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I can see clearly now
I was going to write something about Christmases past, but I was inspired by one of the features on CBS Sunday Morning. It was about Postpartum Depression. It brought back a lot of memories for me. Some of the memories aren’t great. While I was never formally diagnosed with Postpartum Depression (who is?) I know I suffered from it. Let me tell you, while this world has made great leaps and bounds from the “good old days” with regard to mental health and illness, we’re still living in the dark ages for the most part. We can handle blood and guts, but prefer to whisper and point when the illness is mental.
So, here’s a bit of my story. In 1972 our oldest child was born. He was a beautiful, bouncing, red-headed boy who clocked in at ten pounds and seven ounces. LOML and I became parents. He was a healthy baby and, for the most part, he was happy. He was a whole lot “colicky” and as it turned out it was lactose intolerance, another condition that was often missed/overlooked by healthcare practitioners. Things bumped along for about two days after we got home from hospital and then I stopped eating. I had no desire to take part in either the preparation or the consumption of food. One of our female relatives suggested it wasn’t a bad thing. According to her “You could stand to lose a few pounds”. I guess that was the thing to say when a parent’s infant is less than two weeks old. The lack of eating was then accompanied by not wanting to get out of bed, although I did get out of bed. This was explained to me as, “Well, you are carrying a bit of babyfat. Your body can’t handle it. You need to lose weight. That’s why you feel sluggish”. One of the moms I know told me it was the baby blues and every new mom got the baby blues. Apparently, I wasn’t unique and got the idea I shouldn’t mention my depression or the baby blues to anyone. When the wee guy and I attended the well-baby visit at his ten-day mark, I mentioned how I was feeling to our family doctor and his nurse. They asked. I answered. The good doctor told me I should be happy I had such a lovely baby and, basically, stop complaining. The nurse nodded in agreement then actually suggested I should smile more because there were a lot of women who’d be happy to take my newborn. And so I did. I smiled a lot. I also cried a lot. I’d been as much as told if I complained too much someone would hand our child over to someone else and I would be checked into a facility. WHAT? So, what’s my point?
A well-intentioned friend told me to smile a bit more because smiling, as you know, will snap a person out of depression. Everyone had/has an answer. Another friend told me if I stopped acting like I was sad I wouldn’t be sad. Acting happy would keep “the cloud of depression” away. I just stopped telling people how I felt. I didn’t mention how some days I just wanted to just get up and walk away from everything. I wanted to turn my back on what I’d (obviously) brought upon myself. That was what I dealt with, every day, for many months. The kid and I spent a lot of time looking at each other and bursting into tears. His tears from his undiagnosed lactose intolerance and mine from undiagnosed Postpartum Depression. When I finally started to eat regular meals, I added extra meals and extra snacks and, of course, extra treats. I figured I was on the mend because I was eating more and by the time the kiddo hit his first birthday he’d almost completely weaned himself from the “baba”. He felt better (poor little kid) and I was a whole lot fatter. I have no idea when it was I finally started to feel better. I don’t think I woke up one day relieved and happy. It was very gradual. It took a very, very long time to convince myself I was a good parent and I wasn’t selfish as the fog lifted. However, the guilt took a very long time to resolve, because depression isn’t easy to recognize or to accept. People suffering with any form of depression often expend a lot of energy trying to look happy. People suffering with depression are still afraid to ask for help because mental health issues are often seen as “a choice made”. I probably could have benefitted from some form of medication. I, maybe not wisely, self-medicated with food, sleep and self-deprecating talk. Depression is a deep, dark place.
So, during the month of December I urge you to do a bit of reading with regard to mental health issues. I plead with you to be the soft-shoulder to someone in your family, or to one of your friends. I ask you to put your pre-conceived notions aside and be open to what mental illness really is. Start the conversation with a person who has been there or who is there. Be the one who is respectful and helpful and kind.
Be on the Nice List.
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