No Greater Love: My Journey With Postpartum Depression Part One

This article was originally published in April 2016, and was edited and updated on December 2020.

I first wrote this post during the throughs of adjusting to being a mom of two; the newborn suffering from colic. Further life experience as well as a few years of therapy have given greater insight into this season of my life: my first season of Post Partum Depression.

What I thought I knew…

I’ve been hesitant to write this post.

Who am I kidding, I haven’t had the time to write this post, nor the free typing fingers.  But, to be honest, I’m also afraid to put these thoughts and feelings out there.  So excuse me while I vulnerably word vomit through my keyboard.

The last two and a half months have been some of the most heartbreaking, humbling, humiliating, heated, heavy, and holy months of my life.

JP joyously joined our family in February of this year.  His first few days were blissfully peaceful.  He ate like a champ.  He slept like a dream.  His big brother K doted on him.  My mom and MIL took time off to help with the adjustment.  The transition from a family of 3 (plus 3 animals) to a family of 4 appeared to be much smoother than I had anticipated.

Then it hit.

JP, like a switch, became inconsolable.  He didn’t want to cuddle.  He didn’t want to sway.  The only thing that would calm him was simultaneously bouncing, patting his hiney, and shushing in his ear…not humming…oh no no…it had to be shushing.

And I tried so much to ease whatever was bothering him.  I changed my diet.  Gave him gripe water and colic calm.  I even gave up caffeine!  (See, I really do love my kid!)  But I couldn’t even begin to figure out what the problem was because he rarely spit up.  Pooped regularly…even blow out style every once in a while.  He wasn’t particularly gassy…that was his daddy sleeping next to us.  Nothing I did would make him happy.

Oh yes, I also had a needy 2-year-old that, rightfully so, wanted mommy’s attention to you know, eat and stuff.

Screeching, screaming, wailing, and whining became like background noise in our home.  Thank goodness K loved his brother so deeply so quickly, because all he wanted to do was help his mommy help his “beebee brudder”.  “Isss okeeey beebee, don’ cwy, Kohbee’s gotchu.”  *Be still my heart*

I had failed as a mommy, I told myself.  How could I have become so overconfident in my abilities to love, nurture, and care for my kids simply by having one infancy go smoothly?!  Why can’t you get him to stop crying?!  Why can I not even stand to be near my own child sometimes?!  Outburst began to emerge from not only my two little sons, but from me as well.  I screamed.  I cried.  I threw hissy fits when things didn’t go as planned.

I was exhausted.  Like seriously body slumping, toothpicks propping open my eyelids, mumbling speech tired.  I was mentally and emotionally so drained.  Poor R lost his fairly perky, mostly on top of her “-ish” wife to a sad lump of a lass.  But God Bless that man for the undying support and encouragement that he gives.

I am a perfectionist.  I work hard until its done right.

I love my family with every ounce of my being.

Sometimes those two qualities don’t mesh.  Being a mommy is a continual learning experiences.  It is never “done”, and just when you get it “right” something will go “wrong”.  No matter how much you love, you can learn that you can love more, you can love harder, you can love stronger.

Once I was finally able to admit to myself that JP had colic, and that, try as I might, he’s going to continue to be a fussy fellow for a while, I was able to begin to heal my broken heart.  It’s not my fault that he is upset, nor is it his.  This is the adventure he and I have been tasked to travel together.  And I am darn determined to make it out alive (though there are days I wonder if that is possible).

Christ taught us, “This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:12-13).  (Ironically St. John the loving apostle, JP’s namesake, was the bearer of this message)

Now at almost 3 months old JP’s colic is no better nor is it easier to manage, but I at least have a purpose for the suffering we are enduring together.  No greater love can I give my son than to lay down my life for him.  He can tire me physically and emotionally, and I will still return for more.  He can demand to nurse for hours on end, and I will still offer myself to him.  He can thrash and scream, and I will still hold him with as much tenderness as I can muster.  And someday, I will get to hold all of this over his head.

What I know now…

In addition to all of the above being relative and true to my story, what I also know now is that I was suffering from a mental illness that many new mom’s face (even if it is their second, fifth, or tenth child when it appears for its first time), Postpartum Depression (PPD). And one thing I am determined to do is make sure that other women know some of the signs of mental illness and help them to find the courage to seek help.

What I didn’t share in my original post was the utter uselessness I felt; I constantly felt like I was failing. I confident that I was a terrible wife, a struggling mother, an awful housekeeper, a fake friend, and a pathetic excuse for a daughter and sister. Everywhere I had placed my identity and success in was unraveling. And I was convinced at times that those around me would be better off without my suckage.

After one desperate breakdown where Renzo found me sobbing in the bathtub deescalating from the throughs of self harm, it became glaringly clear that I needed help. And fast.

Thanks be to God for an attentive gynecologist who promptly prescribed high doses of progesterone and a wonderfully caring psychologist who, over many visits, helped me to sort out my feelings, identify reality, and develop strong coping strategies.

I share this glimpse into my experience now for all of the young moms who may wonder “who am I?!” or “how did this happen?!”, but I do promise to share some more of my healing journey with mental illness, including postpartum depression, in a follow up post…because…spoiler alert…PPD and I got to duke it out again later on.

For now, my friend, know that you are loved, valuable, and worth fighting for with the help of support from your husband, doctors, and therapists.

Fiat. - Monica