Updated: Oct. 3, 2023
Originally Published: Sep. 30, 2023
I had experienced sadness before, perhaps even moments of depression, but the despair and hopelessness that engulfed me after my daughter’s birth were on an entirely different level. Unbeknownst to me at the time, postpartum depression had a firm grip on me, bringing me to the brink of desperation before I finally sought help.
It all began gradually. As a new mom recovering from a C-section, I was overwhelmed, hormonal, and utterly fatigued. My friends and family dismissed my feelings as typical new mom struggles. Weeks passed, and while my incision healed and my baby began to establish a routine, I felt stagnant—slowly sinking deeper into my emotional turmoil.
I had no prior experience to lean on and had never heard anyone discuss postpartum depression. I felt isolated, convinced that I was the only one facing such overwhelming challenges and that I was a failure as a mother. I believed my daughter deserved a better mom and that my family would be better off without me. I felt like the only thing I could do was breastfeed. Eventually, my depression deepened to the point where I envisioned taking my own life once my daughter weaned, although I kept these thoughts hidden.
I didn’t reach out for help because I didn’t understand what was happening. At the hospital, I received a brochure outlining the signs of postpartum depression, but it got lost among a mountain of paperwork. My mind was solely focused on the daunting drive home with my newborn.
When my six-week check-up rolled around, I was feeling low, but not to a concerning extent, so I kept going. That’s the insidious nature of postpartum depression: it creeps in, alternating between good days and bad until you find yourself submerged in an overwhelming darkness.
One sleepless night, in the midst of a cleaning frenzy fueled by rage, I rediscovered the brochure and began searching for answers. Unfortunately, I didn’t see my struggles reflected in the warning signs. I didn’t realize then that postpartum depression manifests differently for everyone. I dismissed my feelings, promising myself I wouldn’t mention them. I was terrified that my doctor would respond with the confirmation I dreaded: that I wasn’t suffering from postpartum depression but simply wasn’t cut out for motherhood.
My husband, Mark, tried to support me, but he was lost in the chaos. The vibrant woman he once knew was now a shadow, barely functioning, deprived of sleep and nourishment. He attempted to communicate with me, but each conversation ended with me blaming myself for burdening our child with an unfit mother.
In his desperation, Mark sought advice from friends, family, and even co-workers. While these well-meaning attempts were rooted in concern, they ultimately contributed to my downward spiral. Initially, the advice came in the form of observations: “You’re just tired.” “Having a newborn is overwhelming.” “Things will get better.” I filed these comments under “obvious,” while I sank further into my depression.
When improvement didn’t come, Mark returned home with suggestions like, “You should exercise,” “Others have it worse; you’re not really struggling,” or “Just get outside and enjoy the sunshine.” Each piece of advice felt insurmountable. Getting dressed required all my energy, so how could I possibly hit the gym? I would take my daughter outside and tilt my face toward the sun, hoping its rays would somehow restore my will to live. But nothing changed; I only felt more inadequate compared to other mothers.
Eventually, well-meaning friends tried to rationalize my sorrow to Mark, who feared this would become our new normal. One day, he came home with renewed hope, claiming to have pinpointed the source of my distress: “You expected motherhood to be easy, and it’s not. You’re just unprepared.” Was he kidding? I searched his face for a hint of humor but found only optimism. He genuinely believed that realizing motherhood was challenging would somehow resolve my struggles.
I had reached my breaking point. I’d been silently grappling with moments of rage, terrified to disclose them for fear of being judged or, worse, losing my daughter. Yet, in those near-blinding moments of anger, I never lost sight of my child’s safety. I would ensure she was peacefully sleeping and then punch the wall, hoping to release the pain that was consuming me.
That night, as I struck the wall, Mark was there. The impact didn’t provide the relief I sought; my hand throbbed, yet there was no visible injury. I needed something to shatter, a vessel for the turmoil within. I spotted a plastic cup from the San Francisco Giants. I loved that cup, but I hurled it against the wall, watching it crack. In that moment, I too felt like I cracked, letting some of my pain escape.
We drove straight to my doctor’s office. To my relief, I wasn’t judged or separated from my daughter. Instead, I was validated, and together we created an action plan. That night, I went to bed with a prescription for an antidepressant, an appointment with a therapist, and the first glimmer of hope I had felt since my daughter’s birth.
The well-meaning advice from family and friends only delayed me from seeking the help I desperately needed. It led Mark to believe my situation wasn’t serious, convincing him that I could handle this on my own. If only someone had pushed us to see my doctor sooner, perhaps I could have avoided planning how to end my life, and I wouldn’t have to carry the guilt of lost moments with my daughter.
I can’t harbor resentment; instead, I focus on the fact that I eventually sought help. Therapy and medication allowed me to reclaim my life and embrace motherhood, just as I had always envisioned.
If you ever find yourself in a situation where someone seeks guidance on a topic you’re unfamiliar with, remember, it’s okay to admit you don’t know. Direct them to an expert. Whether discussing postpartum depression, cancer, or even car troubles, qualified professionals are available to help. Sometimes, all it takes is pointing someone in the right direction.
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In summary, it’s crucial to recognize when to seek help and to direct others to qualified professionals instead of relying solely on personal opinions.
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