The Sky and The Clouds

I’ve finally decided that I want to get a tattoo. I know where I want it, what I want, and when I want to get it. I want a line drawing of a cloud, I want it on my wrist and I want to get it this spring. But there’s a little bit of a backstory to this, and I want to share it with you today. I believe it’s important and although it does get some attention from the media, I think it’s important that everyone shares their experience so that no mother feels alone in what she’s feeling.

I have postpartum depression. It started pretty much as soon as I got home from the hospital, but I brushed it off as “the baby blues” like most people do during the first six weeks. At week seven I felt something was off. I would become increasingly frustrated with Baby during the day, angry even. When Husband got home and I would take a shower alone, I would sit in the shower floor and cry, unsure of why I felt this way; Why I felt so inadequate as a mother. He was almost constantly miserable due to a lactose sensitivity, colicky and bloated after eating every time. It was hard on me and it slowly began to manifest as I allowed my anxiety to wear me down until I really couldn’t hold it together anymore. I cried to my husband, saying I thought it was time to call the doctor. I didn’t want to get help, but I knew I needed it.

The on-call doctor I spoke to was understanding, nice even. She sent a prescription to Walgreens immediately, and told me to start with a full dose right away. At this point, I was still breastfeeding, and clinging so desperately to it as my last “natural” connection to my son, who I felt was somehow not really mine. As if he belonged to someone else, and I wasn’t fit to be his mother. I continued to breastfeed the first week I took the Prozac, but just as the doctor said, Baby started to be unusually drowsy. It wasn’t good for him. His tummy always hurt. He was always constipated. It was time to give it up.

We quit cold turkey. Thankfully, we had been giving him bottles about once a day since I was pumping, so he took to the formula just fine. No adverse reactions whatsoever. His body knew he needed it. Finally, he was happy. A whole new baby. Gaining weight, growing tall, always smiling. He was better. I was not.

The first two weeks waiting for the Prozac to start working were very difficult, but I knew good was coming at the end of it. It did help. But not enough. I was still irritated with Baby for no reason. He cried so much less now, but I would still be tempted to yell at him when he did, it frustrated me to no end. I dealt with it though, waiting the whole six weeks to make sure I got the majority of the effect. It still wasn’t enough though. I needed a higher dose.

My amazing OBGYN moved my dose to 40mg, and almost immediately I felt such a huge difference. I could sleep, and eat, and function without anxiety. I could get out of bed. I could cook and clean and love on my beautiful baby without the feelings of rage when he cried. I was me again. And I was so happy.

My postpartum depression was textbook. Nothing really special, normal symptoms in a normal time frame. I didn’t know what to look for though. And if I had, I could’ve made better decisions earlier. I was sad. I cried often, sometimes four times a day on separate occasions. I felt alone, even though we were living with my in-laws and I could’ve asked for help at any time. I felt like no one else could take care of him, but also knew that I couldn’t do the best job of it either. I was mad at my husband. Mad that he didn’t understand, that he was being insensitive. And finally I was ragey. I had this anger for my child that I couldn’t explain. He didn’t cry all that much, but when he did, I would get frustrated and overwhelmed. My pulse would skyrocket, I would get hot and confused, and sometimes I would yell at him, even though I knew it wouldn’t do any good. He was a burden in my mind, and I couldn’t just hand him off because he was mine.

Now that beautiful baby boy is 7 months old. I still take my Prozac every day, and on the few occasions that I’ve missed a dose, I’ve regretted it dearly. I still very much need it to feel like myself, but I have high hopes that I’ll be able to go without it by this spring. I don’t want to need it forever, but I’m glad for its existence. It gave me back my motherhood, and I needed that desperately.

Now for the tattoo. Imagine that you are the sky. Imagine that depression is a cloud. Sometimes, the sky is full of clouds. Sometimes, there are just a few clouds that don’t really obstruct your view at all. Sometimes, there are no clouds. The biggest thing you have to remember is that clouds come, and clouds go. They are not permanent. Only the sky is permanent. The sky is not defined by the clouds, and you are not defined by your depression or your anxiety or your anger. You are you. You are affected by these things, but they are not you.

You are the sky. Clouds will come and go. But you are permanent.

And that, my friends, is my story. I hope it brings healing or understanding to another person whose life is affected by this same cloudiness.

In the meantime, live long and prosper. And please, pretty please, vote.