PPD and Me

- a post by Jeanna Mason Stay
 

Warning: It’s shocking, I know, but I’m about to be completely serious. Take a deep breath. . .

When my second child was born, we had just moved to a new place where I didn’t have any close friends or family. It was winter—bitter cold—so I got very little sunshine and fresh air. And having a newborn came with all the attendant stereotypical stuff, like wonky hormones and lack of sleep. Surely this was enough to make the situation difficult. Add to that the fact that I have never considered myself a natural nurturer. Being a mother is a challenge to me, even on the best of days.

So I was struggling—more than I was willing to admit to anyone.

In my old days of grad school, studying marriage and family therapy, I was required to use an inventory called “Reasons for Living.” The Reasons for Living inventory was a list of potential things you might discuss with a client with suicidal ideation (the desire to kill oneself)—things it might be worth living for, or at least reasons not to die.

In my postpartum days, these items went through my mind. I don’t remember how often, I don’t remember how long it lasted—but I remember days when I sat in my bathroom, sobbing into a towel, thinking “My family would suffer without me” and “I believe in an afterlife.”

Thankfully, I was never truly suicidal, largely because of those two items from the inventory. Even when I felt like I was contributing absolutely nothing to the well-being of my family, the logical part of me knew that I was at least providing food for my newborn and keeping my husband from having to pay for childcare. And even in my pain I knew death wouldn’t make the hurting stop. (The belief in an afterlife can be a pretty strong inducement to live. I didn’t want to end a mortal life just to pop up somewhere else to suffer the consequences of my bad decision. If I could truly have ceased to exist, though . . . that would have been far more appealing.)

But those weren’t so much “reasons to live” as they were “reasons not to die.”

Did this scare me? Oh yes.

But I didn’t tell anyone.

I’d like to believe that if I had actually been in danger of hurting myself, I would have sought help. But I’m not sure. I had so many reasons not to talk about it: I hated to impose on anyone. I didn’t want to have to deal with therapy or medication or even having friends come over out of pity. I didn’t want to be a drain on my husband’s resources. I didn’t feel like we had money or time to spare on me. Also, I’m not sure anyone knew to really pry into how I was feeling. I’m not sure I would have told the truth anyway, unless someone had asked me repeatedly, seriously, with wholehearted determination to really know how I was doing.

Over time, the feelings faded on their own. It was a miraculous gift, one not afforded to most people suffering from depression. This part of my story is not the norm. It was only when I was starting to feel better that I finally told my husband what had been going on. He knew I’d had a hard time, but he had no idea how much. I was very good at hiding it, and I was functioning at least minimally, so there weren’t enough warning signs.

Now, with another newborn, we both pay much closer attention. So far, I am infinitely better this time around. I am grateful but also determined not to allow depression go unaddressed again.

Why am I telling you all of this? To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve thought and thought about why I felt compelled to tell this story. Perhaps because I hope that knowing a little of it may help you if you are feeling despair—at least help you know you’re not crazy or hopelessly ruined (I felt that way sometimes). I hope it will encourage you to seek help instead of suffering through. Perhaps because you may know someone who seems to be doing okay, but maybe you wonder sometimes if there’s more going on that they’re hiding. You should go find out.

Perhaps, in the end, because I think that telling a scary secret takes away its power, and because depression doesn’t need any more power in my life or in anyone else’s.