Pregnant people receive an incredible amount of unsolicited advice. I was told I couldn’t be stressed at all when we were buying a house but, I should drink more coffee. For my hyperemesis gravidarum, I was instructed by people other than my doctor that sucking on a lollipop would solve my consistent vomiting.  When I was close to having my daughter more and more people told me I would need breast augmentation after breastfeeding and how I would lose a great amount of hair after having her.  I was told, through a laugh, that my curvy body would be fat and unattractive so I better get used to not feeling sexy anymore.

Nothing of what I was told was helpful.

Why are people so insistent on damaging your sense of self but, never prepare you for what actually happens after you have a baby?

I did not lose my hair but, I felt like I lost my mind. I did not hate my body but I hated the way I felt. I did not need an augmentation but, I felt like my marriage did.

After giving birth to my beautiful baby girl, my hormones began to dip and would eventually bottom out. The nurses at the birthing center briefly instructed me that this would happen and then, handed me a pamphlet on resources. They walked out and I skimmed the pamphlet. As my husband sang to our daughter and snuggled her close, my heart sunk into my still swollen belly. From what I read, postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety were inevitable. I struggled to find joy in that moment as the data smacked me in the face. 70-80% of women will experience baby blues and only 10-20% will be diagnosed with clinical postpartum depression. The worst part? There was no way of really preventing it. Your hormones are going to drop and you ARE going to struggle.

Before even becoming pregnant, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Panic Disorder, C-PTSD, and OCD. I was regulated through an SSRI. Would the medicine I was on even help me with the possible addition of PPD or PPA?

I asked the next nurse on staff and she gently said, “It can happen to women who are on medication.” She turned to my husband and said as horrifically gentle as before, “You will need to help watch for signs of PPD and make sure she gets the help she needs.”

We went home with these instructions and the looming fear of SIDS. I know they need to instruct of you of it but, the sheer amount of reminders made us both want to crawl into a hole. When we went home, I changed her diaper and my own, though mine was far more complicated. We invited the vaccinated family members to come see her for a brief moment. It was a reprieve to see familiar faces and their excitement at the newest and cutest addition to the family.

The moment passed quickly and the baby blues set in. Our daughter’s health quickly declined. We were in and out of the doctors office and hospital. She only slept for extremely short timeframes, she dropped to 4lbs, and her cries were not cries. They were painful shrieks which clawed at our brains.

I stood in the kitchen while making her a bottle, breasts engorged and leaking, and broke down. I sobbed and called my dad to tell him I had made a mistake. “I can’t do this anymore,” I had cried into the phone. “I shouldn’t be a mom. I hate it.”

I am grateful for my family who swooped in to help. My mom stayed for three days in a row and helped us to get some sleep, even if it was short. My daughter’s health improved. As she improved, my mind tumbled into darkness. I couldn’t contain my depression and anxiety. It leaked out of me, destroying any happy moments. I sat on the couch and stared emptily at the wall many times as my husband tried to comfort our daughter.

My darkness and our lack of sleep created the perfect blend for marital war. I was frustrated, exhausted, and felt like I was carrying the weight of the family. He felt he could not do anything right. I would snap her away from him saying he let her cry for too long and that he wasn’t rocking her correctly. He would let me take her, defeated, and asked what he could actually do. When I told my fellow mom friend how angry I was with him, she was worried. “It sounds like you’re getting PPD….” she said as she stirred a cup of coffee with creamer.

“No, I am not,” I said. “He lets her cry too long and it’s going to hurt her to cry that long. I read that online. Plus, What if he drops her or what if he yells at her? I can’t let that happen.”

“Why would he hurt her?” she asked me.

I didn’t have an answer. He had never been an impatient or an angry man. My husband loved us with all of his heart. So, why was I imagining the worst when he held her? I speculated on it for a bit. I realized I took her back from everyone when she cried. I would tell my husband to go back to sleep and that I would take care of her for fear he would drop her in his state of exhaustion. I told myself that this had to be normal to feel this way. I was simply protective. What was wrong with that?

I couldn’t admit to myself I had PPD yet. It took weeks for me to finally admit to it.

As time went on the intrusive thoughts worsened. If someone else held her, they would drop her. I saw her hit the concrete, brain splattering, and my daughter dying slowly before me. I saw her hitting the edge of the table and screaming hysterically with a broken shoulder. My mind felt like it was churning out every horrible possibility and I would always, always take her back. I could control what was happening. I could keep her safe from others harming her. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.

The tension in my marriage escalated. We were exhausted and my PPD/anxiety was at an all time high. We rarely fought before our daughter. It seemed like we were making up for lost time in her first two months of life. I watched him make a bottle, concerned he had put too much water in it, and that it would kill her. I told him she was too hot and sweaty and he needed to strip her when she had one bead of sweat on her upper lip. I even monitored how he burped her because what if he patted her too hard and her lungs collapsed? He rightly hated it and fought back.

The way he fought back was not to correct me in how I monitored him. It was how I did the dishes. I didn’t scrub them well enough before washing them. He couldn’t believe I forgot the laundry in the washer or dryer again. I was mopping the floors incorrectly. I needed to use even more Fabuloso or I was using too much.

The bickering escalated as we found anything and everything Erin with each other. One night, while our baby slept, our bickering turned into a shouting match. I asked him why he couldn’t be grateful for the work I was doing around the house while taking care of the baby. He told me it was all he could focus on anymore because I was hogging our her all to myself. I shouted back that I needed to hold her because I was preventing her from being hurt.

The silence after I shouted was  deafening. We stared at each other in resentment until we both had to admit the truth: I was suffering from PPD.

He pulled out the pamphlet they had provided me in the hospital and said I needed to check the resources. He took our baby and went for a walk as I tearfully called the resource line.

I started to attend a group online to discuss PPD and the effects it has on parenting and relationships. I do not do well in group settings and struggle to talk about things that bother me. However, even listening to others talk was healing. I was given coping mechanisms and was firmly instructed to let others hold her and love on her. “You can’t do this journey alone,” the psychiatrist on duty said. “Remember, it takes a village.”

It wasn’t easy. I still snatched her from him and others until I came to my senses. I would hand her back, repeat my mantra that this is merely a terrifying thought, and would breath until calmness started to take the reins again. I had a medication adjustment and thought it would make me sluggish. It did the opposite. I felt more alive, more energetic, and was happier than I had been since she was born.

My husband and I even got to leave for an evening to enjoy our own company. We talked, laughed, and flirted like we had before our baby girl. It was refreshing.

We still bicker six months into parenthood but, we catch ourselves now. We communicate what is truly bothering us and ask positive questions to come to a solution. Sometimes, we take timeouts to process our own feelings. We are working on using “I” statements instead of the hurtful “you” statements.

If you are pregnant or a mom or married to a new mom, please take heed that this is a rough time. You might lose your hair. You might not. You might snap back. You might not. In the end, these are minor in comparison to your mental health. Baby blues are inevitable. You will fight with your partner. You might develop PPD or PPA but, you can do this. You will weather it. You will find help and lean on it.

That’s what help is for.

If they hand you a pamphlet of resources, keep it! Keep it on your fridge and try not to feel shame in asking for help. Be open and honest with your partner about how you are feeling.

Postpartum Depression will test you and your marriage but, you will come out stronger.