Surviving Postpartum
© 2021 Photo Beyond The Birth, LLC
After the last week of the 42 weeks of my pregnancy, trying to induce naturally, and still hoping to make my natural birth center dreams come true—I was admitted into the hospital to start an induction process which would turn into 3 days of physical and mental trauma culminating in the c-section of my nightmares…
I just couldn’t quiet my mind long enough to sleep.
I remember in the hospital feeling like I was on autopilot. I experienced moments of feeling outside my body—not fully present. I was slowly losing my appetite and couldn’t figure out why. I was also beyond exhausted, on a level I could not have imagined pre-parenthood. And even when my new baby slept, I just couldn’t quiet my mind long enough to sleep.
“How was I going to do this?”
I remember the ride home and what I can only recognize after the fact as panic. I remember the tightness in my chest and all of the thoughts and questions racing through my mind. “How was I going to do this?”— a question I felt too ashamed to voice out loud. Because, I had wanted this. For two long years.
…a loss of my sense of self and a total loss of control over my mind and emotions.
Those first few days and weeks home were like a hurricane of loss—a loss of my sense of self and a total loss of control over my mind and emotions. I had never experienced something so frightening. The scary thoughts that flashed in my mind that made me think I was either crazy, a monster, or both.
And underneath it all there was the fear that I couldn’t connect with my baby. “Where was the rush of love and warmth all the new moms always spoke about?”.
This thought was usually followed by another— “I made a big mistake. I’m not meant to be a mother.”
I truly believed I would never feel better or “sane” again.
This was a scary time, to say the least. I truly believed I would never feel better or “sane” again. I believed I would be stuck in this awful feeling for forever. I really thought, “no one has ever felt this way before—not this bad!”.
At the risk of sounding like Morgan Freeman in the film Shawshank Redemption….I’d like to say that I immediately got help for myself. I’d like to say that I was brave enough to not just suffer in silence. But, it didn’t happen that way. The truth is, shame can do a real number on us—even when we’re trained to know better. It can convince us to stay silent and pretend we’re ok.
I white knuckled my way through motherhood for two whole years before the pandemic hit, and ultimately it’s what both broke me and saved me. To be sure, the pandemic was an overall horrible event in our collective history, but I’m still grateful to it. It forced me to acknowledge that I wasn’t ok and that it was ok to admit that and. Because, the alternative meant I would no longer be here.
So, for as scary and terrible as it was, I will always be grateful for that year when the world seemed to stand still. I finally made the call I should have made right after bringing my son home from the hospital. I reached out for help. I got medicated. I got answers for what was going on for me that not only had been causing me so much suffering in motherhood, but I could now see had been impacting me my whole life. I got diagnosed with PTSD, ADHD, OCD, and Autism. Quite the combo of acronyms, but also very common for us neurodiverse(neurospicy if your prefer) folks.
This not only saved my life but fundamentally changed my life for the better.
This not only saved my life but fundamentally changed my life for the better. It’s literally the only reason I’m here and able to do the work I’m doing today.
I gradually started healing, feeling less panic, getting to know my whole self for the first time in my life, and even feeling happy again.
Most importantly, I was able to show up fully present and healthy for my son.
In those first two months of parenthood I had finally fallen in love with my son. It was no longer just an instinctual drive to protect him at all costs—now it was a fierce love filled with wonder and gratitude. But, I was still not well. Sure, I played the role of the perfect mother and martyr for those first two years. As any good high masking autistic woman would. And I was also a shell of myself, barely able to recall now any significant memories from that first year—which pains me to this day. Who even is that crazy lady smiling in those photos? Surely not me.
However, that’s not where my story ended. I pushed through my shame and fears and asked for help. And through my recovery, I was able to show up for my son and myself in the ways I had hoped and we needed.
I truly didn’t believe I’d ever feel better again—despite my credentials and training. Shame can do a number on us and none of us are immune.
And I can also confidently say that you can overcome it and you will feel better again too.
It just requires a few minutes of bravery to push through the shame and fear and ask for help.