God and Pride and Brutal Honesty

I’ve been pretty silent up until now about where God fits into all of this.  The truth is that my thoughts have been really scattered.  The other truth is that, if I’m really honest, sharing about God’s role in this is a bit too personal, a bit too intimate.  I did say that I would be brutally honest though.  As uncomfortable as this post is for me to write, it needs to be done.  I need to put it on paper so that it’s real; so that I learn from it and remember it.

God has been so present in all of this.  Even when I’ve tried to ignore His voice (we all do it), He has been there revealing some painful truths to me.  This struggle that I’m going through with Postpartum Depression has very little to do with my emotional health.  It does, however (in my case), have everything to do with my spiritual health.  This is totally about God getting my attention.  And putting a finger on my pride.  Exposing it.  Taming it.

Here’s where I bare my soul and confess my sins and cringe as I’m doing it… A couple of months ago, I said to my husband (and a close friend) that I wondered why so many women, especially Christian women, struggled with depression or anxiety and needed anti-depressants to be able to cope.  My husband and I were so glad that we didn’t have to deal with that.  What a prideful and arrogant thing to say.  That was totally the epitome of my pride spoken in one question.  Within it, implied statements such as:  I am competent.  I am strong.  I am healthy.  I can do this alone.  In themselves, there is nothing all that wrong with these statements.  In that context, however, was I not judging?  Was I not putting myself above other women, wives, and mothers?  Basically, I was viewing myself with the ultimate self-sufficiency and arrogance.  No wonder God needed to intervene.

Looking back, that was where it may have started (or at least started to get much worse).  God reached down and put his thumb on me.  And pressed.  He was saying, “Here.  You wanted to know why so many women struggle with this and have a need for medication?  Experience it.  A cup of anxiety.  Live it.   A pound of guilt.  Feel it.  A dash of rage.  Learn from it.  A sprinkle of paranoia.”  Have you ever had that feeling?  The knowledge that this experience you’re going through is 100% about breaking your pride?  That’s where I’m at. . .

So how do I move on from here?  I journey through it.  I roll with the ups and downs.  I ask for forgiveness from the Lord, from my family and from my friends.   I write about it.  I learn from it. 

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful.  Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”  Hebrews 12:11

I need to allow the Lord to “train” me in this.  This is for my sanctification.  This is God’s plan.  This is ultimately God revealing His deep and all-consuming love for me.

 “My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline and do not resent his rebuke, because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.”  Proverbs 3:11-12

I will be thankful for this.  God loves me so much and has such a great plan for my life that He will not allow me to continue to live in pride and arrogance.  He will use this experience in my life to bring hope and healing to others.  I’m sure He will also use it to teach me many other things.

This realization doesn’t lessen the struggle I am having.  I will still have ups and downs.  I’ll still try to get ahead of myself and then be forced back a few steps (see my other posts).  Who knows how long I’ll continue to take medication.  I’m seeing a counselor next week to talk about things. 

It does, however, give a reason for it.  God can certainly take this mess I’ve made and turn it into something fruitful and beautiful.  I’ll rest in that.  In the anxious times, I’ll remember that.  In the moments of anger, I’ll let it calm me.  When I’m questioning myself (which I do often), I’ll defer to the Lord.  This is about surrender, humility and dependence on God; admitting that I’m human and that I need a savior.  We all do.  We all need to surrender the messes we’ve made of our lives and let God transform them.

This post has been about my experience and the things God is revealing to me through it.  It won’t apply to everyone.  In fact, it probably won’t apply to most of those struggling with PPD.  PPD is a very real illness that needs to be taken seriously.  It is a brain chemical thing, a hormone imbalance that often requires medication.  I am also absolutely not saying that God inflicts PPD on women because of sin or pride or anything else.  In my case, however, this is also a spiritual journey.  And since I promised myself absolute honesty (which itself leads to restoration), it is one that needs to be shared.  Laid out for all to see. 

If you are struggling with PPD and are wondering where God fits into all this in your life or are wondering about where God is in general and you want to talk to someone about it, please feel free to email me at katdimoff@gmail.com.  I don’t want to engage in debate but I am absolutely here to support, encourage and share the journey!

Getting Ahead of Myself

The other day was a bit of a roller coaster day.  I was feeling good in the morning because my daughter had actually slept through the night (10 hours! 10pm-8am) and so I actually slept too!  It was such a shock that I got up at around 4:30am to make sure she was still breathing!  (Moms reading this: You’ve done it too!  Admit it!  J)  I haven’t slept longer than a five or six hour stretch in probably six months!!!

