This is the third post in my series about PPD. The first two parts can be found here and here.
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Then what? You’ve been diagnosed, you’re getting treatment, and you…live happily ever after? I honestly can’t tell you because I’m not there yet. I’m still working through my treatment, but the light gets brighter by the day. I will fill in the blanks of my story for you, though, so you can see that maybe the depression you’re living with right now can get worse and you do something about it before it gets there. Or you can see that even if you’re going through some very serious PPD, you can come out on the other side ok. You might want to brace yourself for the full truth. It’s brutal.
My PPD, which, in my case also stands for prenatal depression, started early in my pregnancy with W, my older son. I was still in my first trimester when I started experiencing the depressed mood, lack of enjoyment, sleeping too much (though, really, who doesn’t sleep too much in her first trimester?), agitation, and feelings of worthlessness. I tried to ignore the symptoms and carry on with my life, but everything kept getting worse and worse. By the time I mentioned it to my OB at 16 weeks, I hated my life, I hated my baby, and wanted nothing more than to go back to that night four months earlier and make my husband, B, wear a condom. Luckily for me, my OB took my concerns seriously. She explained that I was going through something normal and prescribed me an antidepressant. I filled the prescription, but never took a single pill. Why? Because one of the potential effects on the baby was uncontrollable crying. I was so far down in a pit of despair about my ability to deal with having a kid that I just knew I could deal with uncontrollable crying. So I didn’t take the medicine. And I continued to get more and more depressed.
W was born and I think I actually got a brief reprieve; being a mom was ok for a very brief time. But W was an awful baby. He had terrible reflux and was constantly puking (he threw up in my mouth once. It was as disgusting as it sounds); he was terrible at nursing, so he was always hungry and screaming (which we and his doctors figured was colic for a long time. All the while, he was literally starving even though he nursed all the time); he didn’t sleep for more than two or three hours at a time until he was almost nine months old. On top of that, I was working full-time an hour away from home, B was laid off, and money was really tight. Combined with the hormonal madness that is the post-partum period and my body’s inability to tolerate even minor hormonal shifts, I had a recipe for disaster.
My depression continued to get worse, but I did nothing. I said nothing. I was too paralyzed by my feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy to think I was entitled to feel better, or – dare I say it? – happy. When W was around five or so months old, I started taking the Zoloft my OB had prescribed when I was pregnant. The low dose actually helped me feel better, and I was fine for several months.
Coming up - Part IV: My story, the downward spiral
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Then what? You’ve been diagnosed, you’re getting treatment, and you…live happily ever after? I honestly can’t tell you because I’m not there yet. I’m still working through my treatment, but the light gets brighter by the day. I will fill in the blanks of my story for you, though, so you can see that maybe the depression you’re living with right now can get worse and you do something about it before it gets there. Or you can see that even if you’re going through some very serious PPD, you can come out on the other side ok. You might want to brace yourself for the full truth. It’s brutal.
My PPD, which, in my case also stands for prenatal depression, started early in my pregnancy with W, my older son. I was still in my first trimester when I started experiencing the depressed mood, lack of enjoyment, sleeping too much (though, really, who doesn’t sleep too much in her first trimester?), agitation, and feelings of worthlessness. I tried to ignore the symptoms and carry on with my life, but everything kept getting worse and worse. By the time I mentioned it to my OB at 16 weeks, I hated my life, I hated my baby, and wanted nothing more than to go back to that night four months earlier and make my husband, B, wear a condom. Luckily for me, my OB took my concerns seriously. She explained that I was going through something normal and prescribed me an antidepressant. I filled the prescription, but never took a single pill. Why? Because one of the potential effects on the baby was uncontrollable crying. I was so far down in a pit of despair about my ability to deal with having a kid that I just knew I could deal with uncontrollable crying. So I didn’t take the medicine. And I continued to get more and more depressed.
W was born and I think I actually got a brief reprieve; being a mom was ok for a very brief time. But W was an awful baby. He had terrible reflux and was constantly puking (he threw up in my mouth once. It was as disgusting as it sounds); he was terrible at nursing, so he was always hungry and screaming (which we and his doctors figured was colic for a long time. All the while, he was literally starving even though he nursed all the time); he didn’t sleep for more than two or three hours at a time until he was almost nine months old. On top of that, I was working full-time an hour away from home, B was laid off, and money was really tight. Combined with the hormonal madness that is the post-partum period and my body’s inability to tolerate even minor hormonal shifts, I had a recipe for disaster.
My depression continued to get worse, but I did nothing. I said nothing. I was too paralyzed by my feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy to think I was entitled to feel better, or – dare I say it? – happy. When W was around five or so months old, I started taking the Zoloft my OB had prescribed when I was pregnant. The low dose actually helped me feel better, and I was fine for several months.
Coming up - Part IV: My story, the downward spiral
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