Down came the rain..

This is a story I have never really told. It’s something I rarely tell anyone about. But it’s something that I have been thinking about. It’s part of my journey right now. And somehow I feel that by writing about it, and sharing it, I honor the memory of this terribly painful time of my life.

I think having children is a wonderful thing. I believe every child is a blessing. Pregnancy, birth, and babies are passions of mine. I love it, really. My first son, Simon, was a tough kid. He was born 2 weeks late, refused to breastfeed for weeks, and screamed for six months straight. He was tough. But I managed. I had mild depression with Simon. I found one of my best friends during that time, someone I still love and depend on deeply. But the cloud passed rather quickly the first time. And I rarely recall the real hardships of having him. My second son, Eli, was completely different.

Eli was born a bit late. His labor was horribly long and painful. I remember laying in my bed, right after he was born and just crying. He was finally here.. I was exhausted, and stayed that way for a long time. Eli was not a happy baby. He had a high-pitched scream that astounded anyone that heard it. It was one of the first noises he made and it made the hair on my neck stand on end. My husband commented about it the first time he heard it and could not believe such a small animal was making such a terrifying noise. Eli nursed straight away. He was seemingly starving all the time, endlessly fussy, and always unhappy.

The first few weeks of his life are a blur for me. I remember the midwives coming back to see me the next day after he was born. I remember him fattening up, and growing out of his baby clothes at an astounding rate. He was in perfect health. Gleaming and gorgeous. But he was so… unhappy. I remember trying so hard just to get him to stop. Just for a moment, I longed for him to stop screaming. Eli never simply cried, never the gentle “wahhh” of a newborn. Eli screamed with all of Hell’s fury. And to this day, if he makes that sound I feel every muscle in my body tighten.

Mothering, as it turns out, is far more than diapers, feedings, and naptime. I knew this, having had a former child. Who, as it was; proved to be a total angel for me during those early months. Simon would watch his brother scream, watch me panic, and sit so incredibly quiet and happy you would swear he was either deaf or a wax figure. It must have been a blessing straight from God. Simon was my Godsend. He went to sleep at naptime, ate his lunch, helped pick up toys, and brought me endless bottles of water when I was parked on the sofa nursing his brother. He was only 2.

What I didn’t know then was that I was waist deep in Postpartum Depression. I had no idea that my delirious frustration, rage, and anxiety was a chemical problem. I denied it. I only let a few people into my life during that dark time. I isolated myself at home, and I was desperately lonely. I prayed for the day I wouldn’t feel so resentful for having a child as difficult as Eli. I was lost, and felt that I would have this screaming infant forever. I never thought it would end. I coped with my depression in many many unhealthy ways. I ate poorly, watched too much TV and retreated into myself.

What nobody tells you about Postpartum Depression is how it always feels like it’s your fault. I always felt that somehow I was doing something wrong. I couldn’t get him to stop crying. I couldn’t make him happy. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t shower. I felt it was my fault. I was a terrible mother, and he would be forever scarred by my blinding incompetence.

That was over 2 years ago. Eli is now a happy, adjusted, and rarely makes “that noise.” What I have never told people is how alone I was. I never tell this story. I never talk about the hours of screaming. I never mention how I would lay him in the bassinet and walk outside and cry. That’s simply not something you talk about.

People wonder, why I don’t want more kids. They look at the two that I have, so healthy and perfect. I did have two very healthy pregnancies, and two relatively easy births. What nobody knows is about those six or seven months. And yes, it lasted that long. Those long, unforgiving months of hell. But I never find it appropriate to mention that in polite conversation. Somehow I doubt anyone wants to really know that.

There were many things that pulled me out of my depression. Yoga was the main thing. I firmly believe it saved my life. It gave me a reason to wake up, and try. I will never forget the profound difference I felt after that first class. I was a human again. And I will never ever forget to be thankful for that. My friends and family were always there for me. There were plenty of people I never reached out to that I should have.

For me, Postpartum Depression was a veil of darkness. It was a constant rainstorm. Even to this day, I feel scarred by it. Writing this feels raw and painful. I recall the endless days, nights, sitting and waiting. I would watch the clock for the second I knew Dave would be home. I would beg my sister to come see me, anything.. Anyone to be there, to help me not feel so alone. I was lost. I think many women are. They have no compass to help them.

What I hope is that by sharing the truth of my story, I can bring understanding. I am just one mother. But this is who I am. It is part of me, part of what makes me who I am. And now, my story is out there. And in that, I feel a little bit more free. And a whole lot less alone.