The Dirt Field

Ten weeks postpartum. The baby is a smiley, happy child (except when she is tired or hungry, and then holy hell), we sleep for periods long enough to justify actually turning off the lights and climbing into bed, and I’m racing this weekend.

Where does the time go??

That is a rhetorical question: while I can’t believe it’s already been 10 weeks, I also recall every moment since her birth acutely. The immediate trainwreck aftermath of the c-section, the first week of her life when she was so easy and we kept remarking on how lucky we were to have a calm baby, the next six weeks when we wanted to go back and slap those foolish idiots except our hands were too full of screaming baby. It’s been a journey, a constant struggle, a success story these past 10 weeks. Having a newborn is hard and life-changing (duh) but if you have never done it, I can’t really describe how it feels properly. Maybe this: break one of your legs, set yourself on fire, and then go run a marathon where they keep moving the finish line. But all the while, be absolutely certain there is nothing you’d rather be doing and be downright thrilled about it.

Despite so many challenges, I’ve never regretted any of this nor wished I could go back to my life before. Not once. Sometimes I fantasize about having the freedom to go out to dinner, get drinks, and crash into bed late without thoughts of breastfeeding or waking up at 4am or whether somebody will cry at the restaurant (me). Sometimes I miss being home entirely alone for hours at a time. I haven’t been alone in over 10 weeks and previously I could have spent a week by myself making small talk with my foot and been perfectly content. But I wouldn’t give up my baby and family for anything and don’t regret upending my entire life. In doing so, I opened the door to a whole other world that vastly expanded my own, and believe that in the long run, it will pay the most rewarding dividends imaginable.

It’s easy to see all of this and understand that I’m so lucky and fortunate. But it’s another matter to genuinely feel the feelings that should match that reality. When I was first found out that I was pregnant, I immediately went off my regular antidepressant because I had been feeling good and steady for a long time and figured it was worth trying to go without it for the sake of the developing baby. My OB brought up postpartum depression as something to be aware of, but we agreed that if it came to be a problem, I could always go back on the antidepressant. I was moody and emotional through pregnancy but that seemed logical, because pregnancy is an axe wound to the head. I was moody and emotional after the birth, but that seemed normal because birth is also an axe wound (to other parts of the body). There have been a lot of tough days since then, but I assumed those were normal and due to sleep deprivation, physical recovery from birth, and caring for a tiny human that can’t wipe her own butt or support her own head.

Somewhere along the way, though, the not-great days have started to outnumber the great ones. I thought postpartum depression would be an obvious demon: endless crying and darkness, wanting to run away or harm myself/others, feeling like giving up. I’ve been patting myself on the back for weeks now because those don’t apply to me. Look at me! I’m managing just fine! Everything is fine! Here, have some fine because I have so much extra!

But now I have realized that my version – postpartum depression or maybe just garden-variety depression now – looks different but is no less real. Little by little, I’ve lost enthusiasm for each day. I march through my to-do list and towards my goals with minimal joy, rarely enjoying the process. When I think about doing fun things, I feel apathy and a sense of, “Why bother?” I spend a lot more time in my head or aimlessly flipping through my phone instead of engaging with the life and people right in front of me. I’ve shrunk back into myself and don’t make much effort to hold my husband’s hand or sit by the fire pit in our yard or truly enjoy eating the chocolate I begrudge myself. Instead, I get things done, obsess over things I can’t control or hurry along, and rarely feel excited.

It happened so gradually. Everything seemed fine and good and normal, with only occasional indicators that things were off. Josh and I talked about how I was feeling regularly, discussing if an antidepressant was needed and deciding each time that it wasn’t necessary and I was just dealing with normal postpartum feelings and adjustments. And then the other day I finally realized that it’s like somebody has been dimming the lights a little bit each day and suddenly I noticed I’m sitting in the dark. That’s not how I want to live; I want better for me and this family.

So I started taking an antidepressant again. Yes, I’m still breastfeeding. Yes, I’ve discussed the meaning of taking an antidepressant while sustaining another human with my body. The risk is minimal and worth the benefits for us both.

I share this now for two reasons: (1) Habit; I share everything. It’s cathartic. What could be more soothing than telling strangers on the internet about my problems? (2) I want people – especially new mothers – to be reminded that this sort of thing happens and is normal and okay. There is nothing wrong with realizing your mind is getting the better of you and needing help to regain control. There is no need to be unhappy if there is a solution out there that could help. It’s okay to struggle and fall down; the important part is that you get up and keep going. I share these personal things about pregnancy and postpartum life because this is a real account of one person’s story, much more real than a rosy Instagram post of a glowing mother with a cute baby.

Some days we do glow. But now with the boost of some outside help, I think we’ll glow a lot more. There is too much good (my phone suggested “food” there and that is also true) in my life to be less than genuinely happy.