Maternal Mental Health Awareness: Newsletter Edition

Let’s Talk About Maternal Mental Health

Did you know that one out seven families are impacted by Pregnant and Postpartum Mood and Anxiety Disorders? Simmer on that. Do you know SEVEN families? Then you know someone that has been affected. But, how come no one is talking? Woman are made to feel inadequate if they admit the mental suffering. They tell us we are less of a mother. They tell us that it’s just hormones. They tell us to pull yourself up by your bootstraps. But the truth is. We can’t do this alone. We need help. We are suffering. We are crying out for help. [Call the Postpartum Support Internation Warmline for help and local referrals: 1-800-944-4PPD]

Brave Mothers Share Their Stories

{Click on the image to read the story}

I Wasn’t Built For Motherhood by Sara Green

I Felt Broken: I Needed Help by Brandee Foster on RealityMoms

Taking Antidepressants Doesn’t Make Me a Bad Mother by Jen Simon

Postpartum Depression: We’re Still Just “Sucking It Up” by Sarah Bregel

My Traumatic Birth Experience Left Me Scared, Scarred, and Struggling with PTSD by Sara Farrell Baker

9 Things I Wish I’d Known About Postpartum Depression by Honest Mom

Trust me, I know exactly how it feels, I know exactly how it feels to cry in the shower so no one can hear you. I know what it’s like to wait for everyone to be asleep so you can fall apart, for everything to hurt so bad you just want it to end. I know exactly how it feels.” – unknown





The Broken Friend

I’m in this suffocating bubble known as depression and anxiety. The bubble increases with room to live. During that time, I throw myself into conversations, interactions, and fellowship. I’m eager to get up and go. Then the bubble shrivels up, taking the life force out of me. When I can’t function or breathe, I forget the people standing by on the outside. I desire life but can’t fully grasp it. My home becomes a prison masked as a haven.

It isn’t intentional. I hate that I didn’t return the phone calls or text. I’m sorry that I bailed on our plans, even though I was looking forward to it and truthfully, needed it. I stay awake at night, upset at my actions and tell myself that in the morning I will apologize and do better. But, tomorrow comes, and I’m in a cocoon of the warmth ignited by my depression. Nothing is appealing outside of this heat. I’m falsely embracing the security of my depression. It is easier to give in and be alone. It takes mental stamina to fight for the willpower and energy to invest and socialize. I’m losing this battle because I’m too tired to fight.
That lost battle is the edge of dying friendship. A bystander who is tired of being neglected and rejected. It’s easy for that person to raise their hands in defeat. They’re sick of the games and broken promises. It isn’t worth it. They can walk away. And, I know it will happen. I can sense when I’ve reached the point of too many broken promises.  Their distance is a stab in my heart full of remorse and shamefulness. It’s not their job to stick around. There is no obligation in our friendship to make you stay. My depression is not an excuse. It is a part of who I am, and you are allowed not to accept it.

When a friend walks away, proclaiming hurt by my actions, it creates a breath of air that inflates empathy into the bubble. It is not my goal to hurt the people that choice to be apart of my life. But, depression makes me a selfish person. This brutal moment of honesty awakens the nerve endings on my body. I am being reminded to look and truly appreciate the ones that love me. My depression can make me a jerk. But, it doesn’t give me a pass to jerk others around.

Motherhood Broke Me

I remember the exact moment that I decided I wanted to become a mom. My then boyfriend – now husband, and I were laying in bed. I rolled over to my side, taking away the comforter from my mouth so that I could talk to him.

“I want to try to have a baby.” I spat out. My eyes waited for his response. I blamed my desire to start a family because he was older than me. I figured if I had the notion of wanting to be a mom at twenty then he must surely have the desire at twenty-four. Our three year anniversary was approaching. We’d been living together for over two years. I didn’t question my decision on starting a family at a young age because being a parent with him felt natural. But, at that moment, I didn’t see the darkness that was waiting.