Later in the morning I had my follow-up appointment with the doctor.  The appointment was quite short and kind of anti-climactic.  I went into the appointment in good spirits and with hopes of convincing the doctor that I no longer needed the medication.  I figured he’d encourage me to continue with the prescription for a little while longer though.   I thought I would try anyway.  I told him I had started feeling better and more in control the first day of taking the pills and asked him how long it usually took for them to start working.  He said it was usually at least two weeks.  I told him I had weaned my daughter and was blogging about my feelings.  I said that even just having the diagnosis had helped make me more aware of my feelings and had given the ability to control them more easily.  He agreed.  He said I had obviously made enough changes besides taking the pills to help me recover, especially considering the pills really wouldn’t be having much effect yet.  He gave me the go ahead to stop taking the medication and sent me on my way.

I left with mixed emotions.  I should have been relieved.  I should have been happy.  Part of me was.  Most of me wasn’t.  I doubted my decision and the doctor’s nonchalance.  I called my husband to tell him.  I hid my uncertainty but he didn’t hide his.  He felt I should continue the medication but he told me he would support me in whatever I chose to do.   

Later that evening I began to have some anxiety about stopping the medication.  Obviously, it has just been “the placebo effect” that has been working for me until now.  But it has been working for me.  I worried about how I would feel with the knowledge that I was no longer taking anything.  Would it change things?  Thoughts were swirling through my head.

Am I getting ahead of myself?  Am I trying to get “back to normal” too quickly?

Will this cause a setback?

What was the point of weaning if I was only on the medication for two weeks?

Long story short, the next day I called the doctor’s office to make another appointment so I can get another prescription.  I have to take things slow.  I can’t force this.  I have to accept that I won’t be 100% back to normal overnight and I need to give the medication a chance to work.

What a roller coaster.  I’m not used to this “take things slow” kind of approach.  I jump in with both feet.  I land on my feet.  I blaze through.  This time I can’t.  I need to slow down and take it one day at a time.  Ugh.  This will be good for me…

A Slow Realization...

I think it must be difficult to be the family member or friend of a person suffering from PPD especially if she isn’t being treated or hasn’t realized it.  Now that I’m feeling better and am able to begin reflecting back on the last couple of months, I have been talking to friends and family members more about it.  My close friends have said, “We knew something was going on.  You just weren’t yourself.  You were holding onto things and you were all over the place.”  A few friends did mention Postpartum Depression.  My response was always, “Yeah, maybe.  Or maybe I’m just really exhausted.   Maybe when my baby starts sleeping better, I’ll be okay.”  I never denied there was a problem.  I just didn’t know what the problem was and didn’t really know what to do about it.  Maybe no one else really knew how to help me figure things out either.

At one point, I was invited to a PPD support group.  I did attend once.  At the time, however, I didn’t think I had the symptoms of PPD.  I just thought I was exhausted and angry with my husband.  I had no idea that how I was feeling and what I was going through are symptoms of PPD as well. 

I was talking to that friend (who invited me to the PPD group) about things recently and she was saying that it is sometimes called Postpartum Mood Disorder rather than Postpartum Depression.  I think that is a better description.  When I think depression, I think sadness, crying, no energy etc.  I don’t think mood swings, irritability, anger, anxiety…. I think that is a misconception that needs to change. 

When I finally realized that maybe this REALLY WAS a postpartum thing, I mentioned it to my husband.  I told him I thought I should see a doctor and that maybe I needed some medication.  He was hesitant.  Understandable.  There is definitely a stigma attached to antidepressants.  People don’t like to talk about it.  My husband didn’t want me to go on medication.  He was worried about the side effects and he was worried that I would develop a dependency.  Frankly, I was worried about all that too but I knew I needed to do something and I didn’t know what else to do. 

I finally just made the doctor’s appointment (see my first post “Postpartum Depression Snuck Up on Me”) and called my husband to tell him.  It was then that he spoke to a mentor.  His mentor assured him that this was best and that he should support me in the decision I felt I needed to make.  After that, my husband felt better and he has been fully supportive ever since.  I’m sure it was hard for him though. 

Yesterday I asked him. “Was I really acting that crazy?  Did you ever consider leaving?”  I was starting to feel embarrassed and worried that people had been thinking I was crazy this whole time but just weren’t saying anything.  My husband said, “No, never.  You were exhausted and you had a short fuse.  I knew you weren’t feeling like yourself.  But never once did I think there was a serious problem.  I was never embarrassed to be around you.  I was never worried.  I realize now that I was frustrated and angry but there was never a time where I wanted to leave or anything like that.  Even now, there’s not a night and day difference because you weren’t that different.  You’re just more yourself.  You’re calmer and more relaxed.”  His words made me feel so much better.

