Confession:
There was a time when I HATED being a mom.
And I’m not talking the
“Do you remember what it was like before kids?
Do you remember how much
freedom
and
energy
we had before we had kids?”
kind of feelings that I think all parents have
at one time or another.
I’m saying I absolutely and completely
loathed
and
despised
the fact that I was a mother.
I hated that we had made the choice to have kids.
HATED it.
I cannot even express just HOW MUCH
I hated being a mom.
For clarification,
I never hated my children.
I always loved them.
I never had thoughts of wanting to hurt them.
And I never had thoughts of wanting to hurt myself.
But every morning when I woke up
all I wanted to do was either
A) stay in bed literally all day
or
B) pack some bags and leave forever.
Because I hated my life.
Somehow I managed to love my husband
and my children.
But I hated my life.
This is Postpartum Depression.
June 14th, 2016:
The day my husband and brother
got themselves lost in the forest while on a camping trip.
Conveniently (or rather, inconveniently)
I was 28 weeks pregnant with our third child.
I won’t tell you the whole story here
but if you’d like to read about it,
I’ll provide the links here:
Needless to say, it was a traumatic experience
thinking for even a short period of time
that my husband could be dead.
The experience led to a nasty case
of PTSD
followed by some prenatal depression
(which I hadn’t even realized was a thing at the time).
My doctor didn’t notice.
I don’t blame him for my problems.
But as a medical professional
(and having known about my husband getting lost)
I feel he should have recognized something.
I wish he would have.
In September, I had our beautiful L.
She was my first natural delivery
and I was over the moon.
I felt that I could conquer anything that came my way.
Because I had just pushed a baby out of me
without an epidural.
And that is pretty rad.
What followed that incredible experience,
however,
was a baby that didn’t seem to be gaining weight
and the stress of trying to breastfeed
and being told that I just had
“bad milk.”
I didn’t understand.
I had done everything “right.”
I had set myself up to be successful at breastfeeding.
Plus, it was my third time around.
I should know what I was doing.
Why wasn’t it working out
when I was giving it my all??
We switched doctors.
Everyone told me to get a second opinion.
That there really is no such thing
as “bad milk.”
The new doctor was wonderful.
We continued to watch L,
but according to him,
she was gaining weight just fine.
Sure, she was on the smaller side,
but she continued to reach milestones
and she was thriving.
Crisis resolved.
For her.
Despite the fact that
A) my husband didn’t die in the woods
and
B) my baby was not malnourished
I was just finding my life difficult to deal with.
There always seemed to be something to blame it on…
“I’m just stressed about money.
When Brandon finishes school, we’ll have more money.”
“I’m just tired.
This baby has been my worst sleeper.”
“Three kids is just a big adjustment.”
“My church calling is just stressing me out.”
There was always an excuse
for why I wasn’t happy.
But certainly… CERTAINLY none of those excuses could be PPD.
Because I’m a happy person.
I am.
Postpartum Depression happens to other people.
But not to me.
So I slapped on a smile.
I posted on social media about how cute my kids were.
And how grateful I was to be their mom.
But I wasn’t.
Not at all.
And all the while,
I saw friends of mine do the same thing.
They posted about how motherhood
was everything they dreamed it would be.
How all they ever wanted to do was be a mom.
“What is wrong with me??
How can they love being a mom so much
when I absolutely hate it?”
It’s worth pointing out
that I never told anybody that I hated being a mom.
Not even my husband.
Not until years later.
I was so ashamed and embarrassed.
“Who does that??
Who hates being a mom??
There are people who would KILL to be mothers!
I have friends who struggle with infertility
and would do anything to be a mother
and here I am absolutely HATING it!
What the holy heck is my problem??”
I didn’t get it.
Not one bit.
Fast forward to September of 2017.
I stopped breastfeeding the month before
in preparation for running my first half marathon.
It was something I had always wanted to do.
And had finally found motivation to do it.
I did it.
I did it and it was awesome.
I bawled as I crossed the finish line.
Because I had done it.
It was hard.
The days that followed were incredible.
It was like I was seeing the world
through a whole new lens.
Suddenly,
the fact that we weren’t rich
didn’t seem to bother me.
My children’s presence didn’t drive me nuts.
My husband leaving his dirty clothes on the floor
didn’t lead to a meltdown with me
screaming that it’s
“disrespectful and degrading to me”
when he can’t just get his darn socks in the hamper.
