ran away from me in search of a better life. My bird flew the coop, the kitten I had made a break for it, and I killed every fish I ever owned because I forgot to feed it. Plants and flowers don’t stand a chance with me. Now I had this tiny, perfect little boy to take care of and I felt no joy whatsoever. All I felt was anxiety. Then I wondered what was wrong with me. On t.v., mothers instantly bond with their children. I read Facebook posts daily from my mom friends discussing their perfect lives with their perfect children in their perfect homes. Meanwhile, I was exhausted. The whole “don’t worry, just nap while your baby is napping” thing never worked for me. While my baby was napping, I had to stand over his crib obsessively and make sure he was breathing. I was told that breast feeding is the way to go if you want your child to be a smart, successful, PhD Rhodes Scholar. I wasn’t producing enough milk, though, and had to supplement with formula. I automatically felt like a complete failure for not being able to feed my baby the “proper” way. A nurse at the hospital glared at me and said, “You do realize you’re raising a bottle baby, right?” I didn’t really see the problem since it was a bottle of formula and not a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but what did I know? This woman is a nurse so she knows more than me. I know nothing. I’m a failure.
My first “outing” after having my son was a brief run to Pick and Save. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone this story, not even my husband. I sat in my car and cried for 15 minutes, sobbing, one of those ugly cries that Oprah always talked about. I considered driving somewhere far, far away because who did I think I was raising a baby? I had no experience with kids. I couldn’t get my baby to stop crying. I couldn’t even produce milk to feed him. I was a total loser. I finally got out of the car and I must have looked like hell because a random guy with long hair and a Metallica T shirt asked if I needed a hug. As horrible as I felt, as worthless as I felt, as ashamed as I felt I did know this: I most definitely did NOT need a hug from a Metallica reject. So at least I wasn’t completely crazy.
I knew I needed help. At my next check-up, I told my doctor how I was feeling. She gave me a questionnaire to fill out and left me alone with my sadness. She came back, checked my score and told me I failed miserably. People, I was a straight A student in school. This is the first test I ever failed. I was referred to a different Doctor and officially given the post-partum depression diagnoses.
Yes, I was on medication. No, I am not on medication currently. No, I’m
not ashamed to admit that I was taking meds to feel better and here’s why: Depression is an illness. My feelings were not imaginary. My feelings could not be “fixed” with exercise and vitamins (sorry, Tom Cruise, depression expert.) Post partum has NOTHING to do with loving your child less than any other mother. In fact, in my warped mind, I felt that if I wasn’t around my son would be better off. I truly believed it with all my heart because I wanted what was best for him, and at the time, I didn’t think that was me.
Flash forward six years: My “bottle baby” is a healthy, active, naughty, sweet, smart, funny, serious, crazy little boy. He is completely AWESOME and I like to think that I had at least a little bit to do with that. If you’re depressed, get help. Ask for it. It sucks and it’s hard and it’s horrible but do it. Otherwise, you’ll be the bottle baby with a Jack Daniel’s in your hand and a Metallica dude trying to give you a hug. That, my friends, is rock bottom.