Seven Months of Memories, Milestones, and Motherhood: Part 1

I remember the first time I walked home from work and it felt different. The gravel crunched under my feet, the leaves were changing from emerald to russet, the air - unusually warm for autumn - was clear and fresh, and for the first time, I was actually excited to get home to my baby.

It was mid-October. Annie was nearly 3 1/2 months old. And I'd just started a medicine to treat post-partum depression and anxiety.

Like any other pregnant lady, I did a lot of reading during those nine months. I knew about post-partum depression, that it was a real thing, and even knew several women who'd gone through it. Like most other potential issues, the "what if...?" crept into my thoughts on more than one occasion, but I tried not to dwell on it. No use worrying about things before you even know if it will apply to you.

So baby came and things were happy. We were tired and learning, but happy. Life was predictable, full of snuggles and naps and diapers and spit-up and poop and laundry and greasy hair. My body slowly healed, and within a few weeks, I was able to pull out my pre-pregnancy jeans if I actually felt like getting ready. Family visited. We attended a funeral and two weddings. And we just kept trucking along.

But the thought kept creeping in, "Why don't I like this? Shouldn't I like this?" I always looked forward to becoming a mother. All growing up, I heard, "Oh, you'll be such a wonderful mother someday!" And I believed it. Like I mentioned before, I was basically as prepared as possible, what with all the siblings and cousins I grew up with. I could do motherhood no problem, but being was a whole different issue. One that I was totally unprepared for.

I trusted those around me who said the first few weeks are the hardest, and that things would slowly become easier and more enjoyable. "It's just the baby-blues," they said, "Everyone goes through it." "Yes, it's hard, but isn't it just the most rewarding feeling?!" As the weeks went by, I began to resent the good-natured encouragement and looks of sympathy. The worst was "Oh honey, just give the baby to someone for a couple hours so you can take a nap. Sleep works wonders! You'll feel better!" First of all, I slept all snuggled up with Annie. I was probably sleeping 14+ hours a day most days and still felt exhausted. Sleep was NOT the issue. And second, I had no one to just give the baby to. Tucker worked. Friends moved. Family lived out-of-state. And I wanted to be the one taking care of her anyway - gotta love all those conflicting new-mom emotions.

Facebook didn't help any either. There were a few moms who'd given birth around the same time I did. I'd followed them through their pregnancies, feeling the same sense of excitement, looking forward to the journey ahead. I hated their happy, bubbly posts about how motherhood was the most beautiful thing in the world and came so naturally to them. I hated their cutesy crafts and perfect nurseries and handmade baby bows. I hated their perfectly captured month updates. And I hated myself for being so juvenile and not just being happy for them.

I was falling apart.

September arrived, family left, and school started. And the anxiety attacks became more frequent. Two or three times a week, I'd find myself huddled on the floor, fists knotted in my hair, hyperventilating. I resorted to holding Annie 15+ hours a day because I couldn't handle hearing her cry. Logically, I knew she'd be fine, but my nerves couldn't take it, and my brain was flooded with nonsense. But sometimes, even holding her wouldn't help, and I'd just get so frustrated. I'd be mad at myself because I couldn't help, I'd be mad at Annie because she needed me to help, and then I'd be even more mad at myself for getting upset with this beautiful, perfect, teeny blessing. It was a vicious cycle that often woke Tucker up a couple hours before he had to be at work. He'd take her from me with a worried look, not saying anything, and I'd flee the room wanting to punch holes through all the walls and pull my hair out.

In moments of clarity, I was just barely clinging to sanity. I'd see old pictures of myself and want to be that girl again so desperately. I wasn't me. Even more, I felt guilty because I wasn't who Tucker loved and married either. But he was there. For better or for worse. He gave me blessings when I asked for them. He stayed up until the baby was asleep so I could have a few minutes with him. I could see in his eyes that he missed me and that he was trying so hard to not let me see how hard it was on him, too. He had to be the strong one, which just made me feel more guilty.

The conflicting new-mom emotions of wanting to give this precious baby all of me while at the same time wishing there was an escape button, the resentment, the frustration, the exhaustion, the guilt...
It all just ate away at me.

The thought of seeking medical attention entered my mind occasionally, but I kept telling myself it would get better. The first couple months were fine so it couldn't be post-partum related, right?

Early October, I finally just decided to try it. I wanted answers so I made an appointment at the doctors office. They had me fill out some paperwork and answer some questions to assess my mental state. We sat in silence while the doctor tallied up the score. I liked her. She wasn't one of those sickly sweet doctors who look at you with pity. She was real. She'd been where I was. And she assured me things would get better. Because I was dealing with anxiety as well as depression, she filled a prescription that would take care of both and gave me the number for the counseling center.

I was surprised at how quickly it worked. I experienced a couple side-effects, but taking notice of the warm sunshine and feeling that gushy, bubbly feeling when my baby smiled at me more than made up for them.

Still facing school and work and motherhood, the battle wasn't totally over, but at least the playing field was a little more level now.

The rest of the semester was H.A.R.D. But we got through it! I had a hard time with letting gradesslide a little so I could focus on my more important priorities, but I was blessed with understanding teachers and made it to the finish line, even if I was finishing a research paper on Christmas Eve.

This semester has been unbelievably better. I feel like I finally have a grasp on my sanity and the face in the mirror is more familiar, more me. I'm finally feeling like I'm mountain climbing instead of just dangling off the edge of a cliff with no gear. Still hard, but not impossible. I'd even go so far as to say enjoyable and occasionally rewarding.

I'm thankful for modern medicine and that we're advanced enough that we can even treat hormonal imbalances and regulate emotions. At first, I was worried about becoming dependent on it, but I'm at the point now where I'm not worried about getting off of it. If I have to stay on medicine to be a normal human, then there's no shame in that. If it helps me be a better wife and mother and helps me be me, then I'm all for it. I'm also thankful for incredibly patient and supportive teachers, family, and friends. And more than words can say, I'm thankful for Tucker. He's definitely the one I want by my side through the rough patches for the rest of my life.

And I guess I'm thankful for this adorable stinker, too. ;)