Depression.
Not a great friend at any time, but an especially brutal companion during the early years of motherhood.
It’s sheer insanity sometimes, a return to middle school in the middle of our lives. Every day I line up to pick my kids up from school, and 90% of the moms there are driving the same make and model minivan that I am. Most are even the same color.
One by one the vans sprout the same magnets for dance schools, swim teams, and elementary schools, until you could stalk a family just by looking at their bumper.
It took me by surprise when the babies were born, this realization that evidently there was one right way to do this parenting thing. Or at least, that’s how it seemed from my haze of pain and postpartum depression. When we ventured out with the twins, my every nerve was twitching, waiting for them to cry or spew at an inopportune time.
Through my veil of postpartum depression (and through no fault of their own), my friends intimidated me. They didn’t just have it together, they had it all monogrammed. No plain burp cloths or onesies for their progeny; my friends’ babies were decked out in smocked bishop dresses or monogrammed john-johns at all times, usually accessorized with monogrammed pacifier clips.
I was aiming low. All I wanted was to look normal at a glance. My plan for projecting new mother normalcy involved a drug cocktail of antidepressants and Xanax, ridiculously expensive concealer, and Spanx. And if I could avoid leaking breast milk through my dress during church, all the better.
Both twins had severe reflux and threw up like they were paid to do it. One morning Anne went through NINE onesies before lunch.
They ended up in whatever was clean, and we went through upwards of three dozen burp cloths a day, and they were plain cloth diapers. No monograms, no ribbons.
My friends were constantly taking their babies to professional photographers. Infant shoots, three month shoots, then six months, nine months, a year. My kids wouldn’t stop puking long enough to stay in a clean outfit.
Comparing myself and my children to my friends and their children was probably the most toxic thing I could have done for my postpartum depression. When every fiber of your being screams that you’re not good enough, the last thing you need is to add more voices to that chorus and to give them more ammunition. Yet five and a half years in, I still struggle to stop trying to measure up.
Depression affects far more people than most of us would think. Many are lucky enough to have a fleeting or single encounter with the disease, and these are often the stories we hear, of brave survivors who fought their way out from under thunderclouds to stand, triumphant, in the sunshine.
And then there are the rest of us.
The rest of us, for whom depression is not a one time gig. Those of us who fight our way out from under the raincloud, glimpse blue sky long enough to feel that most teasingly painful of emotions: hope. When we stand triumphant to proclaim depression’s defeat, we lift our faces to more rain, and as it runs like tears down our cheeks as we realize that our forecasts might be partly cloudy in perpetuity.
One episode of major depression raises the risk of another. Two further increases that risk. And by the time you’ve hit three, it’s practically guaranteed that depression will be a constant in your life.
When I say constant, I don’t mean constantly depressed. Depression is like quicksand, a hidden trap sprung without notice. Once you’ve been caught several times you learn to recognize it sooner, and if you’re smart enough to get help, you learn how to help yourself out of the quagmire.
You also learn that partly cloudy means partly sunny.
To all of you out there struggling, know this: you are good enough. You don’t need to keep up with the mommies. Do your best, and it is enough. Be gentle with yourself, and take comfort in the knowledge that there are a lot of us out there who know what it’s like.
You might not spot us in public because we’ve learned to smile. But we’re there.
Love this. My kids had some monogrammed stuff. And I did o.k. with J. But when W came around 19 months later, I was lucky to have them both dressed, let alone photographed or matching. I so feel ya, sister.
Thank you. I hear ya on feeling lucky to have them both dressed. And now that they’re older, I have no problem with putting them in Target play clothes (outside of school, because they have to wear uniforms, which I’ve decided I LOVE). They each have one or two nice outfits for church, and that’s it.
I still feel bad about the lack of photographs–professional ones. We’ve got tons of snapshots. But the one set of pro ones we did came off looking, well, staged. I’d like to think I’ll look on the snapshots more fondly later, because they’re more true to life (and memory).
It feels like it is constantly nipping at my heels. Even when I’m good, I know it is there. Waiting for the moment of weakness when it can pounce.
Thanks for sharing. xoxo
Yep. Exactly.
