Let's Talk About Babies and Sadness

Today is a day to talk about mental health. Maybe, as my sister suggests, I'm much too keen to talk about my feelings. She's probably right - she is right about most things - but I thought I would use the platform of mental health awareness to talk about my experience with post-partum depression and anxiety, in the hope that someone out there could read this, relate, and feel better about the hell they are going through with their own little bundle of joy.

Having a baby, for us, was a planned and exciting event. Before our baby arrived we were fairly prepared: we went to pre-natal class, I took the appropriate vitamins, and my husband even built a beautiful wooden crib. I thought I had a general idea of how labour would go (HA!) and I felt the normal amount of healthy fear most expectant moms are feeling. Besides, I thought that since I was a nurse and took care of people every day, and since a lot of not very bright people have been raising children for centuries, that having and raising a baby really couldn't be that hard.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Babies are hard. And the first few weeks after our baby was born was a really difficult time for me and my family.

I had read about the 'baby blues,' but I was not prepared for the monsoon of tears that accompanied my body's massive hormonal shift the second and third day after birth. As anyone who knows me can attest, I cry a lot, but this crying was different. I could not stop crying: crying in the shower; crying into my towel after a shower; crying in the kitchen; crying in the car.; crying at the doctor's office and crying at the mall. I was supposed to be in love with my brand new baby, but I felt sad, and I could not stop the snotty onslaught of tears that kept flowing.

With the crying came insomnia. No one with a new baby sleeps well, but my insomnia grew and grew until I was afraid of going to bed. Everyone tells you to 'sleep when the baby sleeps' and to 'nap when you can.' I could not sleep and I could not nap. I would lie tensely awake and listen to every weird grunt and snort that the baby made. I could feel my heart racing, and and worries kept running through my brain and through my body, and I would get so anxious about not sleeping that sleep became more and more impossible. The only time I managed to sleep for a few minutes was after nursing Michael, and I would wake up with Michael dangling precariously from my arms, which is a definite safety no-no, and cemented my feelings that I was a bad mom.

Mothering, as I found out, was hard. The baby cried, and everybody could make the baby stop crying except for me. I couldn't make my baby sleep, either. Fortunately I could nurse the baby, but I felt that was more a facet of my biology than any personal attributes. The first time we went to see the public health nurse, Michael had lost a bit too much weight, and I felt so guilty that I wasn't doing a good job of being a mom.

All of my guilty feelings steadily grew. I felt guilty for needing so much help from my family and husband when other moms could do it alone. I felt guilty for feeling sad and tired instead of feeling maternal bliss. And then I started to feel guilty for feeling anxious about all sorts of stupid minutiae I don't normally care about. I made list after list of tasks I felt like I had to complete, and if those tasks didn't get done I started feeling panicky. My rational self knew that none of these tasks - like vacuuming, laundry, showering - really mattered, but I could not reconcile my irrational thoughts with my rational self. All of the worries and anxieties kept growing and were starting to prevent me from enjoying Michael.

 I was physically and emotionally raw, exhausted, sad, anxious, guilty, and stupid for letting myself get so raw, exhausted, sad, anxious, and guilty. If I were stronger/ more resilient/ a better mom I wouldn't be struggling so much.

Fortunately for me, I had an excellent doctor, a husband who works in mental health, a mom who would come over every morning and hold the baby so I could shower, and friends who were going through the same thing. My doctor kept gently suggesting that I go on an antidepressant, but I felt like going on medication was somehow cheating, like I couldn't be a mom on my own. I'd been off my normal anti-depressant during pregnancy and had been feeling really good, so starting on a new medication meant that I was moving backwards. After many tearful discussions and lengthy internal dialogue, I recognized that I was barely coping, and that I was close to falling headlong into a deep depression. But this time if I got really sick my baby would suffer too.

Four weeks after Michael was born I started on an anti-depressant, and it is one of the best decisions that I have made for myself. I stopped feeling so anxious and sad and began to feel like myself again.  I started sleeping a little. I gained confidence in my skills as a mom. And every day has been a little bit better as we find our groove as a family. I still feel anxious at times and doubt my abilities as a mom, but I think that's part of being a parent. My baby is thriving, and I enjoy him, and that's what is important.

Now when anyone asks me how it's going with the little one, I always answer honestly: it was a rough start but it's getting better every week. Once after feeling emboldened after four hours of consecutive sleep, I told a complete stranger that being a mom is a lot better on Paxil (my anti-depressant). Maybe my self-confessional tendencies are too strong, but I think it's important to be honest about how hard the first few weeks after baby can be. I am not the only new mom out there who has had a rough start. It does get better - and for me, it got a whole lot better with a little chemical assistance.