Trying

I debated not writing anything about this on here, and then I realized that that would be sort of silly. But I will preface it with this: I do not want any pity (not that you'd give it to me anyway) or any sort of terrifying concern, because I'm under the watch of "professionals."

I feel like the PPD has been with me since the second she was born, although I'm not sure if that is even scientifically possible. I wasn't elated and overjoyed when I saw her for the first time, but I figured that was because I just went through the most strenuous and exhausting period of my entire life, to date. I went through the motions, and figured once I had recovered it would get better.

We got home and we struggled with my boobies, which I have written about previously. Any sort of spark or good emotion I might have been capable of was quickly snuffed out in those first weeks. I lost any desire to eat or drink, even though I needed to for the baby. I lost 30 pounds in less than two weeks, but all anyone could ever tell me was how good I looked, so I pretty much ignored it.

I felt no connection to her whatsoever. I felt responsible for her. If I woke up the next morning and she wasn't there (not that she was hurt or had been taken, but rather just never existed in the first place) I wouldn't feel sad. Struggling with the nursing made me dread every time that she ate instead of enjoying it like I was told to do. I would cry for hours at night over who knows what.

At two weeks post-partum I went back to my OB and told her what was going on because it didn't feel right and I felt like I couldn't function. She wrote me a prescription for the anti-depressants I had been on in college, and told me that she was unsure about their affect on the baby, so I just had to be on the watch. Or I could just wean her off. I decided that happy mom was better than barely nursing mom (she was still getting less than a half ounce per boob) so I weaned her. It took about ten minutes. I felt like an epic failure.

Except I never took the pills.

I didn't tell anyone I wasn't taking them until finally about a month ago when I admitted it to Matt. And the pathetic reason I wasn't taking them? They made me hungry. Not in an unwanted side-effect sort of way, but in a 'this makes me feel better and therefore gives me an appetite' kind of way. And I didn't want to eat any more. So add on top of the PPD (or maybe it's part of it) I had now developed (re-developed?) an eating disorder. Fail again.

I had really good days and really bad days. Every time I had a good day I thought I was past everything and could move on. And when I had really bad days it was really bad. I felt guilty that Matt was doing so much, but I felt wholly incapable of caring for her. I felt like I didn't care, really. About her.

Matt begged (still begs?) me to eat and to take my medicine but it falls on deaf ears. I can't understand why I do not care. Someone might tell me it's just because of a chemical imbalance, and they're probably right.

All I could talk about since they day they told me I had to stop (not that I remember or anything, but it was the day before the Hennepin-Lakes Classic, which was a 10K race I had been excited about for weeks, and a race which I was determined to set a PR) was how excited I was to run again. The day of my six week check up, Matt joked that I was going to wear running shorts to the appointment so I could start up the second I was cleared. Except that I had no interest in running any more. Sure, I could talk about how much I wanted to, but every time I had the opportunity I turned it down, and preferred to go upstairs and cry.

I'm writing about this as if it is past tense but it is still very much a reality.

I went back to the doctor to talk more about it. Even though I felt like such a disaster, I somehow kept some rational thoughts (like the need to see a medical professional). I had gone back to work and it made the emotional swings even more dramatic. It was nice to be back at work, to be able to see and talk to all my friends again. But I felt mentally unable to function, and all I could think about was how much I needed to be with the baby. That by being at work I was somehow ruining any of the pathetic progress I had made bonding with her. Sometimes I come home from work exhausted, too exhausted to even want to hold her or look at her. I feel like the worst mother, undeserving of the title.

I told the doctor I thought I needed to go talk with someone. She set me up with a woman, and I had my first appointment last weekend. I took the "are you depressed" test and scored high, which is not what you want. "A 15 is depressed," she told me. "You scored a 26." I told her what had been going on, and blubbered my way through most of it. I think she thinks that I am very sick. She is probably right. She offered to write me out of work but I turned it down. I missed a lot of work while I was pregnant, and I worry that people would see me as weak, or that I was faking it, or who knows. So I slog on.

Work has compounded the eating issues. Everyone at work is very complimentary, and I thank them, but I hate it when anyone compliments me on it. It is not worth complimenting. What am I supposed to say? "Thanks, I've been horrifically depressed ever since she was born and I don't eat." There is no good answer. I lie and say that I exercise, even though I don't. I fessed up to my boss that I was struggling a bit (maybe I felt I had to since she caught me crying at my desk a few too many times) and now she watches me at lunch to see if I eat. I feel like a rebellious 15 year old, and I come up with textbook excuses and evasions that I'm sure she sees right through. I think the lowest point so far was when I was out with work people at a store last week and we took a break for lunch and I literally panicked because I didn't want to eat (I felt legitimately, and take that for what it's worth, not hungry), and I actually called Matt and had to ask him what I was supposed to do. (Matt: Order something. And eat it.)

Just this past weekend we were shopping and a nosy sales lady decided to stand outside the fitting room with Matt and the baby and when I came out she couldn't stop gushing about the way I looked. I wanted to cry. (She also said to Matt, "I love seeing these young dads nowadays. They're just so nurturing." What is a dad if not nurturing?)

And what is my problem with how I look anyway? I know that I weigh basically the same as before, but seriously lacking muscle tone and seriously still toting this obnoxious belly (Matt: You had a BABY in there for chrissakes. Cut yourself some slack.) When I'm with the baby I don't mind how I look. But when she's not around I feel like taping a picture of her to my chest to let everyone know that I have a baby, and that's my excuse for looking like this. Because if they don't know that, then what is my excuse?

I go through the motions and do what I'm supposed to do in the hopes that I can trick my brain into just doing those things automatically. I have been trying in the little ways that I can try. I have another appointment with her on Tuesday. I tried running for the second time this morning, and while it was an absolutely painful and pathetic and embarrassing period of time, I did it. It made me obnoxiously hungry (Therapist, who we will call "Betty": You need to eat to have the energy to be with your baby, and have the energy to do the things that you want to do, like running), which made me mad, since I didn't exactly run that far. But I actually did eat dinner tonight, although felt guilty with every bite. This is so damn annoying. I know exactly exactly what I'm doing, but it doesn't make me change anything. (Betty: Insight is not everything.)

Tomorrow is the start of another work week. I have to be in stores three times this week, and then will be traveling a lot coming up, so at least there will be an excuse to not be at my desk.

If there's anything I do love doing, though, it is taking pictures of her: