Not like I'm-going-to-write-a-rant-full-of-curse-words mad, but mad.
I was 19 when I gave birth to my first son. I had a fairly easy pregnancy with an abusive man. My first pregnancy was the only one out of my three that I was able to sleep, so on the days I didn't have to work, sometimes I took naps. I was tired! My body was growing another human being and that in itself is exhausting. My fiancee at the time would come home from work or whatever he was doing and start yelling if I was napping. Not just yelling, though; he would throw things, punch the walls, call me names. Instead of napping, I could have been vacuuming! How dare I! Because the abuse escalated when I was pregnant, I began to resent my unborn child. Clearly, if I wasn't pregnant, life would be easier. Or so I thought. That began the meltdown that would ultimately lead to the final explosion.
After my son was born, I struggled. I had moved out of the house with my fiancee and moved in with my father; I didn't want my son to grow up thinking that the relationship we had was healthy. I didn't want him to see his father abusing his mother and then go out in the world as an adult and do the same. I had help from my dad, but I was raising this baby on my own. The thing that nobody warned me about was postpartum depression and what it looked like. Let me explain.
Every time my son cried, I would feel this overwhelming anger building inside of me; it was a physical feeling rising from my belly and up through my chest. I wanted to throw things. I wanted to punch things. I wanted to scream. And I did. I did all of that. I never hurt my baby, but boy did I yell. My dad came home from work one morning while I was getting ready to go to my own job and heard me screeching at my son, "What is the matter with you?! All you do is cry!" My son was in his swing in the bedroom and I was in the bathroom. My dad came racing upstairs, grabbed my son and held him so close, speaking in a soothing voice and rocking him back and forth. I was humiliated. The thing is, I knew as it was happening that what I was feeling wasn't normal. I would get so angry and think, "why do I feel like this? What is wrong with me?" But I couldn't control. I had no control over myself and my emotions and I was scared. Scared for my son. I feared that one day I wouldn't be able to control myself and he would get hurt.
I sought out a psychiatrist after I attempted suicide. My son was a month to 2 months old. I explained to her my symptoms and she diagnosed me as being bipolar. I came to later find out that that mental illness runs in one side of my family. She prescribed me medication and I went through lots of trial and errors with different pills. Nothing seemed to work. My memory is a little foggy around that time period, but I don't remember ever being happy with anything she gave me. My fiancee wasn't working at the time due to an injury, so he was babysitting our son while I worked. Then he began taking him for a couple of days at a time to save on gas (we lived a half hour away from each other and it was a great strain on my bank account.) Eventually, I told him to keep our son for good, that I didn't want him back. I was still suffering from the rage, resentment and depression and I still feared for him. I dreaded coming home from work because I couldn't stand the crying. He agreed to take him and eventually we went to court to officially name him primary caretaker, although we have joint custody. I figured that if this is how I was going to be since I had been officially diagnosed, that my son deserved better. I had little hope for my future.
I remember that day in court so clearly. The judge said that what we were requesting was unusual, but if that's what I wanted, then so be it. I felt like I was choking when I tried to speak to the judge. Afterwards, I got into my car and broke down. I put my head in my hands and sobbed; I had just given up my son and it was heartbreaking. How does a mother do this? What kind of mother am I? Am I monster? I struggled with those questions and more for years. I hated myself. I just wanted to curl up and die because I was such a horrible mother.
I spent years being a shitty mother. I rarely took him when he was a baby because he was a constant reminder of what I had done and the kind of person that I was. It's ironic because I rarely had him with me, yet I spent countless nights crying myself to sleep because of it. It's not like I gave him up and then went on my merry way. I was devastated and had a genuine, deep hatred for myself.
