When Postpartum Depression Hits

Pregnancy is supposed to give joy, gratitude, and love... so why didn't I feel any of those things?

When the Bough Breaks

You hear people talk about it, and if you've been pregnant, your doctor or midwife probably brought it up briefly during your pregnancy, and during your postpartum appointments. It's probably not something you think will impact you, especially if you've been lucky enough not to have any experience in having mental health issues.

I was not quite so lucky. Isn't that the understatement of the year? I went from glowing, excited, and blossoming with new life growing inside me (albeit, some more physical health issues and raging hormones did come into play), and I had a plan. I was prepared. Or so I thought.

This was my third pregnancy. Postpartum depression had impacted me in both of my previous pregnancies, but it was somehow manageable both times. I was able to get through it without having to even see a doctor, let alone need to go on medication. Even though, at the time, I was in a long-term, emotionally abusive relationship with my children's father. I was able to get through my period of postpartum depression all on my own. Yet, this time was different. Perhaps it was because for the first time in my life, I was able and allowed to start processing the trauma I had experienced throughout my life, especially in the most recent years.

Fast forward three years. I had successfully managed to escape said aforementioned abusive relationship with a few scars, and after a rough separation which exacerbated my issues with anxiety and depression from my youth, decided to speak with a doctor about medication. I decided to start taking Venlafaxine (Effexor), and had Ativan as a back up for really severe panic attacks.

I am now in a much happier, and healthier, relationship. I became pregnant and, in August 2017, gave birth to my third child, and his first son. I had a fairly uneventful, low risk pregnancy, and we were blessed to be able to welcome our new son in the comfort of our own home with a midwife we adored. That being said, being pregnant, the medication I was taking was not considered safe to take during pregnancy, and I had to stop taking it. I had decided, with my midwives, that I would begin taking them after I had given birth. Unfortunately, it didn't exactly work out that way.

Diary of A Woman Gone Mad

Time has a way of getting away from us, especially as a mother who has just given birth, and now has three children to care for. Not to mention that I had not had a family doctor since 2011. So, even with my good intentions and well thought-out plan, I put off going to the clinic to get started back on my medication. Before I knew it, three weeks had gone by, and that's when it hit me like a speeding train. Only this time, it was much more than I expected.

It began with this intense heaviness, and very quickly escalated into severe depression, coupled with suicidal ideation, and recurrent thoughts of self harm. I spent every day and night in a fog, bawling my eyes out, and telling my partner that I wanted to die. I didn't eat for five days straight because I was so depressed. I felt like a horrible mother. I was caught in this dangerous web I was spinning myself, filling my thoughts with self hatred, self harm, and the heaviness of just wanting to give up. I would choke on my own words. I barely spoke. I thought nobody cared if I was alive or dead.

The worst part was, any time a health nurse would call, or I would have a postpartum appointment with my midwife, I would tell them nothing was wrong. I didn't want them to think I was a failure of a mother. I didn't want to be judged. I didn't want to feel vulnerable and exposed, and I had recurring thoughts that they would take my kids away if they knew how sad I really was. (Which, by the way, is not true.) Yet, I was convinced it would, and I was terrified.

Eventually, it got so bad that by some miracle, my partner managed to get us a family doctor. He had an appointment for himself, and he brought up to the doctor just how bad I was coping, and how serious the situation really was. If it wasn't for him, I would not be here. I would have found one way or another to end my life.

That day, the doctor called me into the room, and I could barely speak. Yet, I could no longer pretend that this was not happening. My partner had done the hard part. Now, all I had to do was explain the severity of it, and what kind of medication had worked for me in the past, and at what dose. I count my lucky stars that I already had a medication that I knew worked for me, and didn't give me any side effects. I still don't know how I managed to get through that appointment, but I did it.

My biggest qualm with the whole experience is that I found it difficult to find community support. I hoped and prayed every day that I would find some kind of emergency counselling, or mental health service or phone number that was found easily on the internet; that someone would see how much pain I was in, and would set everything up for me when I could not do anything on my own. Instead, I was met with long wait lists that, by the time my appointment came around, or the group would be in session, I would have already either talked myself out of going, seriously harmed myself, or worse. I do not wish my experience with postpartum depression on anyone, and as far as I'm concerned, our mental health system is failing mothers. If you are, or have struggled with PPD, I encourage you to share your story to de-stigmatize mental health issues and postpartum depression. Talk to your friends and family. Open up. Be vulnerable.

It may just save someone's life.