I can’t believe I’m doing this. I told you a while ago I’d be honest. So here goes.
I have postpartum depression. (you thought this was going to be funny, huh? Sucker)
Up to 80% of women of women experience minor-sadness after giving birth and some of them fall into severe postnatal or postpartum depression (I got that off of Dr. Phil, so it has to be true). I can’t be the only one. We just don’t talk about it. So I’m going to.
In fact, I found this picture when I googled “postpartum depression”. The name of this picture is “sad woman”. You know what else frequented the list of pictures under said search? Lots of Britney Spears. Brooke Shields. Stupid Tom Cruise. Lots of sad looking moms. Not uplifting AT ALL!
Postpartum depression (PD? Okay) is a slap in the face for new moms. Here you’ve just gotten your body back from being a host to this little bundle of joy and now WHAM, you hate everyone. You hate yourself. It’s such a superfantastic time to be a little down, too. You’ve gone from loving your belly bump, showing it off, caressing it, wanting the husband to have his hand glued to it to absolutely LOATHING the sucker. Hiding it at all cost. It’s amazing how in a matter of a DAY I can go from loving my body and the life it’s producing to HATING ITS GUTS. Literally. I hate my uterus right now. Hate it. I kind of hate my intestines, too. And if Lance gets anywhere near the big crappy saggy fat skin that hangs over what would be a belt ( if I wore belts, but I don’t because I only wear pants with an elastic waist) I grab his fingers bend them back until he’s screaming for mercy on the floor. In my mind. Still. Don’t touch me.
ind of looks like that, too. Anything that could make you feel better, you absolutely do not want to do. You should probably exercise, but the PD makes it so you’d just rather sleep all of the time. The night feedings do that as well. You should get out with some friends, but the last thing you want to do is shower and get all dolled up (like you can- none of your pants fit and there’s no way in hell you’re putting back on those maternity ones and risk some skinny seeing the elastic belly in it supporting your gut and you swear SWEAR you’re still puffy from all of the fluids they pumped you with when you delivered, only it’s been TWO MONTHS since then and you may or may not have peed that out the day after you had the baby). The less you do, the more you feel bad about doing so little. Then you do even less because you wander around feeling bad all day.
Probably the worst part is the six week checkup. You walk in and a nurse you’ve never met before asks you a bunch of questions. No STD. For reals. One partner who’s only had one partner EVER. The buck stopped here (according to the nurse, it seems, there are only two types of people… those who could have an STD, and liars). She doesn’t believe me. Why would she? I’m two hundred pounds of HOTNESS. I should be getting around. Asks me about my bowel movements. My uterus. My hateful hateful uterus. (I should not be so bitter to an organ that supported life to four out of the five best things I have in this life, but it’s like she knows I’m going to set her on fire here in a couple of weeks and is doing whatever she can to …wow… go down in flames?). Then the question, without even looking up, “so..you feeling…a little blllooooo sometimes?” yes. I HAD marked that box. Yes, you’ve given me the blue pills. Yes, I take them. Yes, I take the white ones that smell badly as well. Yes. I am a gremlin.
I don’t tell the nurse that I don’t feel like I’m bonding with my fourth baby like I did my third (but I had to have a strong bond with Peyton from the beginning, it might be the only reason why he’s still alive) because no matter what I say, she’s going to think it’s because Abby has Down syndrome. It’s not. It would not be any differe
nt if she didn’t have Down syndrome. It wouldn’t be different if she slept through the night and pooped money. I am depressed! It’s hard to love when you’re depressed. Even as I write this it’s all I can do to not go back and delete it, because I know YOU’RE thinking it’s because she has Down syndrome. It’s not.
Then the doctor comes in. The same questions. The same use of the word “blue”. I ask for a referral to a psychiatrist. I don’t like just being handed the latest psych craze drug and being sent on my merry (ahahah) way. The wait to see a psychiatrist? Up to a YEAR. But I’m impatient NOW! So I take the referral card for the psychiatrist, the vasectomist (in a related subject, it didn’t even phase Lance that he’s going to have to get a vasectomy on top of me getting my uterus torched…nothing phases him. ever.), the dermatologist for that weird growth on my shoulder (again, gremlin), and the number to the outpatient surgery center where I will be burning my uterus at the stake.
I go home. Prozac. Sleep. Tears. Cute baby. Prozac. Fooood. Food! That’s another thing. Going back to hating my body. Instead of being fat/pregnant, I’m now just fat. And unlike my other post-pregnancies, the weight JUST WON’T MOVE. Mostly because I haven’t been doing a lot of moving. I tried that. I hemorrhaged. I did get to ride in an ambulance with an ambulance dude who also could not believe there was no chance of me having an std. Plus, food tastes and FEELS good when you’re sad. Not a lot else does. So skittles it is. A LOT of damn skittles.aa) way.
You’re going to tell me I have a lot on my plate. Yes. The baby I just had has Down syndrome. I also have a child with autism. A husband who has a jaw that pops when he chews and who is allergic to happiness (kittens). But those things aren’t going to go away. I’m hoping the postpartum does. I need a win. I really really do.
This was not meant to depress you. It probably has. Man. Now I feel worse. YOU made me feel worse. You should probably bring me some skittles.