He agreed. And we started trying right away. It was our little secret. We weren’t going to tell our family that we were actively trying to get pregnant before marriage. They were still adjusting to the fact that I was living with him. Plus, I read online that it took months for couples to get pregnant.
Two months later, I was pregnant. Pregnancy was spectacular. I glowed. I rocked the belly. I never had morning sickness. My family was happy and supportive. And, I became a wife. My husband and I didn’t argue over nursery themes, baby gadgets, or names. That year was magical. Everything pointed towards bliss.

Birth. It was hard. It was unpleasant. It was exhausting. It was rewarding. My son was here. I had no idea that when I held his body against my breast, smelling his scent, months to come, I would regret being his mom.

At first, I wouldn’t sleep. I was afraid that if I did while my son was asleep, that he would never wake up. I would miss his struggle to breathe, and his death would be on my hands. My exhaustion brought paranoia. He couldn’t wear anything without washing it. I was confident that a toxic residue would eat at his flesh. The fear of his death morphed into my mortality. Was this bruise an indication that I had HIV? The pain in my calves, as I walked up and down the stairs, was a clot breaking and making its way into my lungs.
Daytime would blind the fear of death. It was a low simmer of fear that haunted my thoughts. I masked the paranoia with playdates, adventures, and get-togethers. As the sun set and friends returned home, loneliness crept in. I would lay awake, in total darkness, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t want to be a mom anymore. My mind was tired. I was a pathetic mother. I was weak.  I was drowning, and it felt easier to succumb to the water.

My hidden fate was unraveling in front of others. My mask was breaking. My anger was growing. His neediness became annoying. His cries elevated my desire to run. My end was near. My husband heard the screams that vibrated throughout the house. I laid in a fetal position, on the raspy carpet in front of our bed. The screams escaped with no fight. Motherhood broke me.

I wish I could write about what happened those days after my breakdown. I remember feeling lethargic as if I was underwater fighting against the current to breathe. Days later, I was sitting on the couch of a psychiatrist.  My husband sat right beside me.  His weight shifted my body to the left. I grabbed his hand. The psychiatrist was a small framed woman. Her desk was a shrine of paperwork for the people she fought to help. I exhaled.

She asked, “How are you?”

My eyes closed. My chest vibrated against the labored breathing. My husband’s hand tighten around mine.

“I can’t do this anymore,” broke through my lips.

I needed the support of my husband but was ashamed to share my thoughts. My head dropped in defeat. My shoulders rolled forward with the tears that fell from my eyes. I didn’t know that being his mom would bring sadness. I didn’t know that being his mom would alter my whole being. I didn’t know that being his mom would suffocate me. I didn’t know that being his mom would bring fear. I didn’t know that being his mom would make me an outcast. I didn’t know that being his mom would destroy my happiness.

I answered her questions with anguished sobs. I was too tired to decipher my thoughts.  But, she had the code. It was Postpartum Depression. Her petite body twisted towards her desk, placing the paperwork she had in her hands, onto it. Her chair scraped against the carpet as she stood up. She sat to my right and put her small hand on my shoulder. It radiated energy. She calmly explained Postpartum Depression while rubbing my shoulder. Every movement of her hand uncovered the truth. The truth that I wasn’t a failure. The truth that I wasn’t an embarrassment. The truth that I wasn’t alone. The truth that I could fall and there would be a safety net.

A Life on Repeat

My head is pounding. My neck is stiff. And, my eyes are cursing at me, wondering why I am on the computer.

But here I am. I haven’t written in months (cue the record player to repeat). I feel as though I am accomplishing nothing within my life. So, I figured if I wrote then I could pat myself on the back.

I don’t know who I am anymore. Yes, a mother and a wife. But, is it bad to say I am tired of being a stay at home tumblr_m3mlscI1UN1ru4trao1_500mom? Continue reading

Suicide: The True Mask of Deception

The end that offers rest from the mind that will not let go of pain and sorrow.
The end that removes all demons that whisper all the failures.
The end that opens the cage of darkness.
The end that silences the voices of the past.
The end of you.
It approaches like a deceiving warm hug.
It presents the cure to twisted ideas of darkness.
It transforms into an ally.
It becomes the only victory with claiming.
It is the end of you.

Continue reading