Guilt Stole 9 Months of My Life

It was February 2010 in southeastern Pennsylvania. The day my daughter was born we got 3 feet of snow.  It was cold, dark more often than not, and I was tired. All the time, tired. I came home and couldn't shake the pit I felt in my stomach. Maybe it was the C-section, my fever, the weather. I felt bad, but not in the sense that I felt sick or overwhelmed. Just, not good. The first few weeks slipped by, and before I knew it, spring had come but I felt the same. There were days where I would kiss my husband goodbye in the morning, holding my daughter in my lap, and he would come home and I'd be in the same position. Sitting on the bed, holding her, watching television. I put all the energy I had in what I thought were "strange" things. I meticulously arranged her clothes by size, season, style, and type. I was rigid about all of her routines. Bath time was a multistep process that I wouldn't let anyone else do, for fear they would do it wrong. I felt like not doing these things would cause her to suffer.  Moreover, I believed that "feeling bad" was what made me a mother. I was miserable, and that's how it was supposed to be. I wasn't pulling my weight anymore, and I felt terrible about that. Here we were, a family of four, living with my parents and I wasn't doing a damn thing but sitting and holding a baby. We had 6 people in a 3 bedroom rancher. Even to this day I feel guilty complaining about that fact, when in reality I was extremely fortunate. Many people would be grateful to have family members so close to them when a new baby comes. But I wanted to go at it alone, per my personal mantra of "I don't need your help".

Blizzard in February 2010

One of my baby's first days home.

My husband and 12 week old daughter meeting Alice (from Alice in Wonderland) at Disney World.

At 12 weeks old, we went on a Family vacation to Disney in Florida. That's when I really realized what was happening to me. I remember taking my daughter on a ride with me, and she began to cry. She was hungry and couldn't be consoled. and I panicked. I swore everyone was watching us, and when the ride finished I RAN out, pushing people aside and scaring my mother. I felt awful, selfish for making her wait to eat. My grandmother fed her while I took a break. Mom said "You know it's okay to ask for help, you don't have to do it all."  Yep.  "But I can" I replied. "But you don't HAVE to, Rach." There it was. I heard what she said, but didn't heed it, because really what did she know? She only raised my brother and I, so what did she know? But I finally knew what that pit was, guilt. Guilt about everything and nothing. It was consuming me., and fast.

Fast forward two more months. My husband and I were invited to visit some friends, sans baby, for the night. Again, my parents graciously offered to watch her, my mother strongly encouraging me to get away and separate from my baby for the night. I agreed reluctantly. I was holding her, saying goodbye and my husband saw my guilt for wanting to go. He decided to step in and gently took her from me to give to my mother. I lost my mind. I began sobbing, yelling at him to give me my baby. The look on his face pierced through me. More guilt for being a crazy mom. He lovingly told me I needed to get help.

The thing that no one understood at that point was the way the guilt was affecting me. It took over my mind and pushed me to behave in ways I never realized I would. Each night I laid in bed and went through my usual list of "things that could go wrong". Stopping breathing, needing to be fed while I slept, miraculously growing the ability to crawl and fall out of her crib. Each situation sent my imagination into a whirlwind, racing through the possibilities, planning out how I would react to each and every possible event that would inevitably happen. It was just a matter of time, and not planning ahead was a failure on my part as a mother. Every night I planned my daughter's funeral in my head. I felt guilty NOT to.

Finally, the day came.  I was outside with my good friend, telling her how I was feeling. I didn't fully realize the magnitude of what I was saying, but she did. She firmly told me I needed to call someone. My husband's words from months earlier echoed in my mind, telling me the same thing. During my intake I cried and cried. I told them I didn't know what was wrong, and in typical guilty fashioned apologized profusely for crying. I cried for the first few therapy sessions. Hours of just crying and talking, but it helped. The rest, as they say, was history. I learned how to keep my guilt at bay, how to cope with the feelings that came, and most of all I learned to ask for help. It was hard, sometimes I didn't think I would make it through, but I did. 

Do I still feel guilty? Of course, but it doesn't rule me like it used to. The most valuable thing I learned during my journey was that I wasn't broken or abnormal. Other women are out there, right now, going through similar things as I did, and they need help too (because they may not ask for it). My infinite gratitude goes out to the men and women who devote their lives to helping women with postpartum mood disorders. Their patience and wisdom saves families every day. Lastly, their work is only one piece of the puzzle. The love and support that friends and family can offer reinforce the coping skills a mother will learn. My biggest sources of unity and acceptance came from those in my family and home. My husband, a man of endless patience and understanding. Holding me up when I couldn't hold myself and showing me that I am a good, no, great mother. And my best friend and business partner. The woman I look to for affirmation, strength, and unconditional love. Without any of you I would not be the woman I am today.