Through the Valley

Have you ever read stories about people having out-of-body experiences? They tell of instances where they were able to step outside of themselves for a moment in time and observe themselves while being completely disconnected from… themselves. My mind’s first stop was always, “Is this real?” and if it was able to move past its first destination, the second stop would often be, “I wonder what that would be like?”

It’s funny how life somehow manages to find a way to answer some of your inner most bizarre questions without being polite enough to ask, “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”  There are many inner questions that I would have preferred life not to answer for me, but out of all of them, this whole out-of-body experience thing was one that I definitely could have done without.

Prior to giving birth to our first daughter, I would’ve described myself as a pretty confident, self-sufficient human being.  If I was ever met with a challenge, I would try to use my best logic and deductive reasoning to figure it out. If my scruples weren’t enough to solve the problem, I’d find a book, read up on the topic as much as I felt was sufficient, and then take another crack at it; usually succeeding in my efforts. Life had worked out pretty well for me using that method of resolve B.C. (Before children) But once our daughter was born, that method no longer functioned here, and I now needed new tools to apply to this new-found “challenge”, but I didn’t have those tools in my wheelhouse, and I so desperately longed for them.

The thought of new life being born in to the world often ushers in thoughts of birds chirping and sun shining as calming music plays over your imagination’s sound system.  Since we’re being honest here, for me, the thought of new life being born sometimes brings up feelings of fear and anxiety that have lingered from a past out- of – body experience.

When I look back on to the time our oldest daughter was born, I am met with a movie screen that replays scenes from a horror film entitled, The Darkest Year of My Life. And while I wish the lead actress was someone of Oscar caliber, ( I so desperately wish it was someone of Oscar caliber) the lead actress is me, and I can’t help but want to squeeze her tightly as I watch each scene unfold, and let her know that it will all be okay.

I look back on the early months of our little girl’s life, and my eyes start to fill with tears.  That’s probably because that’s all that they remember doing around that time – pouring my emotions down my cheeks in the form of hot, salty tears.  I was scared, and tired (oh so VERY tired), and confused, and in pain, and mourning.

Scared because I had this tiny little human that was now relying on me to keep her alive, and I had no idea what the heck I was doing!  Unfortunately, a manual didn’t follow her out of my vajay jay, so I couldn’t figure out what her different cries meant.  If I wasn’t afraid of breaking her, (they seem SO fragile in the beginning) I had an irrational fear that she would stop breathing, and I would find her dead one day.

Tired because, well, hello! Newborn! But besides every ounce of my strength and sanity being sucked out of me every two hours, I had also developed what I called Sleep Anxiety.  In the two-hour breaks that she would give me from the wake-change-nurse-soothe-back-to-sleep routine, I could not quiet my brain down enough to actually fall in to a deep sleep.  I would lay there in anticipation of her waking up earlier than normal, and me having to do it all over again.  Even when my ever-so-wonderful husband would offer to take her in to the other room so I could sleep, this anxiety would rush in like a crashing wave breaking against my brain, and I would toss and turn (and often cry) until it was actually time to do it all over again.

Confused because I was blessed (or cursed, depending on how you want to look at it) with having my first child right around the same time as all of my friends did.  While everyone was posting about how much they loved their new bundles of joy, and sharing pictures of how happy they were with this gift that they had been given, I sat in silence wondering what was wrong with me, and why I didn’t feel the same way.  I wasn’t happy.  I was all of the adjectives I described above, and I was ashamed to ever voice that out loud.  While I was certainly grateful that I had finally birthed a healthy baby girl (it took us 11 months and 3 weeks to get pregnant with her), there were many nights that I sat in the rocking chair asking myself what I had done.

In pain. Whew! There is SO much packed in to those two tiny words.  Not only did the physical pain of raw nipples and aching lower bits fuel the source of my tears each day, but Darkness kept spoon-feeding me the pain of defeat no matter how many times I pierced my lips shut and shook my head “No more”.  I couldn’t get my baby to sleep through the night like everyone else’s seemed to be able to do at her age.  Defeat.  No matter how much I tried in those beginning months, I could not get her to properly latch on to feed without wincing in agonizing pain, and holding my breath until she was done eating. Defeat. While other moms were getting together for play dates and fresh air, I declined the invitations because I was too overwhelmed at the thought of getting myself together, the baby together, a diaper bag together, possibly having to nurse her in public, and her potentially screaming in the back seat of the car as we drove to and from our destination. Defeat.  With every reminder of how I was seemingly failing each day, the emotional pain of it all grew from a mole hill to a mountain at rapid speeds.

