A New Mom’s Alphabet

It was early morning, light streamed through my picture window, awakening me to the sounds of my husband gently humming as he shaved, the metallic urgency of the razor bringing me into full consciousness. I rolled over, gazing upon my sweet, innocent sleeping child. At that moment, I wanted nothing more- than to die.

I breathed in the lavender fragrance of the future of your family, soft and innocent, unspoiled by the world. While my sleeping infant squirmed awake, my husband cam in lightly, kissing us on the forehead. I knew that it was time for me to begin my morning routine starting at the end of the alphabet with Z for Zoloft.

At twenty five, I gave birth for the second time, nearly eight years after the birth of my eldest. Both pregnancies unplanned- though vastly different.

With my first child, a boy, I was a scared child myself, a senior in high school. Eighteen and twenty three days when I gave birth, my life was overwhelming. That coupled with the trauma that comprised my birth story, I believed my overwhelming tiredness, depression and anxiety was normal. This was in the early 2000s when depression and anxiety were still taboo subjects. While everything about that time is a blur in my memory, I slowly started feeling like myself until the thoughts and demons retreated into the farthest corners of my mind.

Fast forward seven years. My son’s seventh birthday, I went to the store and bought a pregnancy test, certain that it would be negativeMuch to my shock, it was not- no, there were two pink lines. As the panic began to set in, I drove like a mad woman, breaking multiple traffic laws, to the store in order to buy another test and a bottle of Gatorade to chug. Three hours later, my husband returned home with chicken fries, why this is stuck in my memory- I have no idea; however the smell of chicken fries will always remind me of conception. I awkwardly stuck the tests beside his plate without saying anything. Simply bursting into tears. He was thrilled, excited beyond belief. All the emotions one expects when they find out they are expecting. But I, I felt the monsters creeping in, threatening to overthrow my very existence. As my chest tightened, I attempted to reason with myself. This time would be different. As opposed to a frightened and naive seventeen year old faced with life as a single teenage mother, I was facing this dramatic life change as a twenty five year old married educator pursuing her masters. This season of my life was full of stability and contentment. Everything would be fine, just fine.

Between constant checks, a plateauing of hormones, and the school year drawing to a close, I entered a sweet spot. My anxiety decreased. I experienced very few panic attacks. I felt like a new woman, like my ‘normal’ self. I experienced the renewed sense of life. That the impending birth and postpartum experience, would be- had to be- better, more positive than before. I vowed that this time would resemble the movies, the stories, the expectations that society had set.

And it was. For awhile at least. The birth was scheduled for Monday morning, induction by Pitocin. My body responded wonderfully, delivering a mere six hours after my water was broken. I pushed only ten minutes. Compared to my first birth, I could not believe that I had just went through the exact same experience. Life began again when my little daughter, Dorothea, was placed on my chest. It was love at first sight all over again. Life was good. Strike that, great. It was the sleep deprived euphoria that had been ingrained in my mind since as long as I can remember.

Fast forward a mere week. My first panic attack postpartum. My husband rocked our daughter so that I could nap. Used to nursing every two hours, when I awoke and glanced at the clock seeing that it read four hours since I had laid down, I flew into a full hysteria. Convinced with every nerve in my body that something tragic had happened, I ran gasping and weeping into the living room, snatching her up from the rocking chair and scaring my husband more than he will ever care to admit. In the following days, I often weeped any time my husband left my side. I set alarms for every two hours to wake and check the baby. I felt the monster clawing at my throat and squeezing my chest. I refused to sleep without my husband home and checked the doors religiously, afraid someone would break in to kidnap her. Images of Jon Benet ran through my mind like a newsreel. Trying to brush it off, I repeated to an extremely concerned husband what I was desperately trying to internalize: it was simply the baby blues -- hormones returning to normal -- it would pass.

Nevertheless, despite my pleas to God, it did not pass. In fact, I felt myself spiraling deeper into the darkness, catapulting toward an eventual cataclysm. Meanwhile, my life continued as normal on the outside. I went back to teaching in August. The baby went to the babysitter. My oldest began the second grade. One step, two step, three step. Life marched on. One morning, though, I came unglued for the first time.

It started as a normal morning. While on the way to load the baby in the car, I fell down the steps. Somehow, I managed to catch myself and landed with the baby secure, ad giggling, in my arms. I checked her over countless times before securing her in the carseat and delivering her to the babysitter. All day anxiety plagued me. What if she had been shaken too much on the fall? What if she was really hurt and I did not notice? What if she had died in the fall, I blacked out and took her to the babysitters anyways? What if? What if? The anxiety was as constant in my mind as static on the radio. I weeped when I finally picked her up from the babysitter, realizing that everything was fine, just fine.

Later that week, I sat covered in paper overlays at my obstetrician's waiting for my postpartum checkup, six weeks late. I begged for something to help, to calm the demons. She handed me a prescription for Zoloft and nodded slightly, knowingly. My throat was still tight when I called my husband and asked him to retrieve the filled script on his way home from work. I was filled with the shame of seeking help, something ironic since I had previously been the only adult member in my family not on an antidepressant or anxiety medication. Yet. the expectation that this should be the happiest time of my life, and was not, weighed heavily on me.

Every night, I faithfully swallowed my pills. The taste of generic Zoloft mixing with a glass of moscato. And slowly, very slowly, I started to feel like me again.

There were some bumps in the road. One Sunday afternoon, I made the dreaded trip to Kroger’s. After having everyone stare at my baby girl, I felt the quieted monster creep back in. Every time someone would look at her, I stopped breathing until they moved on, continuing shopping, oblivious to the hell I was living in at that moment. The shopping trip came to an end when an elderly woman asked if she could hold the baby. I yelled at her, something so against my nature that I again was ashamed. As soon as I returned home, I messaged my doctor, shamefully relaying the incident, resulting in an increased dosage.

The change was gradual. Hesitant, afraid of myself and the stigma of my diagnosis, I cautiously accepted that things were getting better, that the monster was being quieted and locked away.

One weekend, after spontaneous love making with my husband, I sat cuddling my now four month old and listening to eight year old talk endlessly about World War Two fighter jets, I thought to myself that it was worth it. I could enjoy life even with Postpartum Anxiety and Postpartum Depression. That one little pill was allowing me to have my family, and my sanity, back. Finally, I could enjoy an evening glass of Moscato for the simple pleasure of unwinding. I could breathe in the grocery store.

When thinking back on this time of my life, I am sure I will remember the new mom’s alphabet in its entirety: A for Anxiety to Z for Zoloft and everything in between. The memory of formula and gas drops for baby coupled with a glass of white wine and Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors for me. And I will smile with the thought that my desperate internal dialogue from the beginning of this journey was correct: everything will be fine, just fine.