My Denial of Postpartum Depression
- authorcocobrown
- Jul 28, 2023
- 3 min read
That's not what I'm experiencing. I'm just exhausted and overwhelmed.
As I stared down at the paper, pen tapping against the metal clip as I sat in my son's pediatrician's office, I repeated those words like a mantra. I knew better though.
That was my go-to whenever anyone mentioned it or the little voice in the back of my mind spoke up. I'm just sleep-deprived. I'm overwhelmed.
I was. Every parent is, especially new parents.
Every time I visited my doctor or the pediatrician's office, they handed me the dreaded questionnaire for Postpartum Depression.
I lied. Every time.
I knew what I was feeling. I knew it wasn't normal blues and exhaustion. Still, I circled all the little bubbles that would make the doctors happy. It would keep the dreaded talk at bay.
Until my sister-in-law spoke up, "I think you have PPD."
I did, but I was embarrassed and ashamed really. I didn't feel the connection I expected to have with my son. I felt like an imposter, a poor substitute for the mother he deserved, and it KILLED me inside.
My son had horrible colic to-boot from the moment he came home. For almost five months we suffered, and I say we because it's not just the parent or the child. It's both going through it. I didn't know what to do or how to handle him with the unending hours of constant scream-crying from 6pm to 11pm. My husband worked second shift, so it was me and my little guy trying to figure it out together, and I tried everything. Gas drops, changing his diet, warm compresses to the tummy, leg exercises, tummy rubs, rocking, singing... you name it, I tried.
This was on top of healing myself too. I had such a traumatic experience at the hospital, being intubated and having every single horrible thing you could think of done so that my body would go into labor. Not to mention the twice failed epidural where I had the most excruciating pain run through my entire right side. Top that off with an unyielding epidural headache that, yes I tried the blood patch and it failed, and lasted nearly two weeks.
A nightmare. That's what this experience had turned into, and it continued long after I got home.
I've had depression for years. Since I was a kid actually, so I knew the signs and the feels. I knew I was blue, much more so than I should be, and I knew feeling as though I wanted to run away from my newborn son, my life, wasn't right.
Sometimes we're our own worst enemies though, right? We've all heard that before. It's true. I set myself into denial FOR MONTHS. Months of trying to wear a mask, keep things looking blissful to anyone on the outside while suffering in silence.
Forgive me for it, but I was stupid. Plain and simple.
You might be thinking, "You're a writer, why are we talking about this?" I'm a mother first and a writer second. Mental health is such an important thing too. Even though we've broken through walls and mental health is becoming more openly talked about, there's still this deep-rooted stigma. Especially for new mothers.
We're shown constantly the "heart-warming bliss" that motherhood should be. Happy mother, happy baby. Giggles. Smiles. Love. Warmth. Closeness.
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