Let me preface this with a warning that this is an extremely vulnerable post. I am choosing to share this because I felt so alone in my feelings and I want to bring awareness to postpartum anxiety. I also want to note that my husband and I are so lucky to have the most amazing family and friends and this post is in no way meant to make anyone feel bad. We are ever so grateful to everyone in our life. And now that my issues are managed, I can see everything in a different light. This is a raw and honest story. And it’s true for so many other new moms.
I’ve always held myself to unrealistic expectations. But when it came to being a mom, perfection was the plan. I had done the research. I had the best of everything for him. I was going to rock at breastfeeding. You know those moms that can breastfeed while vacuuming and doing dishes and laundry and all that? That was going to be me. We would have a home cooked meal on the table for dinner every night because I was going to be home for a few months so why wouldn’t I make dinner every night? The laundry would always be done and folded and put away. The house would always be clean.
And then I had my first son. It was a very long labor and I had been awake for what felt like a million hours by the time he arrived. My husband was overwhelmed with happiness and wanted to share our son with the world. Our family had all been waiting downstairs for news of our baby’s arrival. He asked if they could come up just take a quick look, and even though it was 11PM and outside of visiting hours, the nurse said it was okay. I had hoped she would say no. I didn’t want anyone to see him.
Our little guy had a low body temperature. The nurses recommended I do skin to skin as much as possible for his first 24 hours. I was grateful for this because it meant I didn’t have to let anyone hold him for very long. I wasn’t sure why I was feeling that way, why I didn’t want anyone to hold him, but I just dismissed it as a new mom thing.
It seems like new parents can’t wait to get home and be in their own comfortable surroundings. But not me. I was beyond afraid to leave the hospital. The hospital felt safe to me. There was always someone there if something went wrong. And I KNEW something was going to go wrong.
At home, the racing intrusive thoughts began almost immediately. We have a big family, and everyone of course wanted to be part of the little guy’s life. He was the first grandchild on both sides. The first nephew. The first everything. People came and went. Everyone wanted to see him, hold him, change him. And the thoughts ran through my head.
Someone is going to drop him. He’s going to get a brain injury. Or die.
I could see it happening, the images were clear in my mind. I hated giving him to anyone. I also hated feeling like I was crazy, so I never said no. Instead, I would often take him to my bedroom and sit with him. For hours. Pretending I was nursing him. Pretending I fell asleep. Just so that no one would be able to hold him, drop him, kill him. I’d listen to the chatter of our visitors, our family, our friends. And I would sit there, holding him, rocking him, in the safety of my arms.
My husband is the calmest, most loving person I’ve ever met. I never told him about the visions and the intrusive thoughts. But I did tell him that I didn’t want anyone to hold him while standing up, or change his diaper, or change his clothes, or bathe him, etc. His solution to making me more comfortable with these things was to stand with people while allowing them to do these things. That way he would be there to supervise and provide a backup if needed. That way I would see that other people could care for our son and I would be comfortable with it.
I hated him in these moments. I loathed him. I wondered how he could just trust other people to care for our baby when I knew someone was going to hurt him, drop him, kill him.
Looking back, neither of us knew what postpartum anxiety looked like. We had never heard of it. He thought he was helping. He had no idea he was making it worse. I had no idea how to help myself.
Sleep was another disaster. I was so afraid he was going to stop breathing. I did my best to prevent it daily. I didn’t even let him sleep on a sheet because I was afraid the sheet would somehow come undone and suffocate him when I wasn’t watching. He slept on bare mattress in his bassinet. I swaddled him exactly the way I was taught in the hospital. The house was kept at the temperature suggested by researchers to be the best for babies during sleep. I dressed him in the exact items and number of layers that the evidence showed was most comfortable and safest for babies. He had a foot monitor to tell me if his oxygen or heart rate dropped. And I watched him. For hours.
Oh, did I mention we bought a new house the same week I had our son? So that meant we also had to pack up our life and move…with a newborn. We had family and friends trying to help us pack. I had no mental energy for it. I was completely checked out. All I could focus on was preventing the worst from happening to my child.
Let me bring it back to the family for a minute. They were wonderful. They helped us so much. They had the best intentions. They meant no harm. They offered to take our laundry to do it at their house and bring it back. One less thing I had to worry about. They made us food, brought us groceries, did our dishes. They packed boxes for us. Took out the trash. Fed the pets.
And every single thing they did made me feel less capable as a mom, made the anxiety ten times worse.
The perfect mom would be able to juggle everything. The laundry, meals, dishes, packing. And also the baby. No problem. So every time someone did something to help us, my brain went wild with thoughts of failure. I knew my husband was going to leave me because I wasn’t making dinner for him every night or because his work clothes weren’t washed (I literally had no reason to think these things). I felt like taking the help was showing that I was weak, so I tried to avoid letting anybody do anything for us.
Breastfeeding was another hurdle. I made too much milk. My letdown was too fast. He was choking every time I tried to nurse him. So I pumped. Pumping is a full time job. And I had the DMER reflex which delivered a lovely feeling of dread and sadness to my brain every time the pump turned on. But while pumping was causing me so much stress, no one could convince me to give it up because what kind of mother would do that? Not a perfect one. And certainly not one that wanted her baby to live and thrive.
I pumped until he was 6 months old. By that time, I had enough breastmilk frozen to last him to 9 months. I was also pregnant with my second son by then and extremely sick. So pumping was just not in the cards at that point. I felt like I failed my son. I had wanted to give him the best of everything, including breast milk for at least a year, and I wasn’t able to do that. So I made sure to make up for it in other ways.
These other ways included doing every single thing for him myself. Changing his diapers even when other people were around to do it, even when I was vomiting every time, because a good mom would do that. Giving him all of his baths, even when others were around to help, even when I was very pregnant and needing a break, because that’s what a good mom would do. Making all of his food from scratch (no pouches or jars of food for him) even though the smell of food made me sick, even though there were other options that would save me time and energy, because that’s what a good mom would do. A mom that wanted her son to live and thrive. He wouldn’t get hurt if I was caring for him.
Family would offer to help and I would decline. I didn’t have a baby so that someone else could take care of him, and then hurt him, or kill him. What if he choked in someone else’s care? What if he drowned? What if he suffocated? The only way to prevent these things in my mind was to do everything myself. AND I was trying to live up to my standard of perfection. I couldn’t let anyone see that I was a failure.
Gosh it was exhausting.
My second son was born when my first was 14 months old. Things changed. The anxiety seemed to dissipate though the depression came hard and fast. But that’s a post for a different day.
Do you have experience with postpartum anxiety?
Please like, comment and share. Let’s bring more awareness to PPA.
This brought me to tears. I love you.
Yes!! I had PPD the first time and PPA the second time. Both were horrible.