I See You, Mama: Part Three

My first week home from the hospital, I was far too scared to stay home alone with Joshua. My church arranged for my friends to come stay with me while Paul worked. My friends packed up their littles, came to my apartment, and spent their days caring for me. Their support overwhelmed me.

On the 8th day, I woke up, rolled over, looked at Paul, and said, “I want to try staying home alone today.” He supported my decision while also letting me know he would be close by if I needed him.

Something shifted in me on that 8th day. While I was still quaking inside, a simultaneous fight rose up within me. I wrote on a piece of paper, “We aren’t in this alone,” indicating my God was with me. I taped that paper to the living room wall. A walking support toy with a smiling face on it had caused me deep fear—I was terrified I would think it was talking to me. On the 8th day, I took that toy, put it square in my face, and stared it down throughout the day. But the bathroom door… it had to stay closed. The fear was too much to face the bathtub.

My personal recovery plan involved daily prayer and meditation, weekly therapy, daily medication, and accessing my support systems. However, this did not all happen overnight. Currently, I have a sign in my office that reads, “Healing is not linear,” with a squiggly line all over the picture. My recovery was just like that. One day okay, the next day hard, the next day better, the next day exhausting. Up and down I went, until I began to notice that each day was getting a little better.

I would get incredibly angry with this up-and-down nature of recovery. To encourage myself, I began writing down moments of success on Post-its (see picture in comments). I placed those Post-its on the back of my bedroom door. During moments when I felt like I was going to curl up and cry, I would look at the post-its for strength.

I will never forget the moment I felt peace again.. Paul had to be out of town over the presidential election of 2004, causing me a lot of disruption. Yet, the fight from the 8th day was still present. I was determined I would stay home. During the night, Joshua awoke. I carried him from his crib to the living room for a feeding. For some reason, I turned on the news to see if the election results had been calculated. As I sat there, I noticed something vaguely familiar—something I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Quiet. My mind was quiet. My heart was calm. My body was at rest. I held my baby, fed him, and a tear slipped down my cheek. I had made it. Even though I knew there might still be moments of anxiety, I had made it. Every single presidential election night since 2004, I experience gratitude for that moment.

Most likely, I could talk for days about all the things I learned during the dark night of my soul, more commonly known as Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorders. Each person has a different path to recovery. For me, I had to engage my faith, access therapy, take medication, and rely on my support systems. As I have sat with women over the last 20 years, each of them has had a different path to recovery.

Most of all, what I would say is: embrace what you know you need. Seek support, be honest with what you’re experiencing, and know this is not the end of you. A new normal will come. The new normal may take time to arrive. Hang on. All of us mamas who have walked this road see you.

I see you, Mama.