I didn’t understand depression…until i did

*TRIGGER WARNING FOR DEPRESSION/ANXIETY*

My “f” would read ‘failing’

Robin Williams’ death shocked the nation – how could such a warm, funny man take his own life? How could he be plagued by the demons of depression? And how could he, the man with everything, even suffer from depression in the first place? Wasn’t he well-off, beloved, respected – what did he have to be depressed about? I’ve seen a lot of very, very ignorant posts these past couple of days, some which have made my blood boil at the lack of understanding as to what clinical depression is all about.

But, i try to be kind because i remember when i, too, was amongst those who didn’t understand – when i just thought that, if you worked hard enough at being happy, you could just be happy. What was stopping one from being happy, after all? It’s just a mindset.

Then came the slap across the face. Post-partum depression/anxiety. I worried about many things related to parenting, childbirth, pregnancy, etc… but PPD/PPA was not one of them. I’ve always been a relatively positive person, i come from a ‘pull yourself up by your boostraps’ kind of family and i had long worked in a profession that demanded a lot of patience and perseverance. My mentality has always been that, if you work hard and long enough at anything, even if the winds are blowing against you, you’ll get there. It might take longer than it should but willpower will get you there.

I left a job that i loved and a community that i respected to move to a new city when i was 9 months pregnant. Rich and I moved into a new house and we anxiously (but happily) waited for the birth of our first child. I struggled with knowing how to define myself outside of being a clinical veterinarian and mourned my interactions with students and staff, clients and patients. But still, we were waiting for our daughter and what could be more perfect than that?

Baguette was 14 days overdue when we finally elected to induce. The labor and delivery were horrific – when they say that the pain and memories of childbirth dull with time…well, let’s just say that i’m still waiting for those memories to dull, three years later. When they placed my daughter in my arms, panic set in. The enormity of being responsible for this teeny-tiny, perfect being completely overwhelmed me. For those with the equine background – you all know that sweet maiden mare that, upon the birth of her babe, becomes a vicious, tear-the-walls down mother? The one where you can’t get into the stall without drugging her on a regular basis because she will throw you across the stall if you so much as glance at her baby? And God forbid that you actually touch her baby…you will lose your life. I was that mare. I couldn’t breathe at the thoughts of all the things that could potentially harm my daughter – i was on high alert all the time….for eight very long months.

Those initial weeks, my brain was on fire. I would close my eyes to sleep and these fantastic, incredibly detailed landscapes would course through my mind – cities, deserts, jungles – all in excruciating detail. Places i had never been, just running through my head like a movie reel. I couldn’t stop it – it was exhausting and i couldn’t sleep.

Beyond the random images that popped into my brain were the atrocious ones. While i never, ever thought of harming my child, i felt like everything around me was ready to harm my child. Detailed images of me falling down the stairs while carrying Baguette, her head split open as she died at my feet. Every corner of every table was terrifying. Every sharp object around her was associated with images of blood spilling from her frail body. I was terrified to move with her. I was terrified of anyone else carrying her because everyone seemed so careless – how could they not see all the dangers that surrounded my darling baby? I would sit by her crib at night, knowing something was wrong with me but afraid to vocalize it, and pray (i am not a religious person). I would pray fervently, “Dear God, please protect my daughter, even from me. Dear God, please protect my daughter, even from me”. I would close my eyes and visualize a bright sphere of light that encased my daughter, that would keep her safe. My guard was always up.

The thought of taking Baguette out of the house sent me into a tailspin. What if she started crying? What would i do? How would i address her needs when i wasn’t at my home base? And would everyone realize the fraud of a mother that i was? Would they see that i had no idea what i was doing – would they take her away from me because i just was such a horrible mother?

I remember, once, crying because i was paralyzed by indecision. It was early September and i couldn’t decide how to dress my daughter. It was starting to get a bit cool but, in the Moby carrier, she would get hot – should i dress her just in a onesie? or should i dress her in something warmer so that she’d be ok once out of the carrier? I couldn’t make the decision and everything in me said, ‘a real mother would know what to do – you’re a sham – a fake – look, you don’t even know how to dress your own daughter – who ever trusted you with this life?’. Here i was, this woman who was used to be making incredibly difficult life and death decision easily and confidently, broken and overwhelmed by the simple act of dressing my child.

Someone once described to me that, when suffering from depression and addiction, it feels as if life is turned on ‘high’. That’s what it felt like – the world was too loud, too bright, too much emotion, too… just too much for me to deal with. Nights were the worst – the sounds overwhelmed me and drove me crazy. The dogs licking their paws, Rich breathing too loudly beside me, a branch scratching at the window. I spent many nights in the guest bedroom, unable to turn off the sounds in the room, needing complete and utter quiet to even start sleeping – much less continue.

I didn’t cry every day – but i cried most days. I’d have two or three good days, usually after Rich had been home for the weekend and all of us would convince ourselves that i was just fine. And then, the bottom would drop out again and i would begin crying for no reason at all. I couldn’t understand how i was such a bad mother – i saw other women who seemed to take to motherhood like a duck to water. I struggled – every day, i struggled – and my deep unhappiness (as i labeled it at the time) was just proof that i was a terrible mother. A good mother would enjoy every moment with her baby. A good mother wouldn’t be overwhelmed at the slightest decision. A good mother would just know what to do. A good mother would not cry all the time. A good mother could shake herself out of these ‘blues’. I must not be trying hard enough.

