I was twelve when I started developing symptoms of depression. I was thirteen when I began self-harming. I was fifteen when I first overdosed on a bottle of prescription medication. For over a decade I have struggled with mental illness and though I willingly talk to people about my experiences, I gloss the whole thing over as something that happened in the past, something I'm over now. But it's not over. I struggle regularly and I find it even more taboo to talk about now that I'm a mother.
Because, you know, motherhood is a beautiful, exquisite experience full of rainbows and songbirds and endless buffet tables of cheesecake.
When James was born, I didn't have the birth experience I anticipated and hoped for. My labor was long and exhausting. I wanted an all-natural birth experience but ended up using both Pitocin to help move labor along and an epidural to manage the pain. Then, I couldn't breastfeed successfully. I felt traumatized by our attempts at breastfeeding-- physically in pain because of a terrible latch and terrified as I anticipated each feeding because of the screaming and fighting that would occur. The lactation consultant I saw wasn't very encouraging and I really felt like it was a lost cause. Even so, I basically spent three months locked up in a bedroom trying to get that relationship working before deciding to maintain what shreds of sanity I had left and pump exclusively. One of my friends came to visit a few days after James was born and said, "It's sad nothing is working out the way you wanted it to." And I didn't really know what to say to that because, although it was true, I didn't want to admit anything about motherhood being sad so I said that yes, things weren't going the way I planned but it was okay because James brought so much happiness with his birth. This was true but didn't acknowledge the sadness I was experiencing too.
I had more than the "baby blues" that are so common in those early postpartum days but I'm not sure if it was truly full-blown postpartum depression. I had the sadness, the overwhelming guilt, the intrusive thoughts, the irritability, and the fatigue. I only feel comfortable talking about it now because I'm not currently in the throes of it. And that annoys me. Even after I've spent more years of my life in and out of depression than not, I'm still uncomfortable telling people, "I'm not doing so great right now. I need help."
I have no problem telling people I have a migraine or that I'm in the midst of a lupus flare but if I am going through a bout of depression, I have to go through that alone. It still feels like weakness to me. It still feels like a character flaw. I don't want people to know I'm depressed.
I find it interesting how surprising it is to me that even after I've become an adult that I am still me. I am still the same person I was when I was 18 and 15 and 12 and 8 and 5. Certainly there are things that have changed, but at my core I am still the same person I've always been. I guess I always thought something along of the lines of "when I'm an adult, I won't have to deal with these issues" so it surprises me when I do.
I still face depression regularly enough that it's not an extraordinary phenomenon. I even have thoughts of self-harm on the rare occasion though I can happily say it's been years since my last incident. I may be the same person I've always been but what's changed is how I deal with things. I guess that's good enough. I hope someday I'll be comfortable enough to say I need help when I do. It's still something I'm working on.
