The Anniversary Pact: Breaking the Stigma of Postpartum Depression
“I didn’t see my depression as an illness that needed to be treated like strep throat or a cold…
I saw it as a flaw, and one that I needed to hide and overcome.”
By Megan Kelley
February 19, 2018
February 19, 2018 was the first time I admitted to myself that I had severe postpartum depression. My baby boy was two weeks old and it was my twenty-seventh birthday.
After two weeks of paternity leave, my husband was heading back to work, and I was alone with my son for the first time. I looked down at the tiny sleeping baby in my arms, and while I felt overcome with love and awe, I also felt sadness and loneliness. I chalked my feelings up to the hormonal changes that accompany new motherhood and felt they would surely subside and regulate on their own with time. I just needed a little time.
My baby boy was about six weeks old when I admitted to my husband that my crying episodes were a little more than a case of the “baby blues.” He hugged me while I cried and encouraged me to seek help. He could see that I was struggling.
“Talk to other moms, talk to a doctor,” he pleaded over and over.
“No. Don’t tell anyone.” My response was always the same.
I enjoyed every second with my newborn — every cuddle, nighttime feeding, bath, and coo. I smelled his freshly shampooed peach fuzz on top of his head and spilled over with love. But, at the same time, I didn’t feel like myself. I felt a lingering sadness and distance from friends and loved ones around me.
I didn’t see my depression as an illness that needed to be treated like strep throat or a cold. I saw it as a flaw, and one that I needed to hide and overcome. I felt tremendous guilt over my feelings of depression and would say to myself, “What is there to be depressed about? You have everything.” My son is a gorgeous gift from God who is healthy and thriving, my husband is the most supportive and kind person I could ever ask to have in my corner, I have a great job, a roof over my head, wonderful family and friends, but the feelings were still there. Lingering. Debilitating. Exhausting. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with me.
What I felt on the inside, I refused to show anyone on the outside. The only person who knew of my postpartum depression was my husband. Every single day, I put on my makeup and got dressed for work and smiled at the world, but on the inside I was crumbling. I kept up a professional appearance and excelled at work. I made jokes and kept up the image of having it all together. I could not admit to my friends, my boss, or even my mom that I was in such a dark place. Despite the uprise in awareness and acceptance, mental health can still be viewed as a taboo topic, especially in the South.
When my son was six months old, I admitted to a doctor that I was experiencing postpartum depression.
“Your baby is too old for that. It’s just regular depression,” the doctor said, as she scribbled me a prescription for anti-depressants.
After I finally summoned the courage to ask for help, the doctor’s reaction confirmed what I was afraid of — something was wrong with me, and I should not be feeling this way. I felt dismissed. My feelings of shame and embarrassment seemed to be validated by the doctor, and after that encounter, I did not want to admit to anyone else that I was experiencing postpartum depression.
It took me six more months to reach out for help a second time.
February 9, 2019 marks the day when I was ready to finally admit to the world that I had postpartum depression. And that it is okay. More than that, it is common! This was the day of my first appointment with my current psychiatrist, the one who explained to me that I was on the wrong anti-depressant for six dreadful months, and the one who told me postpartum depression can last as long as three years. With this information, my feelings felt validated and I felt hope. Because I waited so long to seek out treatment for my illness, it was going to be an uphill battle. But because I wanted and admitted I needed help, I already started the climb.
Thanks to my current psychiatrist, my struggle with postpartum depression began to feel more manageable. I could see the light, and thanks to the new medication I was trying, I could feel that light. I am no longer ashamed, and I no longer feel guilt in admitting postpartum depression is something I struggled with. Because I know I am not defined by it. It does not mean I do not love my son. It does not mean I am flawed as a mother. I had a chemical imbalance and needed medication for a period of time to fix it. And that is perfectly okay.
Because of my experience with postpartum depression, I am a better person. In the midst of struggle, I learned to open up about my feelings and not bury them with shame. I learned to ask for help. I learned that it is okay to not be okay. And I am proud of how far I have come.
To the mothers out there who may feel overcome with both joy and sadness, who may feel like strangers in their own skin, who may look down at their newborn and not feel quite right, you are not alone. You wiIl get through this, and you are doing a great job!
Reach out. Ask for help. Confide in friends. You’ll be surprised by how many are having the same experience that you are. Because while we are eager to love and nurture those around us, it’s important to give the same care back to ourselves. Because we deserve love, too, and because I was able to reach out for help, I can say that I finally love myself again. And you can get there too.
Megan Kelley is a wife, mother, lawyer, and blogger. You can find her blog, Lipstick and Legal Pads, here.