Fear is a four-letter word

Our daughter is happy, healthy and hitting her milestones. I can't complain. We're extremely lucky and I'm grateful every single day.

It's been awhile since most of you have heard from me...not because I've been busy (which I have) but because I've been afraid to blog.

Isn't that ridiculous? After deciding last year to start a blog to chart my course through the most exciting journey I've ever taken (pregnancy and motherhood), I got scared. Scared to speak my mind. Scared of being judged. Scared to put something permanent out into the "blogosphere" that can't ever be completely erased once it's out there. Scared that colleagues or others from my business would find this blog and think I'm not capable or intelligent anymore (if they ever did). And, let's be honest, scared to seem less-than-perfect -- which, looking back, is ridiculous given that anyone who knows me already knows that I'm so far from perfect it's not even funny!

Well, I had a chat recently with a good friend and she urged me to go public about how I've been feeling, so after some deliberation and soul-searching I've decided to go for it. She's a good friend. And she's usually right. So...that fear ends now.

Hi...I'm Lisa, and I'm suffering from PPD.


There, I said it. Whew, the world didn't collapse and I don't feel like a failure. (Well, at least the first part is true...I'm still working on the second part. It's a daily battle.)

You see, many months ago, I'd planned this beautiful, natural childbirth (preferably in water) in a birthing center, with no medical interventions, surrounded by peace and tranquility, focusing on photos of my gorgeous "quiet place" and listening to my Hypnobabies and various tunes I'd picked out especially for the birth. It was truly the most granola-crunchy I had felt in my whole life, planning this event. My friends who already have kids warned me not to get too attached to a specific birth plan. I knew there was a possibility it wouldn't happen exactly as I wanted, but I hoped that my peaceful pregnancy was a good omen and at least the majority of the process would go along the lines of what we'd planned.

Not so much.

Instead, after three days of active labor, I ended up lying on my back in a hospital bed with an epidural, an IV stuck in my arm, doctors and nurses coming in and out of my room every few minutes, an iPod with dead batteries (no music), unable to see my "quiet place" photos through the chaos, and a very real possibility that I might need a C-section. So much for my best-laid plans...it was everything I didn't want for our daughter's birth. Thankfully, she finally made an appearance on her own...but she waited until the last possible moment, probably to give her parents an idea of what to expect once she arrived. (Her namesakes are stubborn, so it's possible my intuition was working overtime when we finally decided what to call her.)

The first few weeks were a blur. The pediatrician had us in the office every other day for weigh-ins because they were concerned our daughter wasn't gaining weight fast enough. My milk hadn't come in yet and even though I'd read that this could take a few days for a first-time mom, the doctor had me terrified that I might kill my child if I didn't give her formula (something I was keen to avoid, for personal reasons); I had a meltdown every time I drove into the parking lot of her office. I saw two different lactation consultants, in addition to attending Moms Groups focusing on breastfeeding. And because my labor had lasted so long, my husband basically only had a week to spend with us before he had to go back to work.

I was a wreck. Never in my life have I felt so completely alone. My husband tried his best to support and comfort me, but nothing helped. I was 39 years old, thought I could handle anything life threw at me, but this baby was seriously kicking my ass.

Interestingly, I had read a few books and articles on post-partum depression (PPD), but thought it didn't apply to me because I didn't have thoughts of wanting to harm the baby or myself, like most of the women described in what I read. In my case, I just felt worse than I ever had in my life and cried at the drop of a hat, which I attributed to hormones, or what they call "baby blues"...just lasting longer than normal.

It never occurred to me that it could be PPD. That was something that happened to other women...many of whom I knew, and were encouraging me to take it seriously. But the risk factors I read about were so far from my world that I couldn't fathom how they would apply. I was (well) over 20, didn't smoke or drink, and have a wonderful, loving relationship with my husband...for which I'm grateful every single day. My (planned) pregnancy had been surprisingly easy, and we were both very excited to meet our daughter. Our finances are fairly stable and, for the most part, we have extremely supportive friends and family. We'd each experienced some depression in our 20s, but attributed that more to external factors than anything else. I figured I just had too much on my plate and was exhausted...give it a few weeks, it'll improve.

When our daughter was around two months old, I did call my midwife and have her call in a prescription for anti-depressants...but I didn't get it filled yet. I was sure it would improve soon.

I changed pediatricians. I cut out even the occasional treat of alcohol or caffeine (no more glass of wine, or cappuccino pick-me-up on a particularly rough day). Often, my husband would cook dinner and/or take care of the baby when he got home from his (ridiculously) long work day, to give me a break. He helped with laundry. We let the housekeeping go, watching dust-bunnies the size of real bunnies tumble across the floor and counting on the dogs to clean up any food that may have dropped. Nothing helped ease the pressure. During this time, we also made the unbelievably difficult decision to put down our oldest dog, rather than see her suffer any longer (by this point, she was incontinent, paralyzed from the waist down, and needed help for everything -- our vet said it was time, and we finally agreed).

After another month or two of feeling worthless, guilty, withdrawn, lethargic, and not wanting to shower or leave the house, I finally gave in and admitted it might be helpful to take the medication. Mostly, I filled the prescription because I didn't want our daughter to feel the burden I was carrying. I wanted to enjoy her, and I wasn't sure if that was possible anymore. I loved her, but I was too depressed to appreciate her. This was a last-ditch effort to feel better. I can't explain why, but it felt like by taking the medication, I was admitting failure. I was acknowledging that I couldn't fix the problem myself. It was too much for me, this motherhood thing. All this time, I'd been thinking someday I'd be a wonderful mom...but apparently (I thought at the time), I was wrong. I needed help and I hated myself for it.

Fast-forward to now, our daughter is almost ten months old, and I'm shocked at the change. I can barely remember those first few months...all I remember is how low I felt, and thinking I'd never feel like myself again. I was wrong. It took some time, and I still have bad days mixed in with the good ones, but overall my outlook is back to what I would consider "normal" for me. I've even started getting excited to go back to work, something I couldn't have imagined just a few months ago.

Part of what convinced me to start writing about this (and blogging again) was my friend reminding me that when I was going through this, it helped me to be able to read from others who had lived through it and come out the other side. It had given me hope, and confidence that I had made the right decision to seek help. So if this blog helps only one person, it'll be worth it.

There it is. Out there. On the virtual page. My guts, for all the world to read. To be continued...