When I told my friends about the appointment, I think they were relieved as well.  I know that my friends care about me and they weren’t sure what to do or how to help.  I’m sure they prayed.  I know they tried to support me.  No one ever sat me down and said, “I think you have PPD and you need to see a doctor to find out.”  Even if one of them had have done that, I’m not sure I would have listened or acted on it.  I may have just brushed it off.  However, I may have listened.  I wasn’t getting the suggestions and subtle hints that people were giving.  Maybe someone needed to talk to my husband about it.  I’m not upset about it though.  I think I needed to come to this realization on my own anyway.  I wish I had have realized sooner.  I know my husband was suffering.  My children were suffering.  I was suffering.  But that’s why I started this blog.  I don’t want others to suffer if I can help it.  They say hindsight is 20/20.  That’s definitely true in this case.  If my experience can help someone else seek treatment for PPD, then I’ll continue writing about it and being brutally honest.

And so I encourage you, if you know someone who is struggling with symptoms similar to mine (see my other posts as well, like “Anxiety, with a Side of Panic and Paranoia for Dessert”), to talk to them gently about it.  If you don’t think they’ll listen, then talk to their spouse or speak to a close friend of theirs and enlist his or her help.  Don’t spread it around.  Don’t talk behind the person’s back.  Do what you can to help and support.  Do some research yourself and find out what resources you can point them to.  Send them a link to this blog…

If you yourself are feeling “just not yourself”… if you’re struggling with anxiety, panic, anger, irritability, trouble with your spouse, even sadness, sleeplessness, lack of energy etc…. talk to someone about it.  Make an appointment with your doctor.  Don’t be afraid or ashamed to admit you may need help to get through this phase.  We all struggle.  We’re all human.  But we are never alone.

I have a follow-up appointment with the doctor later this week.  I’ll see how it goes.  I’m going to talk to him about other steps I can take to improve my mental health and hormone balance.  I’m sure exercise, vitamins and eating a little healthier will be on the list.  I’ll take it slow though so I don’t get overwhelmed.  I’ll write about my progress.  I’m hoping I won’t have to continue the medication for too long.  But I won’t give it a timeline.  I’m not even going to allow myself to feel ashamed or worried or embarrassed about having to take an antidepressant.  Life is too short and my family is too important.  The most important thing is that I am feeling better and more in control.  My husband is definitely happier and less stressed.  My children are more at ease around me.  I’m no longer having bouts or anxiety or moments or rage.  If I can feel and act the same way with alternative methods, then great.  It’ll be an ongoing journey.  Stay tuned.

Anxiety, Served with a side of Panic and Paranoia for Dessert

A couple months ago I had this horrible dream that a man came into my house (in the middle of the day) pretending to be a workman when really he was there to attack me.  In my dream I was home alone with just the baby who was sleeping upstairs.  I was in the kitchen when the man all of a sudden burst into the house talking about a water leak and that he needed to get under the stairs.  As he entered the kitchen, I stopped him and asked for identification.  When he hesitated, I realized what was happening.  I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.  In my dream, however, no one answered.  He moved forward to attack me and then I woke up.

Normally when I have unpleasant dreams (I dream a lot), I can replay them in my head, think of a solution and fix the problem.  Then I can go back to sleep.  This time, I couldn’t do that.  Every solution I thought of just caused a worse consequence in my head.  I finally woke my husband up because I was anxious and I couldn’t sleep.  At the time, I just attributed it to the fact that I probably wasn’t getting enough REM sleep.  That was probably partly true.

The next day, a friend came over in the morning to babysit my baby (my two older daughters were in Ottawa with my parents for a visit) so I could go out alone for an hour or two and have a break.  I had decided the day before that I would take a walk in the conservation area near our house and collect some twigs for a decorating project I had in mind.  As I started down the path, I breathed deep and took in the peacefulness of the place.  I listened to the birds and crickets chirping and let myself relax.  As I walked deeper and deeper into the woods, I began to realize just how isolated I was.  My dream came back to me.  All of a sudden, standing in the middle of the woods, I panicked.  Thoughts were swirling in my head. 

What if someone attacks me here?!

No one will hear me scream… 

There’s nothing around to defend myself with… 

I’m totally isolated and alone…

I started walking quickly back to the entrance of the woods.  I walked faster and faster until I made it there.  If I had run into anyone, man or woman, I probably would have started running and screaming.  That’s how panicky I was.  When I got to the edge of the woods by the road, I stopped myself.  I knew I was overreacting but I could barely control my breathing.  I forced myself to slow my breathing and calm down.  Then I crossed the road to my car.  There was a man in the small parking lot, just getting out of his truck.  I practically ran to my car and jumped in as fast as I could.  I knew that reaction was crazy.  At the time, though, I couldn’t control it.  I drove into town, hands shaking, and let myself relax until I was no longer panicking.  Then I went into a thrift store and did a bit of browsing to get my mind off things.

A few weeks later, I was home with my youngest two (my oldest was at day camp).  The baby was sleeping and I went to put my two year old down for her nap.  When I came back down the stairs, our back patio door was wide open.  In my head I knew that my two year old had just opened it and I hadn’t noticed (she has a habit of leaving it wide open when she goes to play in the backyard).  However, my heart felt otherwise.  My dream came back to me again.  I was worried that there was someone in the house. 

