There were signs I should have noticed, like when I craved a plate of sushi more than I wanted to cradle my newborn daughter. Or when I found myself in tears, lashing out at my partner while attempting to secure our three-day-old in her car seat for the first time. I should have understood something was amiss when I handed our week-old baby to her grandmother and locked myself in the bathroom to sob.
In retrospect, I realize I cried almost every day after my daughter was born, except for the day she arrived. The first night in the hospital, I wept because I couldn’t sleep. The next day, I cried from the excruciating pain of my recovery. (Living in a four-floor walk-up, each step made the stitches from my second-degree tear sting.) But the tears didn’t stop even when the “reasons” faded away. It was instinctive, like a sneeze, and I found myself crying three, four, even five times a day.
It wasn’t until my daughter was six weeks old that I recognized I was grappling with postpartum depression. One quiet afternoon, while Amelia napped, I dashed to the bathroom and caught a glimpse of my reflection. My eyes were puffy, my skin dry and blemished, and clumps of dirty blonde hair lay scattered on my shoulder. My hair was falling out, something my doctor had warned me about due to hormonal changes, but I was desperate for it to stop. I poured everything I had into those lifeless strands, remnants of the person I was before becoming “Amelia’s mom.”
That weekend, I visited a nearby salon and pointed to a photo of a shaggy pixie cut. I left with hair shorter than my husband’s. For a fleeting moment, I embraced the new me, someone more than a mother, but that sense of promise quickly faded. I slipped deeper into feelings of hopelessness and disconnection. I felt like I was losing control, my bond with my daughter felt strained, and my love for my husband diminished, some days leaving me feeling indifferent to both of them.
Understanding Depression
Explaining depression is a challenge. It’s a complex blend of emotions and a profound lack of them. You exist, you move, you eat, and you breathe, yet you feel detached from it all. It’s a bewildering and illogical experience that runs deep within you.
The darkest hours came at 3 a.m., which I dubbed “Mad Money hour.” While my daughter nursed, my husband slept, and Jim Cramer shouted about stocks and bonds on TV. That time of day was when I most often questioned my role as a mother and my existence.
I even considered suicide. Initially, these thoughts were fleeting, like the impulse to jump in front of a bus, but they soon became overwhelming. I would lock the brakes on my daughter’s stroller at red lights, fully aware of the traffic behind me. If only I could lean back, just slip away.
Those thoughts became more intense, and I began to formulate plans, though I was never decisive. I knew if I tried to harm myself, I wouldn’t go deep enough, and hanging myself wasn’t viable either. (Our shower curtain rod was barely secured.) Pills seemed like the most feasible option, but I worried they could fail too. I thought about the aftermath, but nothing seemed worse than my current state of being, lost in postpartum depression. I became a danger to myself and Amelia. If I was gone, she would be safe.
I stopped eating meals and subsisted on scraps. I lost my pregnancy weight in three months and continued to lose more as the months passed. All the while, the tears kept flowing. I cried over spilled water, dirty dishes, and even when my cat vomited. I cried simply because I was crying.
By November 2013, I finally admitted to myself and my husband that I couldn’t endure it any longer. I don’t recall what pushed me over the edge—perhaps it was cracked nipples or yet another cup of cold coffee—but I knew I needed help. I pleaded with my husband to commit me. I confessed I cried daily and couldn’t take it anymore, and that I wanted to die. What I didn’t share was the dark vision I had of harming our daughter.
In January 2014, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
The Journey to Recovery
Depression convinces you that hope is an illusion. It isolates you, leaving you feeling utterly alone, and postpartum depression is no different. Now that Amelia is 20 months old, I wish I could say I’ve fully recovered, but the truth is I still face struggles. I’m in therapy and things are better, yet bad days still linger—I suspect they always will.
On a positive note, my hair has grown back. Though the color varies from blond to red, purple, teal, and brown, it is flourishing. Honestly, I didn’t notice the growth until one day it was long enough for a ponytail.
While it may seem trivial to cling to my hair, it serves as a reminder of a long, difficult journey. As wild and unkempt as it may get, I refuse to cut it. I can’t. Perhaps this is a lesson for all mothers, especially those reading this through tear-filled eyes: hold on. Hold on to whatever you have, because it does get better. Not perfect, but better—so just hang on.
For more insight about postpartum depression, I recommend checking out this related post. If you’re exploring options for home insemination, consider visiting CryoBaby, a reliable source for at-home insemination kits. Also, for additional information on pregnancy and fertility, the CDC’s FAQ is an excellent resource.
Summary
Postpartum depression is a complex and isolating experience that can leave new mothers feeling hopeless and disconnected from their loved ones. Through personal reflections, the author shares the emotional struggles and moments of despair she faced after her daughter’s birth. Despite the challenges, she emphasizes the importance of holding on and seeking help, as healing is possible, even if it takes time.
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