Part 1: Breastfeeding - Not for the Faint of Heart.
Note: This blog is not intended to be a self-help guide or a replacement for professional help, but rather a story of hope and healing. I will link perinatal mental health resources at the bottom of each post.
Part 1 of 3
"You are not alone. It gets better."
These are the words I clung to and the wisdom I desperately searched for while my mind was filled with nothing but terror and darkness. These are the words I heard over and over again when I first started having symptoms of what I now know to be Postpartum Depression and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. These are the words I eventually stopped believing. These are the the words I now tell others who are struggling. If you're reading this because you too are in darkness, I promise you it will get better and you are not a bad parent.
As a clinical social worker, I thought I had a grasp on the symptoms, risk factors, and effective treatments surrounding mental illness. I knew Postpartum Depression (PPD) existed, but I never learned about it in school. I knew Brook Shields was publicly shamed by Tom Cruise for taking antidepressants for her PPD and then there was the occasional devastating news headline about a woman whose postpartum psychosis led her to do the unthinkable. The most education I received on the topic was in my hospital discharge paperwork after I gave birth to my daughter. Tucked away behind the breastfeeding guide, medication list, and pediatrician information was a little blurb about PPD and "Baby Blues." Baby Blues is defined by March of Dimes as feeling sad or moody after having your baby. It typically goes away on its own after 2 weeks. The name Baby Blues bothers me. It is as if any condition pertaining to a mother needs to have a cute name. There is NOTHING cute about this shit.
I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder when I was a teenager, so I am no stranger to antidepressants and therapists. In fact, the same psychiatrist who has treated since childhood was now telling me, at 36 years old and one month pregnant, to stop the antidepressants. She told me no anxiety medication was safe for the baby. So I stopped and hoped for the best. I now know that stopping antidepressants during the first trimester is a major risk factor for developing PPD. "Why didn't she warn me?" I often asked myself. Why didn't anyone warn me? Did she not know? Why didn't she know?
The day my daughter was born was one of the best days of my life. It still feels like a dream. I could not believe that I pushed a whole human being out of me and all of a sudden she was in my arms. She was the most beautiful little thing I had ever seen and I immediately felt like I wanted to protect her from the world. I wanted to cuddle her forever and never let her go. I hated the idea of her getting any older.
After just a moment of cuddling, my daughter was immediately put in position for breastfeeding. The nurses guided me with positioning and latching, but I felt completely underprepared. My daughter screamed while I shoved her head onto my nipple, a far contrast from what I was taught in my online breastfeeding class. Those moms made it look so easy! I hated how forceful and unnatural it felt, but it was supposed to be the best for baby, so I kept at it.
After a few sleepless nights and and conflicting instructions about breastfeeding from hospital staff, it was time to go home. I was excited, but also nervous. I had never put a baby in a stroller. So many things could go wrong! And don't get me started on the car seat . Luckily the nurse walked out with us and helped us strap our daughter in safely. I wished the nurse could come home with us too.
When we arrived home, I immediately began worrying when our pitbull began whimpering and trying to jump on my daughter's basinet. I told my husband that the dog has 24 hours to prove himself or he will be out of the house. Spoiler alert - he still lives with us! My husband had me go to the store to pick up my medication and grab a few items for the baby. I remember how weird I felt being out of the house having just returned home from the hospital. I remember hoping I would not run into someone I knew because I might burst out into tears for no reason.
We took my daughter to her follow-up appointment the next day. The lights at the doctor's office felt so bright and overstimulating. I had to sign a bunch of paperwork as "parent/guardian" for the first time ever and it felt surreal. Not to mention I felt like I could barely read or write, which I attributed to the sleep deprivation. My husband had to do most of the talking with the doctor and I remember feeling guilty that I wasn't more involved.
The doctor was very kind and told us in the nicest way possible that our daughter was dressed inappropriately for the weather. It was a cool fall day and we were running late so we had hastily dressed her in a short-sleeved onesie. We also found out that our daughter had lost more than 10% of her birth weight which means she was not eating enough. The doctor recommended I start pumping and to add formula. I had been struggling with breastfeeding her because my daughter would either cry or fall asleep on my boob. The doctor said this was because the baby was tired due to not consuming enough calories. So naturally, I left that appointment feeling like a terrific mom! I wish I could go back in time and tell myself that our daughter is now in the 95% percentile for weight. I had nothing to worry about!
Thankfully, my daughter took to the formula well and I was able to pump, but I still felt like a fish out of water. I didn't know if I was pumping enough and I didn't know when to breastfeed versus bottle feed. Even the smallest decisions began to feel paralyzing. I finally made an appointment with a perinatal therapist, but she ended up referring me to someone under her, who I did not feel was equipped to handle my situation. I remember telling her about my anxiety over being a mom and my obsessive thoughts about sleep deprivation. Her advice? A family trip to Peru as one of my goals. She meant well, but lady, read the room!
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