My plan had been to go to the basement to do a load of laundry while the girls were napping.  Now I was scared to go downstairs.  I called my husband at work so he could talk me out of my paranoia.  It didn’t work.  I called him back and made him stay on the phone while I slowly went downstairs.  I checked every nook and cranny of the basement while he was on the phone.  Again, I knew that was crazy behavior but I couldn’t act otherwise.  I needed to check.  I threw in the laundry and went upstairs.  After I got off the phone, I checked the rest of the house.  I looked in closets and behind doors until I was convinced there was no one in our house.   It honestly bothered me all afternoon and evening.  I just couldn’t shake the feeling.

I think it’s pretty normal for mothers (and fathers), especially new ones, to feel a bit panicky or anxious from time to time.  If you’ve ever brought your newborn into bed with you on a difficult night, then you probably know the feeling of waking up in a panic because you think your baby fell out of the bed or you rolled on him or her, only to realize that your baby is sleeping safely in the bassinet or crib.  Or we see a potentially dangerous situation for our toddler and have a panicked flash of the worst-case scenario.  A ‘what if my child let go of my hand, ran across the road and got hit by a car’ kind of feeling.  They don’t last.  They don’t linger.  We don’t act on them. 

It’s when the feelings linger that we need to realize there may be a problem.  When anxious thoughts cause us to look in closets and behind doors, and after that, the feelings remain.  When they stop us from doing what we would normally do or when they cause us to do something we normally wouldn’t. 

Looking back, this was a definite sign of Postpartum Depression.  It was a sign that things weren’t quite right.  Anger, anxiety, panic, paranoia – definite symptoms of PPD. 

Today I’m sitting on our front porch while my daughter rides her bicycle up and down the street.    She’s doing great.  A few minutes ago a neighbor had to go out.  My daughter heard the car start so she pulled over, got off her bicycle and stood on the grass until the car passed by and left our street.  She knows the safety rules.  I’m not anxious.  I’m not worried.  I didn’t panic.  I wonder, though, if I would have felt the same two weeks ago.  

The Switch to Formula - Part 2

Weaning a young baby sucks.  I’m not used to this “bring bottles and formula everywhere I go” deal.  I’m used to just bringing myself.  And maybe a nursing cover and a bottle of drinking water for me (anyone else get super thirsty the millisecond they start breastfeeding?!).  Even if I forgot the nursing cover and water bottle, I could just use a blanket… or nothing… Now I have to remember a bottle AND formula?!  You’d think that wouldn’t be such a big deal.  For me apparently it is. 

This week I have been helping out at my church day camp. That means that I have to be ready and out the door with my three girls (plus a neighbour’s daughter) by 8:15am every morning.  My husband, thankfully, has been extremely helpful in the mornings with feeding the girls breakfast and getting them ready etc.  All I have had to do is get myself ready, dress and feed the baby, pack the diaper bag and do the girls’ hair (not my husband’s forte!  Haha!).  Not very much to do. 

On Monday, I did it all.  Or so I thought.  When my baby got hungry late that morning, I went into the diaper bag to get the bottle full of water I had packed.  Then I rummaged around for the formula container.  No container.  I didn’t even have to dump the bag to realize that I had left it on the counter at home.  So, I had to run out to the drugstore down the street to buy a new can of formula.   Annoying!

Tuesday was better.  I remembered everything (I might have had a little reminder from my husband!).  Wednesday?  Not so good.  Tuesday night my baby was up a lot during the night so when Wednesday morning rolled around, I was not ready for it!  I got to the church a bit late (the Timmies drive-thru was super busy that morning!  Now that I can drink coffee, I am taking full advantage of it! J ).  As soon as I sat down, I realized I had forgotten my daughter’s formula AGAIN!!!!  My husband saved the day again… he was still home and was able to swing by on his way to work to drop the formula off.  Phew!

I also hate having to prepare bottles at night.  My daughter doesn’t go back to sleep as easily after a bottle as after nursing either.  And she still roots for the breast if I hold her a certain way.    Plus her poop is starting to stink.  She spits up way more and the spit up stinks too!   

A couple people have suggested continuing to pump so that I can continue breastfeeding her after I stop taking the medication.  While that’s a good idea in theory, it’s just not realistic.  I was already having to supplement because my milk supply wasn’t enough anyway.  I was also told not to give the medication a time limit.  I need to feel better and make sure everything is balanced first.  That could mean weeks or months.  Who knows.  With three children, there’s no way I could realistically be pumping that much or for that long in addition to bottle feeding and taking care of my three girls.  Even the thought stresses me out. 