Fast forward to when I was 27, when I had my second son. At that point, I'd been on an antidepressant that really kept me stable and kept me from going to those low points, like when I attempted suicide. I reiterated to my obgyn many times that I needed to be put back on that medication as soon as my son was born so that I didn't have the same issues. But even before the drug was in my system long enough to be therapeutic, I had none of those feelings. I was elated to have this baby. He was my entire life, my love, my heart, my miracle. I had some life experiences (such as cancer) that I was told would make it nearly impossible to have any more kids, so that played a part in my emotion. He was my miracle baby. He never left my side. Another part, I think, is that I felt like this was my do-over. I had another chance to prove that I could actually be a mother, and a great one, and I was over the moon at the chance. He's 3 now and I've still barely ever left him with a babysitter because we have such a tight bond.
In 2013 I had my 3rd and last son with my current fiancee, a much better man than the father of my first 2 children. I struggled with depression throughout the pregnancy and it didn't get any easier after he was born. It got worse. I was so angry and had so much resentment. I couldn't get my dr to give me the right dose of my antidepressant and then I lost my insurance, so I had to stop taking it. I felt just like I did after my first son; it was awful. Everybody felt the brunt of my emotions. I yelled a lot and had a terrible, negative attitude. I'm sure I was hell to live with. I cried at night and when my fiancee was at work because I hated my life and I hated myself for feeling this way. But I couldn't help it. Eventually, I got my insurance straightened out and I was able to start taking my antidepressant again, when my youngest was 9 months old. Although it wasn't the dose that I knew I needed, it was better than nothing and after a few weeks of taking it, I felt 100% better than I had been feeling for the past 9 months. That's when it hit me. I may be bipolar, but that's not what was happening 10 years ago when I had my first son. I had postpartum depression.
I'm mad because now I'm on the other side of the postpartum depression this time and I have a clear view of myself 10 years ago. The PPD aggravated my bipolar disorder, of course, but I needed the depression treated, not the symptoms. The psychiatrist was giving me medication to stabilize my moods and help me sleep, but not the cause of my mood swings. She gave me the impression that I would never recover from this mental illness that I had, but that was so wrong. So very, very wrong.
I'm happier now. I still get irritated easily and my anxiety is still pretty high, but I'm happy most of the time. I love my kids. They're everything to me. My oldest son is 10 and he's old enough for me to have real conversations with. One weekend that he was here, he came into the kitchen while I was washing baby bottles. I stopped and turned around to look at him. I asked him, "Do you feel like I don't want you?" That's how the conversation started. I told him over and over how much I love him and want him, how I wanted him to come live with me but didn't want to rip him away from his current life and attachments, and how it came to be that he lived with his father. I didn't give him specifics, obviously, but I told him I was sick and I just couldn't do it back then.
"I've been a really bad mother to you and I know that. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I've been such a crappy mom. But I want to do better and I want you to know how much I love you and always have. I want you to feel comfortable enough to talk to me about anything, even if it's something that you think will hurt my feelings. I can't make anything better if you don't tell me, so please tell me. I want you and I've always wanted you."
I'm choosing to speak out now because I want to help other mothers. The way that PPD was described to me was "baby blues." I'm sure you've heard that, too. "Blues" indicates sadness, depression, crying and hopelessness. Nobody told me that there were other ways it could manifest itself. I want to put this out there even if it only helps one person. Nobody shared their experiences with me and I never had the chance to be that "just one person" who gets the help.
You're not alone. You're not a bad mother for feeling what you feel, as long as you don't act on your thoughts. It's ok to ask for help and you absolutely have to if, like me, you feel like you can't control your emotions. There are ways to help you; you'll be able to mother better and you'll feel better overall. If you feel like you need someone to talk to, someone you can completely open up to with no judgment, feel free to message me. After reading my story, you know that I won't think anything about your ability to be a mom. I've been there. Don't just bottle it up inside and let it stew while you suffer; speak out. If not for your baby, for yourself. Feeling like that is no fun. It's your own personal hell.
You can reach me at: zebraprintmama@gmail.com. I've got my listening ears on. :)
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