You know
what’s really not fun? Postpartum depression. It’s the pits. Here’s why:
·
Having
baby #2 = cranky mom. Having PPD with baby #2 = cranky x 26
·
I
can’t wear mascara to distract from the dark circles under my eyes because
crying happens multiple times a day often at very inconvenient times.
·
It’s
a challenge to feed another human when you have no appetite yourself.
·
Motivation
plummets (aka, no blogging).
·
Baby
#2 takes on the unattractive role of Obligation when I’d really like him to
play more of Affection.
·
Baby
#1 asks, “Are you happy, Mommy?” repeatedly which reminds me of why I can’t
wear mascara.
·
I
envy strangers who tell me how precious my baby is.
·
Fitting
in therapy between getting Baby #1 to school and feeding Baby #2 while still
doing my job.
·
Returning
to work after four weeks of maternity leave and still feeling exposed like a
grape with the skin off.
As
I write this it feels like I’m making light of it. Trying to be funny for my
blog. The same way I wrote about Sullivan’s birth. But both were more than “not
fun.” I have PTSD moments from his birth and PPD brings up such sadness. Something
that would make a hollow sound if you could hit it. It’s embarrassing, if I’m
being honest with myself. Not immediately loving the baby I housed for nine
months. I compare it to going on a really bad first date (his emergency birth)
and waking up married to the person. And everyone around me, even those not
related to him, want to hold him and coo and tell me how cute he is. How lucky
I am to have this beautiful, healthy baby.
But
my body betrays me: simultaneously withholding serotonin and responding with
milk to his cries. He craves the warmth of my body, curling around me and
falling asleep on my chest. He clutches my fingers, his tiny nails digging into
my skin. And I hold him, feed him, rock him, soothe him, change him, stroke his
head, while feeling… well, not so much. It’s not negative feelings I have. But
it’s like caring for a stranger. Which, in a way, is exactly what it is.
Recently,
there’s been some prickling through the numbness. He’s starting to smile with
regularity. I put my face close to his and ask for one. He holds my eyes with
his, then the gaze tracks to my mouth and his lips pull up. And I find myself
talking to him more. The silly terms of endearment coming without thought.
Pumpkin head. Biscuit pie. Sweet boy.
I
try not to blame myself or judge any more than I’m already prone to do. I’ve heard
lots of metaphors for depression and even more for coming out of it. Like a
black and white movie that rainbows into Technicolor. The off-beat metronome
that regains rhythm. But it’s frustrating enough when the depression disrupts
my own life. That it dislocates my barnacle feels unforgivable. My mantra becomes:
He will be fine. We will be fine. until
the moments of color outgrow the monochromatic beginning.