I’m finally okay with this decision.  No more guilt.  No more doubt.  I’m feeding my daughter and she’s growing.  She actually has leg rolls now.  They make me happy.  And I know she’s happy.  That’s what matters.  Overall, she has adjusted to the bottle pretty easily.  And my husband (or someone else) can feed her now.  I’m not as sore now (no more cabbage leaves needed! J ) either.  Plus, I still feel a strong bond with my daughter even though I’m bottle feeding her.  She gazes up into my eyes while she’s drinking and I smile at her.  I think she knows this was best.

Good Days and Bad Days

Today was rough.  I’ve been helping out at our church day camp this week and it has been exhausting. (Before you ask, I volunteered months ago – before my daughter was born and definitely before I realized I was suffering from PPD!  It has been great, actually.  The other volunteers are awesome and it hasn’t been too stressful – just tiring.)  The kids are having a great time but towards the end of the week they always get a little crazier and the volunteers are always a little more tired.

It didn’t help that my baby woke up almost every hour through the night.  I think she’s teething so I didn’t sleep much.  At 3am I woke my husband up so he could give her her bottle and I could sleep a bit.  I was feeling dizzy and headachy (is that a word?!) and I knew I needed some sleep or I would never survive the rest of the week.  My mood and patience levels are, without a doubt, linked very closely to the amount of sleep I get.  I’m sure there’s a direct connection between serotonin levels and REM sleep.  (REM sleep?  What’s that?!?!)

When afternoon finally rolled around and it was time for my 2 year old to take a nap, she fought it tooth and nail.  I REALLY wanted her to nap so that I could nap as well.  I tried bringing her back to her bed multiple times.  She wanted to brush her teeth.  She wanted a story.  She wanted juice.  She wanted me to stay in her bed.  At 2:30pm I finally gave up.  I let the girls play downstairs while I tried to nap in my bed with the baby.  Guess how long that lasted before they were screaming and fighting?  Ten minutes.  Needless to say, I didn’t rest much today.  And I yelled a lot.  Ugh…

I plopped them in the bath before bed and proceeded to bathe the baby and get her ready for bed.  Five minutes in, they were fighting again.  I wouldn’t say I completely lost it but the red monster was definitely bubbling under the surface.  I went into the bathroom, pulled them both out of the bath and sent them both to their room.  We got pajamas on, I hugged and kissed them and then I left the room and closed the door while they screamed and cried. 

A friend from church (who has been through PPD and struggles with depression sometimes) warned me that there would be bad days even with the diagnosis and medication.  I think I needed a reminder like that.  I’m the type of person who needs to resolve a problem or challenge right away and then be done with it.  I have to realize, though, that this will be a journey and that there is no quick fix.  I will have good days and I’ll have bad days (“bad Mommy days” as another friend put it!).  Hopefully the good days will outnumber the bad days.  Hopefully the calm days will outnumber the chaotic days.  Hopefully the kind and gentle words will outnumber the harsh words.  Hopefully love and healing will overtake anger and frustration.  Not hopefully… definitely.   

Perspective: My Marriage Doesn't Suck!

It’s amazing what a bit of perspective does for a marriage.  Now that I have some perspective (the PPD diagnosis itself, medication, and talking about my feelings have all contributed), my marriage doesn’t suck.  I’m not doomed to a loveless and frustrating marriage. 

I know that last statement sounds way extreme but honestly, that’s how I was feeling.  I had been feeling like that for a couple of months.  Every time my husband forgot what I had said, misheard me, checked his phone, left the room I was in, disagreed with me, went out, went to work, etc. etc., I felt abandoned, unloved, frustrated, angry, and worthless.  I now realize how irrational that was and how unfair I was being.

I’m not saying he’s all of a sudden perfect (neither am I!) but man, was I crazy and paranoid!!!  I realize now that I was making him feel guilty for basically anything he did.  Anytime he had to leave me with our three children, be it to go to a baseball game, small group, to do some work on the basement (we’re in the midst of finishing it), or even to go to work, I felt abandoned and alone and I made sure he knew it.

We had a huge argument a couple months ago.  I’ll spare you the details but at the time I felt angry, hurt, and abandoned.  We talked things through, he apologized and I forgave him.  Or so I said.  A week later, the feelings were still there.  A week after that, I was still upset.  A month passed and I just could not let it go.  I was still angry, bitter and hurt and that is not like me.  My husband and I are both firstborn children with strong temperaments.  We can fight it out with the best of them.  But when the argument is over and apologies have been made, that’s the end of it.  We don’t hold onto grudges.  We’ve survived almost nine years of marriage living in different cities and even different countries together.  We’ve been through some very difficult and stressful times and we’ve always supported each other and come out the other end better people and better spouses.  This time, though, I was holding onto a major grudge.  I now realize why.   It was hormones!  

