A confirmed 1 in 7 women suffer from PPD (source: Postpartum Support International).
Think about that statistic for a minute. One in seven is only the confirmed statistic, derived from women who are diagnosed and treated for PPD; it says nothing of the number of women who suffer in silence. We all know 7 mothers. My mom, my grandmothers, my aunts, my sister-in-laws, my first cousins, myself; my family boasts at least 14 mothers, which means a minimum of two mothers in my family have suffered from PPD.
During your pregnancy, you hear so many cliches about the pure love you feel the first time you hold your baby, how the loss of sleep is worth it, the joy you feel while breastfeeding, but you know what you don’t hear enough about? How empty your body feels afterward. How you’ll sob on the way home from the hospital. How you’ll resent your partner because you’re breastfeeding at 3am and it feels like your nipples are being tattooed and all your partner can do to help is rub your shoulders and bring you water. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love being a mom. I have longed for motherhood since I was 3 years old, and maybe that contributed to the romanticized ideals I had. My mother was very honest with me about how hard new motherhood could be, and as much as I had prepared for it, I still wasn’t ready for PPD. I am 1 in 7.
I am 1 in 7.
Candice
In November 2018, Carlos and I were newly engaged and both incredibly anxious to start a family. We had both wanted children for as long as we could remember and were over the moon at the prospect of being able to raise them as partners. Due to my history of irregular ovulation and the fact that I had been on birth control for over a decade straight, we decided that when it was time for my IUD to come out, we would just let pregnancy happen organically from there. My depression and anxiety had been manageable for years, so at the time I was not taking medication, nor was I in treatment. I thought that my IUD was non-hormonal, but that was a misunderstanding on my part; Skyla is actually a “low dose” hormonal birth control. This misunderstanding was the first step in a long journey down the road to PPD. Hindsight is 20/20.
So now I’m engaged (not for the first time) and having anxiety about sharing the news (because it wasn’t the first time), potentially able to get pregnant (producing more anxiety), and experiencing hormonal changes (causing mood swings and weight gain, stimulating my depression). Fun times for Carlos, yeah? See, I tried REALLY hard to just let pregnancy happen organically, but my mental state wasn’t allowing that to happen. I was still unmedicated, not receiving treatment, and now secretly tracking my ovulation behind my fiance’s back because I was so worried that I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant. I hadn’t had a period in over a year, so I sincerely had no idea when I might ovulate and yet I was obsessed. The first time I got my period, I cried because in my unwell mind, it was the first of what was sure to be a long line of failed attempts.
The second month of trying, I was so freaking sure I was pregnant. I still had no idea when to expect my
period (because it’s never been regular) so I took a test. It was negative, but I didn’t believe it so I waited a few days and took another. Still negative. A few days later and Aunt Flo barged in, an unwelcome guest in a surely barren home. I couldn’t get out of bed that day and sent the standard “not feeling well” text to my boss that those of us with mental illness rely so heavily upon to avoid the judgement of exposing our mental illness. Still, I was secretly tracking my period, trying to figure out when I would ovulate next, and shutting my partner out entirely. (Shoutout to my best friend Amber for being there and trying to keep me rooted in reality since I wouldn’t talk to anyone else.)
January 2019. Month 3 of trying. I had bought a stretchy New Year’s dress in November in case I was pregnant. I was not, so I got hammered (too hammered to potentially get pregnant). My period came, and I finally decided to come clean about my secret obsession. Fun fact: it wasn’t a secret, Carlos was just respecting my choice and knew that I would talk to him when I was ready with an option on stepping in if I went too dark. So I agreed to stop the obsessive tracking and to stop putting pressure on both of us and just TRY, one month at a time, to let pregnancy happen. So February rolls around, and my period is late-ish. It’s hard to tell because it’s irregular, right? Plus, I’ve got cramps so it has to be coming any day now. Amber thinks I should take another pregnancy test, but I’m still pretty positive I’m barren so I tell her if I don’t get my period within a week, I’ll take a test. The next Friday we’re getting ready for work and I HAVE to pee while Carlos is in the shower. Well shit, while I’m here I guess I’ll pee on a stick. Direct quote: “HOLY CRAP.” Cut to me shoving the pee stick right in Carlos’ face. My husband is not a reactionary human. It’s just not who he is. He stoically watches entire films only to tell me afterwards how funny he thinks they were. I should not be surprised or alarmed when his response to having a positive pregnancy test is “Cool,” but of course in my current mental state, it hurts.
I know it’s too soon to tell anyone, but I need someone to be noticeably excited, so I call my mom (also not a reactionary person, nor particularly great at communicating emotions); she says “Try not to gain too much weight.” I promise you, dear reader, this is not a dig at my mother. This is my mother saying “I’ve been pregnant in my 30s and you share my gene pool so I know how high your risk is for gestational diabetes, please take care of your health.” But when you’re over the moon happy, depressed, and anxious all at the same time… ouch. So I tell Amber and finally I have someone to squeal with, but in the back of my mind is that nagging residual hurt from Carlos and my mom and it continues to eat at me throughout the pregnancy.
Y’all, being pregnant was such a mixed bag for me.