This is the fourth post in my series about PPD. The first three parts can be found here, here, and here.
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Unfortunately for my mental health, B managed to slip one past the goalie (pro tip: condoms are apparently bad birth control), and I ended up pregnant for a second time when W was nine months old. The PPD that had never completely gone away reared its ugly head swiftly and viciously during my second pregnancy. I was a mess pretty much right from the start. I was terrified of having a second kid because the first one has started life so traumatically; I expected number two to be and act the same as number one, which was not a comforting though.
The low point of my pregnancy came the day I found out I was having another boy. I was so upset that I started crying when the tech said she saw a penis and didn’t stop until long after I got home. At my check-up after the ultrasound, I mentioned to my OB that I hadn’t been doing well, but I didn’t go into how badly. She referred me to a counselor but didn’t go any further. I'm guessing she didn't probe any more because she attributed my mood at my appointment to my disappointment in finding out I was baking another male.
When I got home that afternoon, I sat down at my computer and googled ways of inducing a late-term miscarriage. I also looked up the law in my state to make sure I couldn’t get into legal trouble if I did something to the baby. I stewed about and plotted ways to not have kids any more. These ranged from running away to putting W up for adoption to late-term abortion. I obviously never acted on my thoughts, but they were my constant companion. After that, I spent weeks feeling supremely guilty because I wanted nothing more than to be rid of my pregnancy when I had friends who would have given their left arms to be in my position. I had a friend who miscarried around this time, and I cried myself to sleep that night wishing it had been me. I had another friend who had tried for months and months to get pregnant, only to keep running into brick walls. I spent many, many hours wishing I could exchange uteruses with her. I hated myself for thinking this way and hated my baby for existing. To this day, I carry a TON of guilt about my hyper-fertile/non-kid-wanting self when some of my closest friends struggle just to ovulate, and want babies so, so badly.
My second son, R, was born and was the complete opposite of W. He was a wonderful baby. But that didn’t do anything to stop the depression from worsening. I got another dosage increase, which managed to get me to plateau for quite awhile. But then it quit working. In an effort to get me feeling better, my family doctor added Wellbutrin. This got me from feeling depressed to feeling absolutely nothing. In hindsight, this would have been the perfect time to start seeing a psychiatrist for medication management. Instead, I stuck with my family doctor, who eventually switched me from Zoloft to Cymbalta.
I knew within five days that Cymbalta was not a good choice for me. I was more depressed than I ever had been before, but I kept taking the medicine for the full two-week trial period. Looking back now, I'm not sure why it never occurred to me to call the doctor and tell him I needed to quit the Cymbalta before our next appointment. I think it has to do with the fact that I didn't care about anyone or anything at that point. The day I went back for my check-up, my doctor said something about my "refractory mood disorder" and “treatment resistant depression,” which caused me to snap.
Coming up - Part V: My story, the climax
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Unfortunately for my mental health, B managed to slip one past the goalie (pro tip: condoms are apparently bad birth control), and I ended up pregnant for a second time when W was nine months old. The PPD that had never completely gone away reared its ugly head swiftly and viciously during my second pregnancy. I was a mess pretty much right from the start. I was terrified of having a second kid because the first one has started life so traumatically; I expected number two to be and act the same as number one, which was not a comforting though.
The low point of my pregnancy came the day I found out I was having another boy. I was so upset that I started crying when the tech said she saw a penis and didn’t stop until long after I got home. At my check-up after the ultrasound, I mentioned to my OB that I hadn’t been doing well, but I didn’t go into how badly. She referred me to a counselor but didn’t go any further. I'm guessing she didn't probe any more because she attributed my mood at my appointment to my disappointment in finding out I was baking another male.
When I got home that afternoon, I sat down at my computer and googled ways of inducing a late-term miscarriage. I also looked up the law in my state to make sure I couldn’t get into legal trouble if I did something to the baby. I stewed about and plotted ways to not have kids any more. These ranged from running away to putting W up for adoption to late-term abortion. I obviously never acted on my thoughts, but they were my constant companion. After that, I spent weeks feeling supremely guilty because I wanted nothing more than to be rid of my pregnancy when I had friends who would have given their left arms to be in my position. I had a friend who miscarried around this time, and I cried myself to sleep that night wishing it had been me. I had another friend who had tried for months and months to get pregnant, only to keep running into brick walls. I spent many, many hours wishing I could exchange uteruses with her. I hated myself for thinking this way and hated my baby for existing. To this day, I carry a TON of guilt about my hyper-fertile/non-kid-wanting self when some of my closest friends struggle just to ovulate, and want babies so, so badly.
My second son, R, was born and was the complete opposite of W. He was a wonderful baby. But that didn’t do anything to stop the depression from worsening. I got another dosage increase, which managed to get me to plateau for quite awhile. But then it quit working. In an effort to get me feeling better, my family doctor added Wellbutrin. This got me from feeling depressed to feeling absolutely nothing. In hindsight, this would have been the perfect time to start seeing a psychiatrist for medication management. Instead, I stuck with my family doctor, who eventually switched me from Zoloft to Cymbalta.
I knew within five days that Cymbalta was not a good choice for me. I was more depressed than I ever had been before, but I kept taking the medicine for the full two-week trial period. Looking back now, I'm not sure why it never occurred to me to call the doctor and tell him I needed to quit the Cymbalta before our next appointment. I think it has to do with the fact that I didn't care about anyone or anything at that point. The day I went back for my check-up, my doctor said something about my "refractory mood disorder" and “treatment resistant depression,” which caused me to snap.
Coming up - Part V: My story, the climax
2 comments:
I haven't had time to read all of the PPD posts, but I'll be back. I just wanted to say that I think it is great that you are writing it all, both for yourself and for others. Thanks for sharing such a personal experience.
Tracy
Isn't it ironic that at the time we are being smothered to death by depression and no longer have the strength to fight it, we somehow have to help ourselves because nobody else can figure out how to do it? That really frustrated me during my experience. Is it really THAT hard for our doctors/spouses to see what we need? (Not that I expect them to be miracle workers, but, really? They couldn't be a little more pro-active?)
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