The great thing is that I’m not feeling like that anymore!  Perspective, baby!  (And very likely the medication! J )   I completely overreacted.  And he’s a really awesome husband and father.  He tirelessly helps me around the house even though he has a demanding full-time job of his own.  He’s a wonderful “King Daddy” to our three daughters.  I’m not feeling hurt or resentful anymore.  I’m thankful to be going through this with such an understanding, supportive and godly man.   

I understand now that this has been very stressful on him too.  He ended up speaking with a mentor about the situation and I’m very glad he did.  He will need support as well. I encouraged him to continue seeking it out.  This past weekend has been much better though.  He has been super understanding of me and super supportive.  I'm pretty sure he's feeling better, calmer and happier as well now that he knows why I was acting so crazy AND now that I'm not acting so crazy!  We’re joking and laughing together again.   We’re even joking about the medication!  Him: “You can do this!  And not just because of the medication!”  Me: “Now that I’m on medication, you’re not so bad!”  J 

We also decided that you can NEVER trust your hormones!  In ANY situation!  He works with homeless and at-risk youth in the city and so he sees teenage and unwanted pregnancies all the time.  Teenage boys and girls – don’t trust your hormones!  Pregnant women – don’t trust your hormones!  New moms – don’t trust your hormones!  Weaning moms – don’t trust your hormones!  Menopausal women – don’t trust your hormones!  Just don’t EVER trust your hormones!  They will betray you every time!  

We’ve been laughing about my struggles with weaning too.  (More like he’s been lovingly mocking me!)  Him: “Make sure you keep me abreast of the weaning situation!”  “It sucks that you have to go through this.”  “It’s too bad there’s no quick fix to nurse you back to health.”  “What a load off your chest, now that you’ve decided to wean.”  “Whatever I can do to pump up your self-esteem.”  “It’s good to express your feelings about this.”  “Okay, I’ll stop.  I don’t want to milk the situation.” 

I forgot what a silly and funny guy my husband is!  I’m glad I’m remembering now.  I’m really looking forward to a weekend away with him for our 9^th anniversary in September.  

The Switch to Formula - Part 1

Last night was the first night since my daughter was born (over four months ago) that I didn’t nurse her when she woke up in the middle of the night.  It was hard.  And weird. 

Before she went to bed I fed her a bottle of formula and prayed she’d sleep through the night.  Everyone kept telling me that once I switched to formula her tummy would be fuller and she would sleep through the night or a longer stretch at least.  Not my baby!  Nope.  She decided to wake up MORE.  I had to prepare two bottles last night. 

I’m sure her little body is just getting used to the change.  It must have been strange for her to be drinking a bottle when she could probably smell my milk and was used to nursing at night.  It was strange and emotional for me as well.  Here I was stuffing a bottle in my daughter’s mouth when I had two VERY full breasts full of milk to offer her (more on that later!).  It took her awhile to get back to sleep as well.  Sucking on a pacifier for comfort in the middle of the night is just not the same as being nursed back to sleep.

I’m on a very low dose of anti-anxiety medication to help with my PPD (see my first post) and I’m sure it would be okay for me to nurse her at night.  But I don’t want to take the chance.  The effect of the drug on nursing infants has not been well studied according to my doctor and we were already having to supplement with formula anyway.  My daughter was already refusing to nurse during the day.

I had to start supplementing with formula last week.  My daughter had not been gaining weight very well over the past month and, although she was thriving and the pediatrician was not at all concerned, I was stressed out and worried and anxious about it (now I know the PPD was contributing to my stress and anxiety).  The more I got her checked, the less satisfied I was with her weight gain, the more worried I got, the less milk I produced, the less she ate, the less she gained.  I tried to increase my milk supply.  I got a hold of a hospital grade pump so I could pump to increase my supply.  I even went and got a prescription for domperidone which is a medication that can help with lactation.  Even with that, I was getting more and more stressed and frustrated.  My letdown was taking longer and longer and my daughter was getting fussier and fussier at the breast.  Finally, one night at 4am when she couldn’t get any milk and she was screaming, I lost it.  I handed my daughter to my half asleep husband.  I screamed.  I swore.  I cried.  He told me to calm down.  I screamed and cried more.  Then I tried to pump with the hospital grade pump.  I was so stressed that I only managed to get a quarter of an ounce.  Pathetic.  I hated myself.  I hated my body.  I was frustrated that it could not do what God had designed it to do.  I had breastfed my first two daughters exclusively with no issues whatsoever.    This time, though, things were different.

Half an hour later I took a 20 minute drive into the city to a 24 hour drugstore to buy some formula.  I cried all the way there and all the way home.  And at 7am I gave my four month old her first bottle of formula.  If you’ve ever breastfed and then had to supplement or involuntarily had to switch to formula, you’ll know how emotional and difficult it was.  I stared at her as she tentatively drank it, confusion on her little face, and I cried.  I said sorry.  I knew this was a turning point.

