It's 11:01pm. Maya is asleep in my arms and Justin is asleep in bed. I went to dinner with friends who only just now left. Honestly, I'm putting off going to bed because my makeup is relatively fresh and I don't want to ruin it by taking it off. I've been looking back at pictures of Maya from when she was brand new, right out of the womb. My heart fills with the joy and the relief I felt that day, finally having my baby and experiencing the best thing ever.
I also ran across pictures of after we brought her home. My heart feels a twinge. In that first month, especially in the first two weeks, my days and nights were tainted by postpartum depression.
We brought her home. This tiny, delicate baby that I loved more than life was now in the place I lived. I was terrified. There were no nurses here to make sure her blood sugar didn't drop again. There was no one to check our vitals or tell us what she needed. I sobbed that first night, feeling like I had just changed my life for the worse. I feared Justin and I would never be the same. I was convinced I would never sleep for more than three hours at a time again. I felt guilty for feeling so... sad.
The first night was the worst, but it didn't get much better. I saw my sister nearly every day, and I would cry to her about how sad I was. It was just baby blues, I thought. Maybe this is normal. Maybe all new moms feel like this. I'm just tired. I just need sleep. So I would feed Maya and lie down for a nap. Instead of sleeping, I would cry. I felt lonely and scared, always worried that I would die suddenly and leave Maya motherless and Justin as a brand new dad by himself. I researched PPD. I didn't want to admit that I was depressed. Emotional strength was a quality I valued in myself. Who was I without that? What kind of a mother was I that I couldn't be happy? I reasoned that everyone must feel this way. Hormones, and all that.
Well, two weeks later, I didn't feel any better, despite what I told myself. I dreaded the night time. I was only barely better off during the day. I went to lunch with my dad and started crying in the middle of it, for reasons I couldn't articulate. I finally called my doctor. I was afraid she would tell me it was all in my head, that I was being weak and ridiculous. She, of course, didn't do any of that. She had PPD once, too. She knows what it's like. My experience is not normal. She diagnosed me and prescribed a low-dose medication, which I was extremely reluctant to take. But, after two weeks of feeling so bad after the best experience of my life, I just wanted to feel normal. To feel happy. I didn't want to feel like I was ungrateful for my beautiful baby.
I'm over halfway through weaning myself off of the medicine. (Apparently stopping suddenly would not be good at all.) I feel and have felt like my normal self for months. I have to admit, it's a little embarrassing to talk about this, but why? Trust me, if this was in my control, I would not have gone through it. I make a conscious effort not to be jealous of women my age who have babies and don't have depression. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but I wonder how my experience would have been different without it.
***
The only lights on in the living room are the wifi router and my cell phone. The porch light shines outside the window and keeps the room a few shades lighter than pitch black. Maya stirs and starts to cry, so I hum and rock her back to sleep. I remember the early "dark days" when a dark living room was enough to make me cry and wonder, seriously, if I'd ever be happy again. Now, it's actually really peaceful. Just me, my sleeping baby, and my thoughts. Justin sleeps in the other room (because, you know, he works for a living) and our relationship is like it used to be, only better. If only I could have seen the future in that first month...
There are a lot of "what if" questions I have about my experience. I'm separated from it enough now that I'm only reminded of it from time to time, and I hurt for my past self. I hurt for the family members who had to watch me go through it and not know how to help me.
But. Here we are. Healed. (Thankfully.) I have this awesome kid who is basically the best thing ever, and I have a story that doesn't start with depression and doesn't end with it. Hopefully my story will end with me at 120 years old with 80 grandkids and great-grandkids, wise and free and adventurous, never really ending and living on through my legacy until Jesus comes back and brings Heaven with him.
Or something like that.
***
I've been hesitant to talk about this, mostly because it's such a serious subject and I don't want to dwell on negative things. But if even one person reads this and feels better just knowing they aren't alone, it will have been worth it.
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