And having met you, I never would have guessed. It’s often the ones who smile the most brightly that struggle. That’s what I wanted to get across at the end of this. Sometimes I’m put together and wear pearls, lipstick, and a big smile, but inside my head, it’s not so pretty.
Oh, Angie – I love this. It’s so heavy and real, and so raw and true. I love that you wrote it, shared it, and I hate that you experienced it, and still sometimes do. Much love to you, mama.
Thank you, sweetie.
You know, I’ve come to terms with having to manage it, rather than ever having it go away entirely. And I think there are a lot of wonderful things about dealing with depression.
The empathy it gives you, for one. Perspective, for another. Appreciation for wonderful sunny days in your head. All those things you might not have if you hadn’t struggled with it.
And I’m ok with that, because in the end, I think depression (postpartum and the garden variety) has made me a better person. I’m more attuned to others.
It definitely makes me doubt myself, and there are times I feel ridiculously inadequate as a mom, but in the end, by God, I’m using this overlarge lemon to make a truckful of lemonade. You know, for whiskey sours.
You speak truth. Sheer truth. Thank you for sharing and letting us know we’re not alone. I think that we all teeter on the edge of madness…the feelings of not being enough, not doing enough…the doubt. I am with you. I hear you. And I get it.
I wish so many of us didn’t get it, but we do, and to those moms out there who think they’re the only ones, this is proof that they’re not.
Thanks so much for your kind words.
Love you, Angie. This is perfect and very timely for me…we never did anything monogrammed either—and the reflux? OMG. all 3 of mine had/have it.
Le sigh.
Love your honesty and thanks for putting it all out there for the rest of us.
Oh, Erin, thank you. Somehow, when I posted this, I thought of you.
So sorry yours had (and have) reflux, too. It makes life SO much harder. Do you have them on meds for it? Our ped prescribed something…can’t remember what (maybe Prilosec?) and it helped with their pain, but they still spewed everywhere. They cried less about it though, and that was nice at least. It’s the small things.
Thanks for the comment re: the honesty and putting it all out there. At some point I’m going to do a post on why I do that, because it baffles some people.
This was beautiful and raw and honest, and so relatable.
I lived in that toxic-comparing state for a number of years, and the day I really believed that I was my own person, my kids were they own people, and the way we relate to each other is different than every other family.. that was when my healing really started. Other people are other people, and they are not me and not my family.
I don’t know how many separate depressive episodes I suffered in the 5 years when I was now allowed counseling or to be on medication. Once I broke free and took responsibility for my own self care, I realized that whatever it took to keep myself afloat was worth it. Recognizing the signs of a depressive episode takes practice, and if you’re really fortunate, you have friends/a spouse who recognize it and offer to help. Living with depression is hard, and I applaud you for speaking about it.
*HUG*
Angie, your honesty is very much appreciated and has given me a small sense of understanding as I did not have post-partum depression nor do I have clinical depression. You are a wise woman to take care of yourself and learn about and be alert to your depression and its triggers.
As a single mom since my son was 4 months old, I do empathize with feeling inadequate, wondering if I was doing it right or enough, should I find another husband (No!), where would I find good male role models,etc. I dealt with it by having one or two good, solid friends (male & female)to bounce things off of, to hold me when I had a meltdown. I was very good otherwise at projecting a completely confident attitude (heavy on the “projecting” and I was not confident by any means). My son is now 23 and a father, studying to become a nurse and guess what? In spite of my many imperfections, he’s a good man and great father. Even now, I still have those friends because, well, I’m a Mom and he’s still my son.
“Depression is like quicksand, a hidden trap sprung without notice. Once you’ve been caught several times you learn to recognize it sooner”
That is so true! I only wish that I would have realized that anger was my version of PPD– that would have been really helpful after the birth of my second child.
And monogrammed stuff? That just means you can’t sell it after it’s outgrown!
Great post Angie. It’s true that for some of us depression or anxiety is a lifelong battle. Which stinks! My anxiety has never been as bad as it was postpartum and for that I’m grateful. But I do wish I didn’t have to deal with anxiety at all. As in EVER. I really like the concept of “partly cloudy in perpetuity” which means it’s also partly sunny. I would say for me it’s mostly sunny.