By day three of supplementing, my little girl was refusing to breastfeed during the day.  My letdown was taking so long that she just wanted the bottle.  I pumped and then mixed my breast milk with formula.  I still managed to nurse her at night.  Until last night.

Today I’m sitting here with frozen cabbage leaves in my bra.  No joke.  J They’re pretty wilted now, actually.  I’ll have to go downstairs and replace them.  I’m popping Advils like mad and pumping half an ounce here and half an ounce there when I get too uncomfortable.  Even pouring my milk down the sink is emotional.  Last week I was trying to increase my milk supply.  This week I’m doing everything I can to dry it up. 

On the up side of having to switch to formula, I can drink coffee again!  And eat chocolate!  And my husband and I are going on a date tonight.  Alone.  Kidless.  For real kidless.  Not almost kidless like we usually are (we usually bring the baby in case she needs to nurse).  I might even have a good time now that I’m not paranoid that my husband doesn’t love me or want to spend time with me (more about that in another post)! 

Day One

Today was day one.  [I actually wrote this last Friday, the day after seeing the doctor.]  Day one of getting back to myself.  Day one of giving up breastfeeding cold turkey (which is a post in itself).  Day one of taking anti-anxiety medication to manage this new PPD diagnosis.  The pills are tiny.  Who knew such a tiny object could be laden with so much emotion.  Hesitation.  Doubt.  Frustration.  Guilt.  Shame.  Confusion.  Resignation.  HOPE. 

I took half a pill this morning.  I wasn’t sure how I would feel.  To be honest, I felt nothing.  Actually, scratch that.  I felt relief.  I was relieved because I had made the decision to start the medication and give up breastfeeding. 

My husband asked me how I was feeling when I went downstairs.  I felt fine.  I felt no different.  Half an hour later the girls were jumping and yelling and being crazy.  Yesterday I would have gotten super frustrated and probably yelled at them to calm down or be quiet.  Today it didn’t bother me.  They’re just kids.  They’re my sweet, funny, active kids.  They’re normal.  I could sense my old self peeking through.  Even my husband commented at the change.  It was great.

Later that morning the girls started fighting and I started yelling.  Except I stopped myself.  I wasn’t out of control.  I wasn’t in a rage.  The red monster didn’t come out.  I yelled and then I stopped.  And then I talked to my children in a calm voice and resolved the situation like I used to.  It was such a relief.

An hour later my two year old went into the bathroom, got a hold of a tube of toothpaste, squirted it all over the wall and counter and then tried to wipe it up with my nice bathroom hand towel which made even more of a mess (obviously!).  I didn’t ball up my fists.  I didn’t clench my teeth.  I didn’t spank her.  I didn’t even yell.  I wiped the toothpaste off the wall and the counter, I brought my two year old out of the bathroom and I closed the door.  Then the girls went back to playing and everything was fine.  I felt normal!  Toothpaste on the wall?  Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.  Really.  Yesterday, though, it would have been the end of the world.

In the afternoon my five year old dumped a half full bottle of fresh, cold drinking water on one of our plants in the front garden.  Yesterday I would have freaked out on her.  I know you’re thinking, “Really?  Over a bottle of water?”  Yes, really.  I was irritable and irrational.  Today I started to say something to her but then I stopped myself.  I told myself it was just a bottle of water.  And then I went inside and poured myself a glass of water.

Who knew such a tiny pill could help so much.  I’m not sure if the medication is even working yet (it’s such a small dose and they say it takes up to two weeks to fully benefit from it).  It could just be “the placebo effect” or the fact that I now know that it’s a hormone/brain chemical imbalance and I’m not just going crazy.  The diagnosis, the pill and talking about it have definitely helped.  Not bad for day one. 

The Visit

I left early for the doctor’s office so that I could try to stay calm and process everything.  My husband was able to stay home a bit later than usual that day so that I didn’t have to bring the girls with me.  I was nervous.  I felt like I was going to admit to a professional that I was going crazy and to ask for medication.  I knew I needed to though.   There was no way I was going to let this get worse.  For the sake of my children, for the sake of my marriage and for the sake of myself and my sanity!  

Sitting in the waiting room, I picked up a parenting magazine.  I randomly flipped to a page and learned that the first week of August is World Breastfeeding Week.  How ironic that I had to start supplementing and would probably have to completely STOP breastfeeding on World Breastfeeding Week. 

First, I saw the nurse so that she could get my information and medical history.  I didn’t realize it, but they had just booked me for an intake appointment.  I would have to wait another week to actually see a doctor.  I broke down.  There was no way I was waiting another week to talk to someone about this.

Next, I spoke with a social worker.  She was great.  She did a questionnaire with me called the Edinburgh Scale to determine whether I do have postpartum depression.  I do.  For sure.  We talked about what that means.  I was relieved to hear that I am most likely suffering from a hormone/chemical imbalance.  It’s not just that I’m weak and can’t handle three children.  She said stress and lack of sleep are two huge contributing factors.  I’ve certainly been stressed and sleep deprived!  The changes in breastfeeding (having to start supplementing last week) could also have contributed in making it much worse over the past week. 

