When a new mom wants to die

Like all tragedies, it happens more often than any of us might think: an expecting mom goes into the hospital with happy anticipation (and physical pain, of course...but perhaps not mental, not yet) and finds herself, two to four to six to eight weeks later, unable to escape the overwhelming desire to disappear. Really. Disappear. I have seen it happen.

I'm inspired to write this post today - to tell a bit of my own story, and to ask for yours, because I came across the organization Jenny's Light, for a second time today.  Jenny's Light is run by Los Gatos resident and Olympic triathlete, Becky Gibbs Lavelle. Last December, Becky's twin sister, Jenny, a usually happy, successful gorgeous young woman (read her story, and watch the tribute to fully appreciate the fullness of the life that was hers), went to a local gun shop, bought a gun, and took her own life and her baby's. Unthinkable. And of course, Jenny was not thinking - not like herself. She was a clear victim of an enemy all-too-common among new moms: perinatal mood disorder.

Jenny's Light raises money for and acts toward increasing perinatal mood disorder awareness and screening because this type of postpartum psychosis and depression can roll over a body and mind with a force strong enough to erase all else. The woman, now mom, becomes powerless. Jenny's story is absolutely heartbreaking. Thank God, this is not my story. But I do have a story. Actually, I have many. And I am sure many of you do, too.

To make my own story short, I count myself one of the luckiest and happiest moms in the world for having dealt with my own clinical depression before I had kids. Years (on and off from age 8 to twenty-something) of wanting to disappear; of being convinced I was the dirtiest person on the face of the earth; of being sure that if anyone who already knew me really knew me they would hate me, finally pushed me to try antidepressants when Prozac was just an unknown new drug. I had lived with depression as if it were my twin, for most of my life. Hail modern medicine--the Prozac worked. I was a perfect candidate - with a huge family history of clinical depression and no horrible events or circumstances in my life that might have made me a candidate for talk therapy or other treatment. When the Prozac worked, it was as if I had walked out of prison. And then I walked back in again, eight years later, when I got pregnant.

As I half-heartedly hoped for a miscarriage during my first trimester, so I could escape the hell of nausea and depression, my doctor suggested I get back on the Prozac as it was clearly safe and there was no danger (according to tests done) to the baby. After confirming research, I was convinced enough to start taking it again in the second trimester, and agreed to be part of a study at Stanford of women who were taking fluoxetine throughout pregnancy. (The study found that my wonderful guy was 100% normal by the way and I've never regretted taking the medication).

After all that, I still felt myself slipping into a big dark hole after my son was born. Rationally, I knew he was healthy and safe and fine, but I remember sitting by his crib, crying and just feeling completely helpless and powerless and desperate and not at all like myself. When I walked around outside during those early days, every adult I saw gave me one thought: "They survived being an infant, why can't my son?" Of course, there was nothing wrong with my son, and he would and did survive. But I couldn't stop the debilitating fear. Postnatal hormones are horrendous. Combine them with a dose of perinatal mood disorder, however slight, and the light starts going out of your life. Fast. What it leaves in its wake is pure terror.

Most likely what I felt was similar to many new moms who never have a bout with serious mental illness, but with my history I rushed right off to the doctor that first week and made damn sure I was doing all I could to keep myself from the abyss. That kind of vigilant self-care has kept me happy and fulfilled and I could not be more joyful about my life as it is today and about being a mom. But, like a marriage or a tough race or anything else worth succeeding at, it has been hard, dedicated work. I want other moms to know that - that it's okay if these things do not come easy.

I know a woman, a very intelligent, highly educated and pre-pregnancy happy woman, who began leaving paranoid notes around the house for her family in her first weeks postpartum. Everyone noticed things weren't "great" and helped out a lot but somehow nothing more was done. It is so easy to chalk up the warning signs to the "normal" stress of a new baby. Thankfully, somehow this woman had the clarity of mind to walk out the front door and just keep going until she found a police car. She waved it down and said, simply, "Help me." She was taken to a local hospital and within days was in a heavy postpartum psychotic episode with delusions that took weeks to come out of. At times during these delusions she didn't even remember having a baby. She lost sight of reality and her light went out. Luckily, she was in a hospital. And luckily, she returned to her normal self within a month. She is happy now, as is her son, but she is not planning to have another baby.

There are so many other stories of people very very close to me, who experienced real and debilitating depression after giving birth, as well as years after, in the trenches of the overwhelming job that is motherhood. It happens all the time. Why are we not prepared? What of the moms who do not have the presence of mind to walk out the door and just keep walking until they find help? What of the moms who have that clarity but are deathly afraid of the social stigma they will face for "not being able to deal" with a new baby or motherhood...who just keep going until it is too late? What of those that make small comments to friends and family about being overwhelmed, and are told "Oh, but it goes so fast. Enjoy this time!" instead of "I know it can be overwhelming and awful, how can I help you?"

I believe that every OB should be paired with a psychiatrist or some sort of perinatal mood disorder expert, and every pregnant and postpartum woman should be screened for signs of distress. I can't accurately do either of these things myself, so I do the next best thing. I tell everyone I know who is pregnant that having a new baby isn't always fun. I tell them it might be hell. I assure them that if they feel like shoving that baby back where it came from and going back to their old life they are not alone. I make sure they know that I am someone they can call if they are desperately unhappy once they bring that baby home, because I understand that this is NORMAL. And then, of course, I promise them that it will pass if they can hang in there, that they WILL bond with their child, that there is help for them in the meantime, and that yes all the uncertainty and fear is worth it in the end. "It's just..." I like to say, "you need to be prepared."

Basically, I tell the truth, at baby showers when I'm asked my one piece of advice, during the month before delivery, and during that postpartum period. Not everybody likes it, and I get some pretty odd looks at baby showers sometimes. But that's just fine with me, because I also get a lot of calls from friends postpartum who need help.

I want to hear your story too. I think a lot of moms out there need to hear it. Do tell.

Sarah writes a team and personal blog called Waterblogged.