Babies are the worst: My PPD Journey

Sitting in traffic at Third and Formosa, trying to get to the light at La Brea so I could turn left. I don't remember where I was going. I don't remember if Owen was with me. But I do remember seeing a woman walking west along the sidewalk, pushing a stroller and juggling the toddler in her arms. She was trying to fix the blanket that had been shielding the baby in the stroller from the sun. She was slightly off balance and the attempt was not effortless. And I mumbled to myself, full of disdain and pity, "Babies are the worst." And I meant it. They ruined your life. Your ability to function. And I didn't bat an eye at my assessment. Now that I've received treatment and feel back to my "normal" self, I reflect upon that bitterness that pretty much oozed from my pores and it absolutely feels like I'm looking at a different person. All my life, I've been a baby magnet. I loved babies and babies loved me. There was  a baby in the room? Gimme. I wanted to hold and snuggle and coo. And on more occasions than I can count, babies would reach for me. Babies of strangers, babies of friends, babies of family. Gimme. So it was extra shocking and a true wake up call when I met my cousin's daughter at Owen's first Christmas.

Little Piper was born six months after Owen and was all of four months old when the holidays rolled around. First baby for my cousin Tatum and first grandbaby for my Aunt Lindi, my mom's sister. We always celebrate Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family and there was an extra buzz of excitement since this would be a "first" for so many. I had started seeing my therapist at this point and was planning on talking to my parents on this trip about that decision. There was a lot going on. We were looking to move from Los Angeles to the Jacksonville area, I was finally emerging from my cocoon of denial regarding my depression and now it was Christmas, the most anticipated and stress-inducing holiday of the year. There were a lot of balls in the air. Would everyone get there in time in order to eat and get to church on time? It's our family tradition for my mom to make her famous lasagna on Christmas Eve. Dan doesn't eat pasta. Chicken parmesan is usually whipped together for him. My cousin was bringing a friend who didn't eat meat. A meatless sauce was whipped up for her. My uncle and his wife were coming for the first time in maybe fifteen years. And there were two babies experiencing their first Christmas. And two sets of parents experiencing their first as parents. And two sets of grandparents experiencing their children being parents and themselves being grandparents for the first time.

Owen was trying to walk (and would end up being an official walker a few weeks later) so he needed constant supervision. Postpartum depression does wonders for your anxiety levels, in my experience. So I was on edge even more than usual. And my parents house was far from baby proofed. Everything was a trap - from the holiday decorations to the entertainment center which was just at his pull up level to the dock leading to the canal with no barriers in the backyard. No amount of wine was going to help ease the hyper-alert-jittery-mania I was experiencing. I imagine my eyes darting quickly side to side, assessing the dangers Owen could find and yet I'm sure that to the outside world, I seemed fine. Everything was bubbling under the surface, like an underwater volcano. And the slightest shift in my tectonic plates would cause the inevitable eruption.

And that shift was sparked by a sweet, tiny baby girl.

When I looked at her, I couldn't remember Owen being that small. Ever. But the way her fingers moved felt familiar. The alien-ish pointing and flexing, constantly moving and grasping and intertwining together and apart. And the gurgles and coos and sighs and little cries sounded familiar. And all this familiarity was not a positive association. I wanted to run away. I wanted to walk out the door and not look back. I could feel my breath catching when I looked at her. But I played the part of supportive and excited cousin. "She's so sweet!" I exclaimed. And I gave her my finger to hold. And I remarked on her tiny feet and soft skin. And then, oh no, gotta go, Owen is gonna pull over that wooden reindeer. I avoided as much as I could by playing the part of attentive mother. And then in a moment when my defenses were down and I had gone to show Tatum where she could give Piper a diaper change in the bedroom where we were staying, I paused to chat and fished for how Tatum was really feeling. "It's hard, isn't it?" I asked. "Yeah," she replied as she changed her daughter. "But she's so great. And such an easy baby." And she was being truthful. Which made me even sadder. And then the moment I had been dreading arrived while I was wallowing in my self-pity. Tatum had finished changing Piper and she asked completely innocuously, "Do you want to hold her?"

NO, my inner self screamed. I wanted nothing to do with her and her sweet little hands and sweet little squeals and her sweet little drools. I felt a tightness in my chest and I was having difficulty breathing. I had gone down too deep and the pressure was squeezing me on all sides, inside and out. But the show must go on.

"Sure," I smiled. And suddenly I was holding her. And what had always felt like the most natural thing in my life - a baby in my arms - felt the most foreign. She felt like a sack of sugar and I had no connection at all. I kept up conversation about what I don't know and then she started to fuss and, phew, I had found my out so I handed her back to her mother.

Holy shit. This was way worse than I ever realized.

My therapist had suggested before I left for the holidays that I might consider going on depression medication. But that seemed ridiculous to me. I wasn't currently depressed. I just wanted to talk to someone about the month immediately following Owen's birth because I felt like I might have some "unresolved issues" regarding how it all went down. I wasn't going to start meds. She said that was fine but to just think about it and we could talk about it more when I got back. "In fact, "she suggested, "why don't you go ahead and make an appointment with the psychiatrist and then if you wanted to cancel before it arrived at least you'd be scheduled in? Even if she ends up prescribing you something, you don't have to take it," she reminded me.

It was standing in my parents back hallway, fighting back tears and swallowing my volcano that I realized I would not be canceling my appointment.

* * * * *

A few weeks after getting back to LA, I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist. She agreed that I would benefit from medication. And for the first time, I agreed. The way it was described to me was that the normal connections in my brain that allowed for a normal emotional life had been worn down and were no longer connecting. The medication would help to rebuild those connections. A few weeks after starting on a low dose, I was driving home after having brunch with two of my girlfriends. We had a fun meal together, catching up on the news in each other's lives. Owen had been well-behaved and happy at the restaurant. It was another beautiful day and I was excited to get home to spend the rest of it with Dan. And as I slowed to a stop at a four-way intersection, I felt myself start to smile. And a light switched on. I felt happy. For the first time in nearly a year, I felt an old familiar emotion: Happiness.

There were more ups and downs. The lowest dose was not enough. We had to make adjustments and I continued with therapy. But eventually, we found the right balance. I was so worried before taking medication that it would give me a false sense of contentment. That I would feel 'better' but it would just be another mask. Instead I found that it gave me myself back. Depression had hidden that self deep below the lies it tells. But I was still in there. I was just waiting for a lifeline to help me back to the surface.