Part I: The Reveal

I have already hinted several times at the fact that life at our house has not been so pleasant these past few months…though “not so pleasant” is too mild a term. Horrible would be closer.

Before I get too far, I want to say why I’ve chosen to write about this on my family blog, as well as why I’ve hesitated for so long. This is such an extremely personal story, filled with moments that I would just soon forget. It’s very difficult to put this out there in the world, where I really have no idea who might read it. I can’t control what people will do with the information I choose to share. I can’t control what they might say to me or how their opinions of me might change. It’s a risk. Once I say it, I can’t take it back.

But, I’m a writer. I have filled more than one journal in these six months already. I can only talk to myself so much! I have gotten to the point that I need it to be out there so I can take that next step in my healing process. So I can stop keeping secrets. And so I can help others who might be in a similar situation.

You may notice that I have titled this as “Part I”, implying that there is more to come. I hope to be able to write about each element of this story individually, but how—and if—I write those parts will depend largely on the response I get to this post. Please keep that mind if you choose to comment. I am willing to share as much as I think might be worthwhile to myself and others, but only if I feel safe doing so.

And one last comment. Please do not be hurt or offended if I haven’t told you about this personally prior to your reading this story here. It has been so, so painful for me, and I couldn’t talk about it. I needed to be able to escape and if too many people knew, I couldn’t get away from it. I had to keep it to myself simply to cope. I had to be able to hide it if I needed a break.

So, without further ado…

It’s hard to say exactly where this story starts, but it’s easiest to tell it the way I figured it out. In the first few weeks after Ben was born, life was hectic and stressful. I felt like I was drowning. As any new mother will attest, a newborn is difficult. No sleep, near constant demands on your attention—especially when it isn’t your first. I struggled. Oh, how I struggled when we brought Ben home from the hospital. He was such a sweet, mild, happy baby, but I just couldn’t seem to get my head above water.

I had often heard that the third child was the most difficult transition. I chalked my stress up to that—normal newborn stress plus two toddlers who were big enough to fight with each other but too small to take care of themselves at all. It was this stress that sparked my first Mother’s Retreat. I spent a weekend just me and Ben and took the time to really evaluate my situation, my family, and myself as a mother. I set goals, made plans, and recommitted myself to being the best mother I thought I could be.

I failed miserably.

I did my best to follow those carefully laid plans, and yet the world still seemed to be crashing down around me. I had no control over my emotions. I would snap so quickly at the slightest provocation. I couldn’t stand to be touched by my children. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me.

It probably comes as no surprise, looking at this from the outside in, that I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.

Let me tell you, it was such a miserable, dark time. I felt like I was swimming in mud. I couldn’t see or comprehend anything around me, yet I had a desperate, pulling need to somehow find my way out. I was only vaguely aware of my children from day to day. I knew I was missing something, but my mind was so clouded in the depression that I didn’t know what it was. My house fell to pieces. It was never clean, we rarely had real food accessible, laundry was never done…you get the picture. Without me able to keep us held together, our family was slowly falling apart.

Sadly, that’s only half the story.

Once I became aware of the postpartum depression (PPD), I began researching suggestions on what has helped in recovery. I learned a lot during that time about what PPD is and how it affects different people. I followed much of the advice and information I was able to glean and life did begin to improve, though only in minute degrees. I kept pressing forward, though, hoping that if I just tried hard enough, I would be able to dig myself out.

Then the panic attacks started.

It was fairly common knowledge that I was not happy with the process of Ben’s birth. The fact that he was transverse took the situation largely out of my control, and despite my many valiant attempts to help him turn head down, we finally had to schedule a c-section. Once that day came, however, he was head down and we induced instead. After sixteen hours of very painful back labor, lo and behold, he was breech. C-section it was.

I didn’t give birth to my baby. He was just born, and that killed me.

Every time I heard someone’s birth story, or read an account of a labor and delivery on a blog, I would have a panic attack—hyperventilating, uncontrollable shaking, and occasionally even passing out. Anything that had any connection to a birth or any remote reminder of my birth experiences would send me into a complete tailspin. Every single time.

It was at this point that I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

In addition to all the aspects of depression, I experienced horrible nightmares when I slept and violent flashbacks when awake that left me reeling. I’ve never been prone to having a temper, but my anger was completely out of my control. My emotional response to any situation was magnified beyond reason. In a word, it was terrifying.

End Part I.

I am going to stop there for now, and leave with a few parting comments. There is much, much more that I would like to be able to share. I know that my story doesn’t make sense as it stands here, but I can’t explain it all at once—especially the PTSD, with what it really means and why it happened to me and what further implications it has. There is just too much.

And for your peace of mind—I am doing much better now. I am still at the beginning of my road to full recovery, but I have made giant leaps and strides along the path that have enabled me to again be a functioning human being. Please do not be worried about where I stand at the present moment. Fingers crossed, the worst is over.

I would like to share more of my story of healing, both for my own sake in writing it (writing is one of the most cathartic things I have) and for the sake of others who may benefit from my experience. If I can save anyone any measure of the pain I have been through, I would do it in a heartbeat.

So there you go. You know the beginning. What I ask now is for a simple comment on if you personally have an interest in hearing more of this story. I have considered starting a separate blog, or perhaps including these posts on our other parenting blog, just to keep this story separate from the much happier reports of my adorable children. But I would be interested to hear your thoughts on that, as well as anything else you may feel prompted to share. If you would like to have any personal correspondence rather than posting a public comment, feel free to send me a facebook message or leave your email address in a comment.

Thanks for listening.