Shared Social Media Post from my “Jami Writes Light” Facebook page. (My thoughts on the Lindsay Clancy trial and my own experience with postpartum depression and anxiety)

What follows is a post from my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/share/1PN6dQY959/?mibextid=wwXIfr.

(If you haven’t already, I’d love for you to check my FB page out and follow along. Most of my posts there are much shorter than what I write here.💜)

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted any writing here. I’ve still been writing, just not on social media. Ironically, that’s exactly what inspired me to share my thoughts today.

My social media feeds are currently inundated with posts about the Lindsay Clancy trial. As someone with a writing page devoted to mental health and motherhood (two of my greatest life passions), I’ve been feeling compelled to share a few thoughts about my own experiences with PPD as well as my hopes and fears surrounding all of the coverage this case is receiving.

I’ll begin with the latter and conclude with latter as well… my hopes and fears.

As someone who struggled with Postpartum depression and anxiety after both of my babies were born, I’m grateful that the subject is actually being brought to light and hopeful that so many other women are finally finding the courage to say, “That was me. I struggled, too.”

At the same time, I’m also terrified that struggling postpartum mothers will see all the coverage surrounding this absolutely horrific and heartbreaking case and NOT seek help or treatment out of fear that someone might think they will harm their children. The reason for this fear is grounded in my own personal experience, which brings me to what’s been so heavy on my heart and mind.

After I had my first child, I was so unbelievably in love with her that I was certain there was no way I could possibly experience any type of postpartum depression. After all, I had experience with depression. I knew what it looked like and felt like to not want to get out of bed in the morning. I knew the deep, empty ache of feeling my life was meaningless. Thoughts that everyone might be happier without me. I knew how it felt to cry each morning while getting ready for work because I just wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep the day away. I had been to counseling for these feelings during college and I had even been placed on medication for depression in the past. So, obviously, I of all people would know exactly what to look for after having my baby, right? Wrong.

You see, the only type of PPD I had ever heard about was the type when you don’t feel connected to the baby. It had been described to me as a lack of closeness or being unable to “bond” with your child. The mere suggestion of not being able to “bond” with my daughter felt absolutely absurd. For the first time ever, I actually felt like my life had meaning and purpose. I had a reason to get out of bed each morning and something to look forward to. My entire pregnancy was the antithesis of the only definition I had ever heard for postpartum depression.

I had never been more “bonded” to anyone in my life. I bonded with my baby the moment I saw those two pink lines. I continued to bond with her each day of the nine months I carried her in my own body, when I heard her heartbeat for the first time, and felt that very first kick. I read her children’s books in utero, put headphones on my belly so she could hear classical music, and counted down the days, hours, and minutes until I could finally meet her face-to-face.

The sheer joy I felt when that day finally arrived and she was placed in my arms was like nothing I had ever experienced. In fact, we ended up changing her middle name from Marie to Joy right on the spot in the delivery room. I had never before cried tears of joy like I did the moment I first held her.

More than sixteen years later I can still close my eyes and feel her small weight on my chest. I can still remember the sound of her first cry and the feeling of pressing my lips against her baby soft head. It was a feeling I would only ever experienced again when I held her younger brother for the first time two years later.

For me, there has been no greater joy in all of my existence than to hold my children for the very first time. I am beyond thankful to have experienced it not once but twice within my lifetime. Should I never feel such joy again, I can say with absolute certainty that I will still die a grateful woman. So, hopefully all of this helps to explain why it never crossed my mind that I might end up struggling with PPD.

In retrospect, of course, I can look back and see that my intense love for her was so fierce, that it became unhealthy. I felt that I needed to be the one to do everything. And I mean every. Single. Thing. This belief had nothing to do with my husband. He tried to help, bless his heart. He tried to step in and share late night feedings, diaper changes, bath time… all of the things, but I refused. In my mind I was the only person that could do any of that “properly.” I brought her into the world and it felt like the burden of responsibility all fell on my shoulders. It was no longer about my wants or needs, caring for my newborn daughter took precedence over everything.

I didn’t sleep for more than a few

minutes at a time for the first three months of my daughter’s life. I’m not kidding and I’m not exaggerating. Three months straight of nearly no sleep. I would hold her on my chest while watching 3am reruns of Three’s Company and The Golden Girls. I fed her. I soothed her. I rocked her. I was constantly afraid to put her down for fear that she would stop breathing while she was sleeping. So, most nights she slept in my arms or on my chest. I walked the house with her late at night and into the morning, but I did not rest.