Mourning. With the help of a very wise and loving pastor at my church, I was able to name one of the overwhelming emotions I was experiencing during this rocky time. I was in mourning. I was mourning the woman I used to be and the freedom that flowed throughout my life B.C.  I could see the strong, confident, enthusiastic-about-life woman I used to be, and I so desperately  wanted to return to her. But I could not.  Have you ever been inside of your house and took off running towards your backyard only to face plant in to a super clear screen door you didn’t know was closed? That’s exactly what it felt like. I was trying SO hard to get back to “her” and life the way I used to know it, but no matter how hard I tried, it was like there was this invisible force stopping me from reaching Her on the other side.  I longed for the daylight and feared the sun setting. For the sunset meant that Night was soon approaching, and Night was very unkind to me.

It was in Night that Tired seemed to gain about 50 more pounds, and the weight of it felt unbearable. It was in Night that the world got a lot more quiet and lonelier, and my situation seemed to echo even louder than it did during Sunlight. It was in Night that the voice would continually hiss at me, “Why don’t you just end it all now? At least you will be able to rest in peace.”  Night was a bastard, and I hated him so much.

One Sunday morning, about eight months in to The Darkest Year of My Life, I went to pick up a glass of orange juice to drink it. The only problem was, my right arm would not rise to pick up the glass.  A few times, I made valiant efforts to pick up the glass, but my arm would not budge.  It was as if the signal from my brain to tell my arm to function kept misfiring.  Inside, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, but on the outside, I was watching my body struggle to figure it out.  And then it dawned on me; THIS IS WHAT I HAD BEEN DOING THE LAST EIGHT MONTHS OF MY LIFE.  I had known what I wanted on the inside, but this entire time, I had been watching myself struggle to figure it out from the outside.  From the outside I had watched myself shrink in to this fragile, fear-filled, self-doubting ball who was struggling to survive each day. I didn’t even recognize who I had become. I would scream at her, “Come on Ari! You can do this! Pull yourself together!”  But the unbalanced hormones kept feeding my emotions like an all you can eat buffet, and the pain that they left in the aftermath drowned out any voice besides its own.

It was on that Sunday that I finally found the strength to say to myself, “Enough is enough!” I typed in to Google, “How long does postpartum depression last?” The first link was to a Yahoo! forum in which a woman wrote, “How long does postpartum depression last?  My son is two now, and I still feel this way.”  A doctor wrote back and said, “It can last forever if it goes untreated.”  That shook me.  I knew I did not have the strength to go on for another year and four months in this fight.  The doctor continued on to say that the most common ways PPD is treated is through talk therapy, and in other cases, medication can be prescribed.

That evening, when my husband got home, we sat down on the couch that I had spent so many of my days on, and I unloaded on to him the entirety of what I had been carrying.  I had shared bits and pieces with him during the countless times he’d walked in on me crying, while trying to explain to him that I didn’t exactly know why I was crying, and reassuring him that these tears weren’t his fault.  But I had never let him in on the full scope of the matter until that day.  It was in that Sunday evening conversation that I told him that I wanted to seek professional help, and he held my hand and said, “Whatever it takes.”

It still amazes me that the weight of eight months of suffering began to lift (even if it was just a little bit at a time) the moment that I started sharing what it was I was going through. While it would take four more months to finally feel like the fog had lifted, it was lifting. And when I slowly started sharing with a few more people in my tribe, the fascinating thing was that I discovered I wasn’t alone.  Some of them had been struggling with the exact same things as I was, but just like me, they were too ashamed to let anyone else know.

Since being introduced to the greys of depression, I still have some days here and there that try to suck me back in to the wind tunnel of six years ago, but I now know what to do to fight back and to ease the blow.  I also find that my heart feels deeply connected to the new mamma who has just started out on her journey of motherhood.  While I know that not every new mom will go through what I did, I now know that it is not uncommon at all, and according to the CDC, 600,000 women a year suffer through PPD in the U.S.

To the Mamma who may be reading this, and can identify all too well with my story: know that you are not alone.  Know that you are not crazy.  And know that you WILL get through this.  I know this time in your life might feel like the new “normal”.  Your fears have probably convinced you by now that this is how life is going to be from here on out.  That is not the truth.  Joy will return to you.  Sleep will return to you. (Praise the Lord!) Life will start including you again.  You just take each day one step at a time, and with each day that passes, know that you are one day closer to the day the fog passes.

Please don’t suffer in silence like I did.  Know that there is no shame in what you are experiencing right now, and definitely no shame in asking for help.  Know that God has given you everything that you need to take care of your precious little pumpkin, but you have to take care of yourself first.  For some reason, when we become mammas, we push ourselves to last on the list of people to be taken care of.  Take care of yourself first.  You need it that way, and so does your baby.

Don’t forget to breathe fresh air in to your lungs each day to remind yourself that life is still happening outside of your four walls, and you are a very important part of it!  Go for a walk around the block, stand on the porch and take in a few deep breaths, let the sunshine kiss your glorious face!  A change of scenery can do wonders for your state of mind.

And lastly sweet mamma, I can not stress this enough: know that you are not alone. You will get through this.  I can say with confidence, your best days are ahead of you.