(Over)sharing... Again

I make no secret of the fact that after M was born, I spiraled down into a nasty-ass depression that lasted for 3 long months. The cocktail of hormones, sleep deprivation, and sheer New Mama terror proved almost deadly, and for a very tense few weeks, I thought about killing myself. I had this fantasy of slitting my wrists – down the street, not across the road – and taking a bath in my own blood and freshly squeezed breast milk. The only thing that kept me from doing this was the knowledge that I couldn’t pump enough breast milk to freeze for M, and – God Forbid – she had to have formula. Over my dead body!  Oh, wait.

But I was supposed to be happy. And so, each morning I got up and put on a smile that never quite reached my eyes, and I faked a new mama glow the way porn stars fake orgasms.

But when I started weeping midway through my postpartum exam – yes, while my legs were in the stirrups – Dr. Feel Very Good gently brought up the topic of Post Partum Depression.

“No, I’m fiinneeeeeeeeeeeee,” I blubbered, using the corner of the drape covering my Lady Business to furtively wipe the snot dripping from my nose. “I just have a case of the Baby Blues. I’ll be ok if I can just get some sleep”

Um, yeah. Only Tom Cruise \would believe I didn’t need meds.

Dr. Feel Very Good smiled gently and explained that sometimes the Baby Blues can be more serious. And when this happens, you need more than a good night’s sleep to make it go away. So, he referred me to a shrink, who referred me to Zoloft, and we all lived happily ever after. The End

Ok, so it wasn’t quite that simple, but things did get better.  M started to become more like a baby and less like a chicken. I was too exhausted to wake up every hour to check to see if she was breathing, so I accidentally managed to actually sleep when she slept. And then, either the meds kicked in, or the hormones began to even out, or both, but at last, my feelings started to make more sense.

But then, somewhere in the beginning of my second pregnancy, the goblins came back -- niggling, little shits, clawing and scratching at the outside of my sanity.  Hungry little fuckers.  And while it would probably have been safe to go back on Zoloft, my thoughts were doing the 'what if' dance, so I did the next best thing:  I started writing.

And I'm still here.