Will History Repeat Itself?

As the weeks go by and the belly gets bigger, I can't help but wonder and worry that history will repeat itself.  Last year I wrote about my experience with postpartum depression (that post can be found here).  I had been diagnosed and was being treated for it, but still very much in the throes of that battle, so to speak, and so I didn't go into quite as much detail as I could have. And I still won't, mostly because I work every day to forget that period of time.  But the closer we get to the arrival of baby number two, the more nervous and anxious that I get about dealing with PPD a second time.

I read online (and confirmed it with my OB) that most women who suffer from postpartum depression will deal with it again in subsequent pregnancies.  This isn't always the case, but it's been proven often enough to make me very nervous about my chances.

With Bailey, I was completely blindsided and hadn't in a million years thought that I, of all people, would ever suffer from something like postpartum depression.  Ever.  I was always the one who wanted kids desperately, the one who loved to babysit and spend time with babies and young children.  Because I wanted kids of my own so badly, I had gotten it in my head that, for whatever reason, I'd never have them...at the very least, that it would be incredibly difficult for me.  Imagine my complete and utter elation when I found out that I was (quite unexpectedly) pregnant with Bailey.  I reveled in those 9 (10) months of pregnancy and loved every single second of watching my belly grow and feeling the baby move and kick.  Hell, I even looked forward to doctor's appointments, ultrasounds and the glucose test.  When my due date came and went, I was just happy to have that extra time with my baby before I had to share her with the world.  The word ecstatic doesn't even come close to how happy I was. 

And then Bailey was born and it all just went to hell.

Nothing had prepared me for the way I was going to feel after giving birth.  Physically, I felt fantastic.  Energized, little to no pain, and up walking around just a couple hours later.  Emotionally, it was a completely different story, and I was totally unprepared for that aspect of things.  I had a very hard time with breastfeeding, and there was nothing more depressing to me than sitting up in bed at 3am in the pitch black darkness and struggling to feed my baby while Scott snoozed away in the bed next to me.  In all my life, I had never felt as utterly alone as I did during those middle of the night attempts at feeding.  For Scott, life seemed to go on as normal.  But for me, I just couldn't seem to get it together and I was an absolute freakin' mess. 

I remember one night after dinner, Scott was playing video games and chatting with his friends online.  Bailey was a little over a week old and the three of us were in the living room.  Bailey had just finished nursing (an excruciating ordeal for both of us) and was sleeping, and I was getting ready to pump in the hopes that it would ease some of the pain and discomfort I'd been feeling since beginning to breastfeed.  Scott was chatting away and I just kept staring at that damn pump and willing myself to get it together and start what needed to be done for both myself and Bailey.  I hooked everything up, turned the pump on and started crying the most pitiful silent tears, all while Scott played his game, completely oblivious. 

It hurt so bad.

Scott turned around, saw me crying, and told his friends that he had to go.  He kept asking me what was wrong and, for the life of me, I couldn't answer him.  I can only imagine how ridiculous the whole thing must have looked to him.  His disheveled wife, hair uncombed, circles under her eyes, sitting there with her boob out and a breast pump hanging off of it, crying for no good reason.

I wanted him to tell me to stop, that it was okay if I didn't nurse Bailey.  I wanted him to say that I tried my best and that formula wouldn't hurt her.  I wanted to know that he wouldn't be disappointed in me if I stopped.  I had made such a big deal out of breastfeeding during my pregnancy and he was trying so hard to be supportive, though, that he said "Just keep trying.  Take a break and come back and try again in a few minutes."  Instead of taking them for the encouraging and supportive words that they were meant to be, I automatically assumed that he WANTED me to continue trying to nurse...which made me think that he would be disappointed in me if I didn't.  Which started the tears up all over again.

The first time I gave Bailey a bottle of formula, I think I cried more in one hour than she did in an entire day.  Never mind the fact that she took the bottle just fine and was eating normally.  Never mind the fact that, for the first time since giving birth, I didn't feel dread and constant pain at feeding time.  Never mind that she was just as happy with formula, maybe even happier, than with breast milk. 

I gave my baby a bottle. 

I felt such incredible relief at the fact that I would no longer have to suffer through a painful feeding, that neither of us would end up crying for the 20-30 minutes it took for her to nurse (that's assuming that she was even able to do it at any given time) every hour, that I wouldn’t have to constantly be worrying if she was getting enough nourishment.  But the same part of me that was relieved to finally be done also felt crushing guilt that I just couldn’t cope with.

I had failed.  At the single most important part of mothering (in my mind at the time), at the one thing I truly, truly wanted and expected to be able to do for my child.  . 

Throughout my pregnancy, I had been so set on nursing, and just assumed that it would come naturally and easily to me.  I wasn’t prepared for how difficult it would turn out to be (for me) and I put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to “get the job done”.  When I couldn’t do it…well, I fell apart.

That single thing is what triggered my postpartum depression.  And I’ve been trying for more than two years to let it go.
I’d been taking PPD medication from the time Bailey was about 5 months old (it took me that long to realize that I wasn’t “normal” and get treated) right up until the day I found out I was pregnant again.  At that point, I stopped cold turkey and I’ve been paranoid ever since that I’ll end up right back where I started. 

This time around, I’m enjoying my pregnancy just as much I did with Bailey, although it’s harder on me physically now.  I sort of know what to expect now, and I’m not putting any pressure on myself to nurse this baby for any amount of time.  I still plan to give it a shot, and will be doing my damndest to make it work, but I’m not going to force myself to struggle through blocked ducts, cracking and bleeding, and severe pain either.  If I can do it – fantastic.  And if not, I know for certain that the baby will do just fine with formula.  Bailey survived. 

I’m still loving the baby movements and kicks, and I’m still in awe at every ultrasound and every time I hear his little heart beating.  But there’s a part of me, a big part of me, that is terrified that it’s going to happen again and that everything is going to come crashing down around me before I’m even aware that it’s coming.  I’m only taking one week maternity leave.  I feel so, so, so guilty about it but I have to think about my daycare families this time around and I know that finding back-up care for an extended period of time can be tough.  I’m trying to work through my resentment that I can’t take the minimum 6 weeks that I know I deserve and will need.

I’ve started writing little notes to myself to leave around the house when the baby is born. 


You can do this.

Take a deep breath and know that you’re not alone.

Take a shower and brush your teeth.

Get some sleep!

Bailey and G need you.  Be the mother you know you can be for them.

Take this day a minute at a time.

Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

It’s kind of pathetic, but I’m not taking any chances.  I have two children who will be depending on me and I can’t let myself get sucked back into the “new mom/PPD/depression” vortex all over again.  I’m doing my best.

I know that I’ll be worrying about it more and more as my due date gets closer, but I’m trying super hard not to let it affect how I approach things right now.  My doctor and I have discussed all the scenarios and options, and have agreed that I’ll be leaving the hospital with a new baby and a prescription for PPD meds…just in case.  I don’t plan on using them unless I really have to, but it’s nice to have it available in case I start slipping again.  In the meantime, I’m counting down the days until there’s a new little one to ooh and ahh over and enjoying every second of pregnancy…big ass and all.  And, if and when the time comes, I know I’ll have done everything possible to be prepared.