A turning point

It all kind of came to a head yesterday - a culmination of the past 2 years or so. I was in my boss' office talking to him about something - don't remember what - and I felt an odd, stabbing pain in my abdomen, very similar to when my uterus spasmed when I was pregnant and landed me on 4th floor Labor and Delivery. I felt like someone had a death grip on my entire body. I couldn't catch my breath, the world was floaty and spinning, and my body felt numb and tight. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, with my boss right next to me asking what could he do to help. After that, details get a little fuzzy.

After a long ordeal of apparently fighting with the paramedics, hyperventilating, and almost launching myself off the stretcher, Justin and I were on our way to Greenville Memorial ER in the back of an ambulance. (at some point, my coworkers had called Justin). One of my worst nightmares - being in an ambulance. My memory was fairly clear at this point. One of the paramedics asked me about the scars on my arm. I evaded the question, but he figured it out. The scars are a result of years and years of cutting - my way of dealing with emotional pain.

We spent the rest of the evening in the ER - waiting, getting bloodwork done, visits from the doctor, visits from the nurse, and more waiting. A lady (the hospital counselor) came up to my husband and said, "Let's take a walk real quick." I *knew* they were talking about me. Any time the doctor or nurse had come to talk to me, they mentioned the depression meds I was on, and all I could do was cry and feel like the biggest loser ever. I had been off my meds for a month or so, but had taken one of the pills when we returned from vacation because I felt down about being back.

Justin finally came back to my stretcher. "She asked me if I think you need to be admitted."

"Admitted? Like, to the psych ward?" How ridiculous, I thought. "I'm not crazy, you know. Just a little sad some of the time."

"Babe, you're sad ALL of the time."

I started to argue with him, but I realized he was right. He then assured me that he told the counselor that I don't need to be admitted, but they both think I do need to go talk to someone and get help. Physically, I was perfectly healthy. But they said I was emotionally drained and the depression had gotten to the point where it was starting to manifest itself physically. And than I'd had a panic attack.

As I lay there, waiting for the discharge papers, it's almost like the proverbial weight was slowly being lifted from my shoulders. I've felt incredibly, painfully alone for the past couple years. It's difficult for me to trust people and be open.

It's just easier to put on a big happy smile and pretend everything is OK. Even when I feel like I'm dying inside.

Justin and I found out we were pregnant in March of 2010. Of course we were thrilled. And simultaneously terrified.

Most of my Christian and Bob Jonesy friends didn't approve of Justin and my relationship. They certainly wouldn't approve of the fact that I was pregnant outside of wedlock.

I didn't tell anyone for the longest time. I finally told my co-workers (I was working at Link magazine at the time). They were thrilled for me. They were my support group.

Then halfway through the pregnancy, I was put on bed rest. For the entire 2nd half of my pregnancy, I lived one week at a time. Each week, I visited my Maternal/Fetal Medicine doctor and my regular OB and got 2 ultrasounds. Each week, they told me that my baby was safe to stay in my womb for another week. We would check again next week. If she had to be born, she had a 90% chance of living. We were looking at a looooong stay for her in the NICU.

I dealt with the intense fear of potentially losing my child, alone. I sat in my apartment, on bed rest, every day, alone. I mean, NOBODY knew that I was pregnant, much less on bed rest.

Of course, Justin was there for me the entire time. But sometimes, that just wasn't enough. A million thoughts swirled through my head daily. I already wasn't a good enough mom to be able to sustain my child. What kind of woman can't even support her own child? This baby wasn't even born, and already I was a failure. Added to that was the typical pregnancy hormones. I was a mess.

I hadn't cut for over a year. When I'd graduated college, I was engaged to a guy I went to school with. It turned into a horrible, abusive relationship and ended in a messy break-up. I couldn't deal with it, and found self-injuring to be the most successful way of easing the pain. And I turned to that again while I was pregnant.

Eventually we told our parents and friends about my pregnancy. We got a lot of mixed reactions. At that point, I was past the point of caring what everyone else thought and was focused on preparing myself for motherhood.

I gave birth to our beautiful daughter, and it was the best thing I'd ever experienced. I was SO proud of her and I loved her with an intensity I can't describe. I'd made it clear to our friends and family that anyone who treated her differently, or was ashamed of her, or even considered her a bastard child, would NOT be apart of her life in any way. She was a special gift from God, period.

I knew being a mom was going to be hard, but I don't think I'd anticipated just how hard it was going to be. Allie never learned to latch on, so I pumped and fed her from a bottle. Her pediatrician said to feed her every 1.5-2 hours during the day, every 3 hours at night. So my day literally consisted of: pump, wake Allie to feed her, rock her back to sleep (she wouldn't go back to sleep on her own for the first month or so and it took usually 20-30 min for her to sleep), clean the pump and store the breastmilk. Then it was time to pump again, and start the whole process again. Sometimes, more often than not, Allie would wake up when I tried to lay her down, so I had to pump while holding her.