During this time, I also lost my beloved grandmother who raised me. She was only able to hold my daughter once from a hospital bed and she died a few days later when Ava was just under one month old. To say the lowest moment of my life converged with the happiest time of my life doesn’t even do it justice. I was celebrating the birth and new life of my precious daughter while grieving the loss of the only person I felt like I ever received unconditional love from. It was a lot to take in emotionally.

Needless to say, I was a mess. In addition to not sleeping, I didn’t eat properly. I lost all of the weight I had gained throughout my pregnancy within those first three months (side note, this is NOT a weight loss plan I would recommend). It wasn’t until my daughter’s two month check up that anyone noticed I was struggling.

To this day I am incredibly grateful that my daughter had such a wise, experienced, and caring pediatrician. She was both smart enough and brave enough to suggest that I might have a problem. She asked all of the typical questions: was I sleeping (no), was I eating properly (no), was I making time for myself (double no), was the baby’s dad helping (no, but not because he didn’t want to), did I find myself crying more or unable to concentrate (well, yes, but that was just because I was grieving the loss of a close family member).

At the mere mention of my grandmother’s death in that exam room, I completely broke down. I tried to explain to this doctor (through a face full of hot, ugly tears) that I absolutely was not struggling with postpartum depression, I was just very sad about my grandmother. I tried to explain to her that everything was fine because I LOVED my baby. I tried to make her understand that I was handling everything just fine, that I wasn’t shirking on my responsibilities. That I knew my baby needed me and I wanted to be the one to care for her. I implored her to see just how much I had indeed “bonded” with my daughter and that I would never, ever do anything to harm her. I kept telling her about feeding schedules and formula and all of the things I was doing to keep my baby happy and healthy.

Finally, she interrupted me and told me she believed I was suffering from two words I had never heard used in succession before: Postpartum Anxiety. Up until that moment, it had never even crossed my mind that all of the drastic hormonal, chemical, emotional, and environmental changes I was experiencing could trigger severe anxiety postpartum. It felt as if I had been frantically running around in circles in the dark and someone finally took the time to notice and turn on a light.

My daughter’s pediatrician went above and beyond her standard of care that day. She listened. She empathized. She gently explained. Perhaps most importantly, she didn’t just suggest I make an appointment- she insisted and told me the front desk would be happy to call and schedule said appointment for me on my way out.

She threw me a life raft I didn’t even know I needed, and it ended up making all the difference.

I listened to her and made the appointment on my way out. I ended up being prescribed medication and I took it faithfully. Please understand that I am NOT suggesting medication is the answer for everyone.

To be clear, the medication did NOT solve all of my problems. It did NOT make me any less sad to have lost my grandmother and it did NOT magically make me start “napping when the baby naps” (most unrealistic advice ever, in my opinion). That said, I refuse to be ashamed of the fact that I take medication to help manage my anxiety and depression.

Over time, what the medication did do was help balance the chemicals in my brain. Eventually, I started to slowly feel a bit “lighter” and less overwhelmed by everything.

Several months later, my nurse practitioner upped the dosage of my anti-anxiety a bit and eventually I started letting my husband help more. I let visiting friends hold the baby for more than 5 minutes before snatching her back up, and I slowly began to see glimpses of the woman I was before I became a mother.

I’m sharing all of this today because I believe there is still a lack of information surrounding postpartum depression and even less information about postpartum anxiety.

My symptoms didn’t look like the descriptions I read about in the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” books. I had clearly bonded with my baby. My symptoms also didn’t look much like the symptoms we are hearing about in the Lindsay Clancy trial, but I still needed help. And if it weren’t for the wisdom of a really great pediatrician, I never would have gotten that help becauseI never would have asked.

My fear is that other women suffering from postpartum depression and anxiety will see all of this media coverage and not ask for the help they so desperately need and deserve because they won’t want to be seen in the same light as someone capable of committing such horrible crimes against their children.

By sharing my own story, I hope someone reading this will see themselves in it and be encouraged to ask for help. That, perhaps, they will share my story with a friend or loved one who may see bits and pieces of their own experience in it, too. I hope this little piece of writing will reach women (and men) who need to read it. That it will help reframe our thinking around the words “postpartum depression and anxiety,” so that others aren’t afraid to ask for help.

If you take nothing else away from reading this, I hope you will realize that postpartum depression doesn’t look the same for everyone. It doesn’t always look like a mother “not bonding” with or having “intrusive thoughts” about her children. Sometimes it can look the polar opposite.

Don’t be afraid to have the conversation- for yourself or for a friend. It may be just the lifeline that is needed. It may even be a lifeline you didn’t realize you needed at all.