We talked things through (I’m pretty sure I went through a whole box of Kleenex!) and although she assured me she was not worried about my safety or the safety of my children (she said that the fact that I came for help and was aware of and able to articulate the problem was a great start and a good sign.  Plus, despite my anger and anxiety, I have never had thoughts of harming myself or my children – that can be a symptom of PPD), she wanted to see if I could speak to a doctor right away.  She said that medication might be what I need to get me over the hump and back to myself.  Again, I was relieved.

I was able to speak to the doctor immediately.  After some discussion, we agreed that we would try a low dose of anti-anxiety medication (an SSRI which helps to increase the level of serotonin in the brain – the research I have done and am still doing is another post in itself) to see if that can help.  The doctor also strongly encouraged me to speak to a counselor (which I will be doing by the end of the month).  He booked me a follow-up appointment for two weeks later.

I left, prescription in hand, with a flurry of mixed emotions.  Mostly, I was relieved.  I was also hesitant about the medication, nervous about what it meant, sad about having to wean (another post), worried about whether it would even work, and frustrated about the whole situation.  Only time would tell.  I was to start the medication the next morning and stop nursing completely… 

Postpartum Depression Snuck Up On Me

Yesterday I was diagnosed with Postpartum Depression.  Today I’m sitting here thinking, “Really? Depression?  Me?”  Here’s why:

I’m not constantly crying or weeping.

I CAN get out of bed in the morning to take care of my children.

I CAN smile and laugh.  I STILL like hanging out with friends and shopping and surfing pinterest and baking.

I’m not a new mother.  I didn’t have PPD with my first two children.

My mother never suffered from PPD.

I don’t want to kill myself.

I don’t hate my baby.

I don’t even have a newborn. 

I had a quick, easy and natural birth and exclusively breastfed my beautiful third born baby girl up until last week.  She is four months old.

I don’t have the symptoms of PPD.  Except I do.

I started noticing it about a month ago.  I was just feeling like I wasn’t myself.  I was losing my temper more quickly and intensely than usual.  I was feeling super guilty after the slightest thing.  I was having disturbing dreams which were causing anxiety and panic in reality.  I was feeling unloved and offended by my husband.  Often.  I was feeling frustrated and worried about my baby’s slow weight gain and my ability to feed her.  At first I attributed it all to having three children, getting no sleep, being busy, etc. etc.  All the normal new mom stuff.

Once my baby starts sleeping through the night, I’ll be okay.

Once my five year old starts school again, I’ll be less stressed.

I just need to eat a little healthier and start exercising.

I just need to practice more relaxation.  Keep calm and carry on.

I just need some down time.  A date night with my husband.  A break.

I just need to pray more.  Read Scripture more.

And then the thought crept in.  Is this a postpartum thing?  Someone mentioned it.  Do you think you have postpartum depression?  Are you depressed?  Are you having disturbing thoughts?  No, no, no.  I was fine with my first two children.  I’m not sad.  I would never hurt myself or my children.  I’m just tired.

But I wasn’t myself.  I was angry.  A lot.  So angry that I would scream at my children for silly things.  I found myself clenching my teeth so hard it hurt.  I felt like punching a wall.  I started swearing.  I would scream profanities in my head.  And then under my breath.  And recently I started swearing out loud and that is just not me.  I used to cringe whenever someone would use a profanity.  I would think, “Was that language REALLY necessary?”  Now I was the one on the verge of screaming profanities at my children. 

Last week it got worse and I felt like I was losing control.  I was screaming at my children throughout the day and then immediately feeling extreme guilt, frustration and shame.  I would scream and point and threaten and throw crazy eyes at my 5 year old in one instant and then in the next instant I would be a ball of guilt and tears and apologies and hugs and kisses.  The other day I stomped my feet.  For real.  Like a two year old having a tantrum.  I looked and sounded so angry and scary that my 5 year old ran away from me.  I was in a rage.  Red rage.  Ugly rage.  

If envy is a little green monster, rage is a humongous, ugly, red monster.  

And that’s just what my most prevalent PPD symptom is.  Rage.  It’s not a well talked-about symptom.  I’m pretty sure no mother wants to admit that she is feeling rage towards her children or her husband but that’s exactly what I was feeling.  The moment I saw the fear in my daughter’s eyes was the moment I knew I needed help.  I knew things needed to change.  I was not the mother or wife I had been or knew I could be.  And it was killing me.   

I called the doctor’s office and begged for an appointment.  I was on an intake list, had been for months and would be on it for a couple more months.  At first there was nothing they could do but then I cried.  And mentioned possible postpartum depression.  They got me in right away.  How the appointment went is the another post.  Stay tuned.