Since I'd had a c-section, my recovery from the surgery was longer than a normal birth. Justin was working long hours (his boss at Dunbar was a Class-A Jerk), so I tried to have the housework done by the time he got home. He never complained about the house of course, but I'm a super organized neat-freak and hated that the house was a wreck.

For the first 3-4 months of her life, Allie was a colicky baby. Meaning, she would cry and scream non-step, every single night, for about 6 hours straight. And there was nothing I could do to help her - just hold her tense, screaming body for the entire time, usually cry right along with her, and telling her I was there and everything was going to be OK. It killed me that she was in pain and I couldn't make it better.

About 3 weeks after Allie was born, Justin lost his job. We were already pretty tight financially, since I had been on bed rest, which meant short term disability at my job and only 60% of my usual pay. So he became a stay-at-home dad, and I became the breadwinner for our family. And my salary wasn't enough to support our family.

Another failure for me. And as the hospital bills and backlog child support for Justin's son kept piling up, I felt more and more inadequate.

Justin pounded the pavement weekly, but with the way the economy was, he didn't get a job until about 9 months later.

The summer after Allie was born, Justin and I got married. We had already been living together, so really nothing changed. We already had stresses on our relationship because of the situation, and as the months went on, those grew and grew and grew. And with each stress, instead of working through them as a couple, my husband and I grew more and more apart until it felt like we were just roommates that were living together and not getting along at all. We couldn't even talk to each other about anything. So I kept all my emotions and doubts bottled up inside, since I had no one to talk to.

Another factor that added to my emotional instability was the fact that I bled for over a year after Allie was born. My body didn't react well to the IUD birth control I got, and my estrogen never replaced itself. My OB said she could give me estrogen pills, but that would decrease my breastmilk supply. Since I was already taking a prescription to increase my milk supply, and I felt very strongly about breastfeeding Allie for as long as possible, I asked her if the bleeding was life-threatening, and if not, then I would rather hold off on the estrogen pills until I stopped nursing.

I successfully breastfed Allie for 9 months. Nine long months of pumping, bottle feeding, bleeding, headaches, tiredness, and dizziness - all caused by the bleeding.

At my latest OB check-up, my doc gave me a prescription for those estrogen pills. And while they did stop the bleeding, they totally messed my hormones up even more. My doc stopped the estrogen, put me on depression meds to even me out, and removed the IUD. Also, she recommended physical therapy for me, since my pelvic muscles were messed up from the pregnancy. (apparently this is common for a lot of women after giving birth, even c-sec births, according to my therapist)

She also talked to me for awhile and discovered I'd been suffering from postpartum depression since Allie was born.

I had never talked to anyone about the perpetual sadness. I mean, I LOVED being a mom. I didn't want anyone to think that I regretted my daughter, or didn't enjoy motherhood. I felt guilty because I felt sad. Then I felt sad for feeling guilty.

Every time I saw posts from my fellow mommy friends on Facebook, I felt incredibly inadequate. My other mommy friends were Super Moms. They delighted in every single moment of motherhood. They kept their houses spotless. They cooked delicious meals every night. They spoiled their husbands. They posted that despite their child's fussiness, they were so THANKFUL for the chance of being their child's mom.

And me? Some days, all I wanted to do was curl up in bed, go to sleep, and never wake up. Some days, I wanted to scream in frustration when my colicky baby screamed 6 hours straight. I never stopped loving my daughter. Never. But I felt the most inadequate mom ever. And I guilty for my feelings.

I mentioned all this to a friend of mine once. She flippantly quoted some Bible verse about how when we sin (i.e., get pregnant before marriage), we must live with the consequences of our sin. I never spoke to her again, and I never mentioned my feelings to anyone again. Not that I didn't realize that, but all I wanted was a hug and a shoulder to cry on.

When I switched to working part time, I felt like I was getting the best of both worlds. But that quickly turned into difficulty balancing my home life and my work life. I felt like I couldn't keep up with everything at work, and I couldn't keep up with everything at home. Life was rushing past at top notch speed, and I was having trouble keeping up.

Anyway...yesterday made me realize that I'm not OK, no matter how hard I try to pretend that I am. I need help. It doesn't make me any less of a mom because I'm still suffering from postpartum depression, almost 2 years after my daughter was born. Going to counseling, both marital and personal, is perfectly OK.

For now, I'm just taking it one day at a time and being thankful for everything God has blessed me with. I'm learning to not doubting myself and trusting my instincts. I'm learning to trust other people and let other people in to my life to help me. I'm learning that it's OK for other people to know that I'm hurting. I'm learning to take time for me, and that doesn't make me a bad mom. I'm learning that not every aspect of my life has to be perfect.

I didn't write this for people to feel sorry for me, or to pity me. But I know how alone I've felt for the past several years, and I'm hoping that maybe someone who reads this and is going through the same thing will know they're not alone.