Postpartum Depression Stole my Son’s First Year
I’ll never get it back.
In 2016, I gave birth to my first son. My water broke unceremoniously in a mall food court. Twenty-six hours later, a team of doctors and nurses wheeled me into an operating room as my contractions got further and further apart.
My symptoms started almost immediately after.
He was beautiful. And I felt a duty to protect him and meet every need. Yet, I didn’t feel love, he was just some stranger and I didn’t feel connected at all. His shrill cries made me sick to my stomach and my throat threatened to close entirely. I’d lied on all the mental health forms, and felt terrified that someone would find out and take him from me.
When a hospital therapist arrived to discuss anxiety and depression with me, I kept my mouth shut. She prattled on about signs, symptoms, treatment. Repeatedly relaying the message that I should seek help if I started struggling.
Once we were home, I continued to devolve further. I began washing my hands until my knuckles cracked and bled. I felt certain that they would take my son away, if anyone found out I wasn’t washing my hands enough while mixing his formula.
I began dealing with intrusive thoughts about hurting him. These thoughts scared me so badly, that I didn’t tell anyone about them for five years. I did, twice, briefly google some of my symptoms. But I was, once again, terrified that someone might take him from me. Was someone, somewhere, tracking my search history? Would someone be barging in the door within the next hour to take my son not just me, the detached and horrible mom, but my husband and his grandparents who were in complete awe of him.
I rigidly stuck to a routine. I felt certain that if he didn’t sleep and eat right on time, he would wail more than usual. And his cries triggered me the worst.
Dairy issues
He ended up having dairy issues, which the pediatrician ignored. She would repeatedly tell us that he needed burped more. He would eat for an hour then need to eat, promptly, and hour later. He was excessively eating to manage the acid that was burning his throat. Finally, at 2 months, he began having blood in his diapers. Finally someone told us what the issue could be, and directed us to a better formula.
During those months, I would often lay next to him and sob right along with him in complete hopelessness. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to help him.
Attachment parenting
I have a minor in Child and Family Development. Which means I was inundated with information about why immediately responsive and physical parents were the least likely to fuck up their kid.
I had already decided not to breastfeed, as a self preservation decision. Failure one.
Somehow, I’d ended up with a kid who hated baby-wearing and wanted to be left alone to sleep. I felt crushing guilt. He hates me. He never loved my voice in the womb. He doesn’t know my scent or find comfort in my hums. I didn’t see our unique beauty that could have helped me survive that first year.
Memory loss
Perhaps the worst part of all, is how little I remember. Friends who’d expereinced postpartum depression had told me this could happen. I was absolutely terrified to experience it myself. And, of course, I did.
I remember so little of his first year. I don’t know if that’s worse, or if all the pictures are worse.
Pictures
There are a few pictures that stand out in my mind. Pictures I’d love to just delete and lose forever.
One in particular is my son and I sitting on our back deck. I’d taken to container gardening that summer, to have time to myself while still doing something important to me… caring for my family. We were surrounded by thriving pepper, cucumber, and tomato plants. I’d chosen my Grandma’s favorite type of tomato, making the whole experience extra special.
But I can see the misery in my eyes. My husband posted the picture to his Instagram with the caption “Two babes and a pepper”. It was sweet. But I hated it. I hate that picture. I hate knowing what both my son and I went through.
I’ll never get that back. And when I see friend’s delighting in their newborns, I feel a deep sense of grief and jealousy.
I don’t know how we tackle this. Perhaps extended maternal care for mothers. Education for spouses and family, so that they can potentially catch the signs and encourage their partner to reach out for help.
I don’t know, but I do know that we’re not doing enough. And my refusal to seek help cost me far too great a cost.
