When expactation fails to meet reality (post-partum depression)

When I was pregnant with Zac, I had it all figured out. Gabe had been a wonderful, easy baby. Very few challenges. He was easily soothed with a binky and a song. He took to solids right away. He crawled late, stood late, walked late. Easy. Surely this new baby would take after his big brother.

As a housekeeper, I had it all figured out, too. The house was clean and organized, I had a working schedule for various things-- laundry, bread-making, vacuuming, etc. Seldom would my home have been found unworthy of company.

When the baby came, though, that all changed. While Zac slept several hours at night from the start, he made up for it by not sleeping as much during the day. He refused to take a binky and wanted to nurse constantly. Because he nursed so frequently, he spit up all the time. He was a very particular baby. I found myself growing frustrated, irritated, despairing, overtired all the time, desperate to make this baby happy but also sick and tired of catering to his every need!

The house fell apart. For the first few months, I tried to keep up with my pre-baby schedule. I would manage to get a loaf of bread in the oven and it would bake...I'd be in the middle of a long nursing session and the timer would beep for me to get the bread out. I was torn. Do I let the bread stay for a while longer and possibly burn, thereby wasting the whole effort? Or do I put the baby down and listen to him scream while I go take out the bread? It was a lose-lose situation, and I stressed myself out (even though it really was a minor matter in restrospect).

I gave up on the bread. I gave up on a lot of things. I went into survival mode, just trying to keep up with the day-to-day. I had to do laundry. I had to do dishes. I had to cook and prepare food for my family. These things had to be done. Yet even these simple tasks became overwhelming. The dryer would finish and I'd be in the middle of caring for my baby, so I wouldn't get the clothes out right then and they'd get wrinkled. I'd be in the middle of fixing dinner, and the baby would start to fuss. How could I possibly balance everything that needed to be done?! I lived each day just waiting for the moment when I heard my husband walking through the front door so I could hand the baby over to him and get things done!

I know my situation was/is far from unusual. That wasn't the problem, really. The problem was my expectation.

During my pregnancy, I had worked so hard to achieve an equilibrium. Everything was perfect. I expected myself to be able to keep it that way after the baby came. But I was disappointed.

I had expected my second child to take after his big brother. He didn't. Disappointed again. And instead of changing my expectation and learning to fully accept Zac for who he was, I kept mourning over the fact that he was not like his brother.

Disappointed time and time again, I burned myself out. I became depressed. I began to resent my baby, this wrench in my gears. Oh, I still loved him. I still wanted to do everything I could for him. But I just kept wishing I could fast-forward over the first year or so and skip to where I knew I would be able to enjoy him more, as a toddler. I knew this was the wrong attitude to take, and I did my best to enjoy my baby. But it was hard. I was too worried and too stressed to think straight.

Sometimes I started to feel okay again. I'd be fine for a few days. I was the loving, attentive, compassionate mother I wanted to be. I was full of energy and optimism. I was productive. But if I kept up the cheerful pace for too long, I would eventually crash again. Every time. The loving feeling I had had just a few days before would become replaced with detachment, of just wanting to be left alone; attentiveness became borderline neglect for all but my childrens' basic needs; compassion became irritation; all energy left me, and optimism gave way to near-despair. On my worst days, I felt I could hardly control myself.

On these days, my depression affected my boys, too. Gabe would act up more. Zac would cry for desperately-needed attention. I felt like a terrible mother, but it was so hard to bring myself out of the pit I had dug for myself. Nick would come home to a house strewn with toys, dinner still unplanned let alone unmade, and a wife who had just "had enough" and would start berrating him over some little thing, and then I would just break down and cry from all the stress and all the guilt over the way I had treated everyone all day.

Finally, after nine months of this I started reaching out for help. I started educating myself about post-partum depression and other mood disorders. I talked with other moms online who had suffered, too, and got lots of encouragement and good advice to help me make a change: a change of attitude; a change of pace; a change of expecations; a change of view.

Within the last month, I feel I have made huge strides towards recovery. On my own I have started implementing strategies to cope with this depression. I am taking better care of my own health-- physical, mental, and emotional. I am availing myself more of opportunities to take breaks from the stress. I realize now that I can't make myself be super happy and energetic or else I am likely to crash that much harder when I can't keep up the pace anymore. Like running in a marathon, I have to take it slow, take my time, and listen to the subtle cues that I am overdoing it and take a breather. I hope to be able to battle this illness without resorting to medication, but I will do what needs to be done.

I have an appointment with a counselor this week. I want to establish a good relationship with a good counselor right now, even though I'm feeling quite a bit better than I was just a short time ago, so that if and when depression (possibly more severe than this one) strikes again, I will be prepared to fight it off much sooner than I did this time around.

I will conquer this. I will be myself again. My husband deserves it. My boys deserve it.

I deserve it.