And that’s when it hit me.
I was severely depressed.
For a YEAR.
For the first year of my darling L’s life
I was horribly depressed.
When that sunk in
I couldn’t believe it.
How had I let it go on for so long?
HOW??
How had nobody seen it??
Later my mom told me
that she hadn’t thought I was depressed.
She just thought I had become mean.
I WAS mean.
For a year I was a mean daughter.
A mean mom.
A mean wife.
Just an overall mean person.
I am not a mean person.
I’m just not.
But I was for that year.
Fast forward again
to the summer of 2018.
Brandon joined the Army
and left for about 6 months.
I started seeing my life
through that now
oh-so-familiar haze.
So I started seeing a therapist.
And bless his heart
that therapist helped me understand so much I didn’t before.
For example,
we are usually told
that breastfeeding is a great way to prevent
Postpartum Depression.
And that’s true.
I don’t understand the science of it
but it can be really helpful in preventing PPD.
But sometimes it’s not helpful.
Let’s be honest here,
I was far gone before I even had the baby.
The then un-diagnosed PTSD
really did a number on my mental health.
So for me,
breastfeeding actually had the opposite effect on me.
Instead of helping prevent Postpartum Depression,
it worsened the depression
that had carried over from when I was pregnant.
Yay hormones!
Stopping breastfeeding,
in conjunction with the endorphins
and the high that came from running my first half marathon,
snapped me out of my depression.
Literally it was like I woke up one morning
and didn’t hate my life anymore.
My circumstances hadn’t changed.
The makeup of my brain had.
I feel very lucky.
I feel lucky to have gone through this.
Because of this experience
(and the therapy I eventually underwent)
I have changed for the better.
Let me paint a little picture of my life right now…
I am currently sitting on the third floor
of an apartment complex in Washington.
I have three kids wrestling and
laughing/occasionally crying.
I have a 2-month old baby currently attached to me
who has been nursing for the last 30 minutes.
We are on day 3 of the 30ish days my husband is gone
for a training in California.
I do not know when my husband will be home.
We are currently awaiting a house on post.
Most of our stuff is in a storage unit 45 minutes away.
I do not know when we will be offered a house.
It could be in a week.
It could be in a month.
It could be in 5 months.
I am in a strange state where I don’t know many people.
It is currently overcast and gloomy outside.
(which doesn’t really bother me…
but I felt it added to the picture I’m trying to illustrate for you… ha!)
And yet,
I feel very at peace with my life right now.
I love my life.
I have accepted that my husband occasionally being gone
is just part of this life we chose.
And I can deal with that.
I can deal with it in a HEALTHY way.
We’ve grown so much over the past few years
and this just continues to shape us and mold us.
I have a darling new baby –
a baby that I never thought we would have
because I feared having Postpartum Depression.
I have been able to nurse that baby,
being mindful of the effect that may have on my hormones.
I adore my children.
And, I can honestly say that now,
I LOVE being a mother.
Of course,
I have my moments
when my kids are driving me nuts
and I swear I’ll never have more.
And let’s add that half the time,
I have no idea how to handle L
(who has turned into quite the sassy
almost-3-year-old).
But those moments of feeling overwhelmed
and wondering what the heck we got ourselves into
with having four children
are pretty rare these days.
Not unheard of.
But few and far between.
Plus, I don’t loathe motherhood like I once had.
Why am I even posting this?
It’s not to be vulnerable.
At least, to me it doesn’t feel vulnerable.
Sharing my story isn’t hard for me.
I’ve only waited for so long
because I’m not exactly eloquent
and finding the right words is a pain.
I’m not sure I nailed it,
but here it is in its unedited glory!
But I’m posting this
because I know I can’t possibly be the only one.
To the woman who wants to love being a mother,
but doesn’t:
I see you.
I’ve been there.
It’s going to be okay.
There is light at the end of this dark tunnel.
Find someone to talk to.
Anyone.
Stop beating yourself up.
Stop feeling guilty.
Ask for help.
It is not weakness to ask for help.
I thought it was.
But asking for help was one of the bravest things
I have ever done in my life.
If you don’t have anyone to talk to,
message me.
I’d love to talk to you.
But don’t do what I did.
Don’t allow yourself to be miserable.
I allowed my misery to continue FOR A YEAR.
And I deserved to treat myself better.
YOU deserve better than that.
Don’t wait.
Life is amazing and you deserve to see that!
’til next time,
Ash
