***Trigger warning: there is the talk of miscarriage and death as well as cussing.

This one took me some time to try and figure out how to write it. It's raw and personal and honest and vulnerable. It delves deep into my experience with postpartum depression and anxiety, something that even at 26 months postpartum I feel I still battle with. So I guess I'll just start at the beginning....

this shit was rough.

He was/is my rainbow baby. I had a miscarriage before him and he was conceived the next cycle after I lost his sister. I call him my "planned oops" and my anxiety (although was rampant through the pregnancy) really set in immediately after he was born. I was SUPER hypervigilant, and my body would not let me fall asleep. Like physically the moment I would relax and begin drifting off, my body would wake me up. I could see in my mind, me waking up to Killian being dead in his bassinet, but that if I didn't fall asleep that wouldn't happen because I could catch it and prevent it. That's what my mind kept telling me. I positioned his bassinet next to the bed, where the mesh in it was next to my head so I could see him breathing. If I fell asleep, I would jolt awake (and it was this HUGE dump of adrenaline, racing heart, palpitations, shaking) just freaking out at how long I had slept for and immediately would check on him (who again was like 12 inches away from me) to make sure he was still breathing. I was constantly putting a finger in front of his nose to feel his breath and watch to make sure his stomach was rising and falling. I don't think I slept longer than 20 minute stretches that first week.

I knew it wasn’t just baby blues.

At 14 days postpartum I knew my "baby blues" weren't just baby blues. I was angry. Like the way the anger coursed through my body, made my blood run cold. It's so difficult to describe this anger. There is one specific night that I remember so vividly but I don't know exactly when it was (it was some time in the first 3 weeks postpartum). Killian had been crying for about 2 hours straight and Sam was sleeping. He slept through legit fucking everything, it pissed me off constantly. Lola (my "nanny" dog, who took care of me the entire pregnancy) was upset that Killian was crying so she was constantly under my feet as I was trying to soothe and rock him. I remember walking over to Sam, waking him up (not nicely), and telling him he needed to take Killian. I walked downstairs in the dark to grab clothes or something and Lola followed me. I walked back upstairs to Sam's side of the bed, which was against the wall and Lola had again followed me. As I walked back around the bed to go to my side, she was in the way and I had to nudge her to move. She moved but then began to follow me again and I remember swinging around and getting in her face and yelling (although it wasn't quite a yell, it was more like a deep gutteral growl) "STOP FOLLOWING ME." Lola tucked her tail, and literally scampered (she's 110 lbs of Pit/Mastiff mix, they don't scamper very easily) to Sam's side of the bed and laid down. I had to later go over to her and tell her I was sorry and that she was ok to leave that spot because she wasn't moving. She was scared of me and that broke my heart.

I've never spoken to my animals like that, not that pure anger at least. I have never heard that noise come out of my mouth before. I had never been that angry before and that sacred the shit out of me. It was at that point that both Sam and I knew something was going on.

no one warned me about this.

At about two weeks postpartum, one evening Sam came home and I was done. My brain couldn't take the constant vigilance and the anger. My mind was so confused on what it should be doing. I told Sam I was going to weed our driveway. I legit sat outside, for like 45 minutes and hand-weeded our fucking driveway at two weeks postpartum. I originally thought it was because the pregnancy was so difficult that I just wanted to get out of the house and be outside in the fresh air (which was SUPER rare when I was pregnant), but looking back on it, it was the PPD/A. It was my mind trying to get a break from being on high-alert constantly.

The final straw before I went and sought help was when Killian was almost three weeks old and I went to Babies 'R' Us by myself. I forgot what I had to pick up but Sam brought up just having me go to get a little break and that he would watch Killian. I thought great! This is fantastic! I got in my truck and started driving and I wasn't even driving for 5 minutes before I started crying. I don't even remember exactly what I was crying about but I couldn't stop crying. I didn't want to go back home. I didn't want to keep feeling the way I was. I was tired and done and just wanted things to go back to normal. I hated the way I was feeling and wanted it to stop but I didn't know how to fix it. I cried the entire 25 minute drive to Babies 'R' Us, was able to grab whatever I needed and not cry while I was inside, but the moment I began driving again, the tears fell. This time because I couldn't believe I was gone so long. I was afraid that I was going to come home to a dead baby because he needed me and I was gone. I wasn't going to be there to "save him." But the really fucking shitty part of this entire event, was that once I got home, I didn't want to be there. I wanted to leave. I wanted to escape and run away. I didn't want whatever was happening and I felt like Killian deserved a better mother than me. I felt like I was the worst mother in the world. We were struggling to breastfeed super badly so I was constantly pumping (this was NOT helping my mental state) and felt like a failure there. I felt I had no resources, my only help had flown back to her home and her own family. I was alone. With my thoughts that were not supportive or loving or anything I needed at that moment.

This time was supposed to be the most magical time.

Where a family of two becomes three. And all this oxytocin is supposed to be flowing and everyone is supposed to be in love and there I was, fucking broken. I can honestly say that I did not enjoy the first few weeks of Killian's life due to the battle I was fighting in my head. And that fucking breaks my heart. This is time I will never get back.

At Killian's three week appointment, which was thankfully the day after my Babies 'R' Us trip, I asked my doctor (she is Killian's doctor as well) when I should bring up PPD. She asked what was going on and I told her the events and thought process of my Babies 'R' Us trip where she immediately said she was sending in a prescription for Zoloft and that we were going to be treating me for Postpartum Depression and Anxiety (PPD/A).

The meds didn't work initially, we bumped up the dosage a handful of times before it really started to work. I also added in PPD group therapy which was super beneficial and helped tremendously. But before anything really changed, I remember one day where Killian was napping on me, he had to have been somewhere between 5 and 6 weeks old because he was breastfeeding (he didn't latch until he was 4.5 weeks old but that's an entire other blog post). I woke up about 9 am I believe and we went downstairs. We watched some TV (ok me, I watched some TV) and Killian eventually fell asleep at the boob. I remember being too scared to move because if I moved my mind told me I  would drop him and he would die. So I sat there. For hours. Not moving.

When Killian would wake up to eat I would just swap boobs. I believe he was going through a growth spurt or something because he would really just wake up, eat, and then go back to sleep. I believe we did this for about 5 or 6 hours until I was so dehydrated and hungry that I couldn't take it anymore. I put him down in his mamaRoo so I could go something to drink and eat. After I had eaten and drank, I then just stared at Killian because I was too afraid to pick him up. I was barely functioning. Killian was being taken care of and his primary needs were being met, but fuck was I broken.

Even now, when I don't take my Zoloft, the anger returns. Within 6 hours of waking up, I can feel it. This type of PPD isn't one I hear readily discussed. It's always the sad and depressed and feeling useless that's discussed. But this anger. This white hot, beat the shit out someone for no reason, anger that literally in a split second goes from 0-100, needs to be discussed WAY more often than it is. I was not prepared for it. I had a feeling I would get PPD, but the stereotypical what you see in movies and TV crap. Not this.

It's taken some time to be heard and be understood that I couldn't just "be more positive" or that it "was all in my head" even after a clinical diagnosis of PPD/A. It's also taken some time to create a support system and have people who truly understand and that I can lean on for help and support when I need it. But the chemical imbalance is real and should be treated as such. Just because someone cannot see an illness, doesn't mean it does not exist. Seeking help is not a weakness, it is true strength and courage.

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

If you or someone you know needs help:
24/7 Suicide Prevention Hotline1-800-273-8255
Postpartum Support International Helpline1-800-944-4773 or text 503-894-9453 (this is for both parents. Dads/Partners can get PPD as well.