I credit my dear, incredible husband for just carrying me through these dark times. I don’t know how he did it. He was steadfast and true, holding me and reassuring me that things would be fine and that i was a fabulous mom. Neither one of us recognized the signs of PPD/PPA because we didn’t have friends with kids and we just thought this was the normal part of being new parents – it was meant to be hard and we were just dealing with ‘hard’. I just had to work harder and i would figure it out – ‘it’ being how to be happy again.

Eventually, i achieved a tenuous balance. I convinced myself i was ok, even though i no longer smiled or laughed – but i didn’t cry every day. My judgement of myself hadn’t changed (the fact that i was a terrible mother) but I was working hard every day to try to change that – i read, i attended ‘new mom’ groups (life-saving), talked to anyone who could give me insight on what being a mother was all about. There were times that i wondered if i had PPD – i contacted my midwives after taking a test where i scored ridiculously high for having PPD. They asked me if i was suicidal or if i wanted to harm my baby – i answered truthfully – no, i didn’t (and i was somewhat insulted by both questions). They then told me that i was just experiencing  ‘baby blues’ and needed to go get a mani/pedi, some time to myself and i would feel better. What a crock – but, to be fair, i was really, really good at hiding how deep the anxiety ran.

So i pretended i was ok and everything was ok…until i went back to work. The bottom dropped out in a big way all over again. I was abandoning my child to strangers at a daycare, she would not know how much i loved her, she would forget me, she would not be cared for properly. I analyzed how often Baguette smiled at me versus how often she smiled at my husband – and i was convinced (CONVINCED!) that my five month old was no longer smiling at me because she felt abandoned by me every day. The daily crying began all over again. The insomnia returned in a big way.

In my clinician mind, something was telling me that i wasn’t ok. In my personal, emotional mind, i was screaming that i was fine, i just needed to work harder, everything was fine, i just sucked as a mom. I had everything – a beautiful house, a perfect daughter, an incredible husband. What was my problem?

A perfect stranger is what prompted me to finally get help. I frequented an internet board of DC moms – i had been, over the past couple of months, posting all kinds of questions to make sure i was mothering ‘the right way’ (whatever the hell that means). A woman who had suffered from PPD finally suggested to me that my posts hinted at deep anxiety – she asked whether i had gotten checked out for depression.

I took a long, hard look at what i was placing my family through and, for my husband and my daughter, i finally decided to get help. The therapist i saw winced at the story that i told her of my months post-partum. As i kept blaming myself for not being strong enough, she kept asking me, ‘would you blame yourself for having diabetes? cancer? This is out of your control – no amount of willpower changes chemical imbalances’. I acquiesced but still resented myself for not being strong enough.

It took some hard work to get back on my mental feet, so to speak. It left its wounds but i’m one of the lucky ones – i was only affected for a moment in time. The battle was exhausting, for as long as it lasted – i cannot imagine that struggle on a daily basis your entire life.

When Rich and I spoke of having a second child, the panic returned – the last thing i wanted was to spiral down that rabbit hole again. I was a part of life again – i couldn’t imagine returning to the state i was post-partum. Was it worth the risk?

Again, i was lucky – my experience with my second baby showed me how different things could be. Every friend that had a child since then has underlined and highlighted how abnormal my experience was. Even with therapy, with a clinical outlook, i still doubted for a long time that it wasn’t somehow ‘all my fault’.

So i do understand the ignorance surrounding clinical depression. I was that person. But i ask those of you who don’t understand to not write about something that is incomprehensible to you. Seek out explanations, descriptions (you can find some great ones here, here and here) – be kind to those who can’t lift themselves off the couch. Sit with them for a while and let them know you’re here with them, every step of the way. Don’t force the world down their throat but just gently be there as they struggle to find their steps back to the path that is called Life. Don’t judge. If you must rage, don’t rage at the person who is struggling – rage to a friend. Don’t snap at the person to get help, get help, get help – understand that there are times when everything is too much – and that a person cannot be helped until they’ve reached a stage where they’re willing to accept it.  The thought of picking up the phone to get help is too hard – and the thought of facing confirmation that you are truly ‘broken’ (how i described myself) overwhelming. The first naysayer (looking at you, midwives) will just emphasize why you shouldn’t have bothered in the first place. The world is a hard enough place that all of us could stand from benefit of the doubt, kindness and compassion.

It is often quoted but incredibly true – ‘don’t judge people. You never know what kind of battle they are fighting’. Robin Williams’ death was tragic – tragic because of the disease that he fought for so long – and tragic that, eventually, he lost the fight. But, if we can at least start talking honestly about what mental illness is and what it’s not, then not all is lost. The world is a little grayer for not having such a life force as Mr. Williams in it – but perhaps we can focus on all that he gave us before leaving this earth, remember the joy that he shared with us and learn from his struggles. In the meantime, please, just be kind to one another.

eta: I struggled about whether to publish this post. It has been in my head for a long, long time. The stigma of depression still haunts even me – it’s a hard subject to talk about but, if i’m not willing to share it, then i feel like i’m buying in to the whole concept that it needs to be hidden. It sucks, putting yourself out there – but if it can help even one person struggling in the world, then it will have been worth it.