In person I'm quite open about this part of my life, but I have hesitated to write much about it here, mainly because of not always knowing who exactly my audience is. But recently it has become clear to me that PeaceLedge is for me, mostly, a place to write and process, a place to share what I choose with those who choose to listen. And I've also come to realize that there are others who might benefit from hearing about this, even while I'm still in process.
I've always been a bit proud of my brain. I was raised to be a thinker, to analyse and discern. Mathematics came easily; I excelled at the academics of school. I was one of those children who thrive in an environment of clear expectations and affirmation for conformity, the kind of setting that is found in a typical public school.
But more than that alone, I was also a person who desperately needed affirmation, and the most likely source for that was through my academic achievements. I didn't believe that there was anything special about me, anything of value, and so I thought that if I could get high grades, awards, and scholastic recognition, if I could always be 'good', I would be worthwhile to those who I cared about, would have succeeded at what they respected, and would finally be . . . lovable. So I developed my intellect, my scholastic skills. And in doing that, I invested even more into my brain.
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When I was 27, after 6 years of marriage, completing my B.Ed., teaching in a Christian school, and serving as a missionary in Russia with my husband, I gave birth to our first child. We were so amazed at this little person who had joined us, at this little life that flowed out of our very own lives. But the birth process itself was traumatic for me, physically and emotionally. And so began a downward spiral that has shaped the rest of my life.
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I have some very clear mental images of the early months of my daughter's life. Some are beautiful: My Girl's sweet, nearly-bald head nestled in my arms as she nursed; her early and ever-present smile, offered to anyone who would receive it. Some are not so lovely: walking into my bedroom and dropping across the bed, falling into an immediate sleep after My Girl went down for a nap, the house uncleaned, dinner unprepared, unthought of, even; getting ready for church on Sunday morning and having a smile for those I met, then coming home and weeping for hours, complete puzzlement on the face of Dear Man; walking away from a conversation with a kind man, knowing that I had nodded and responded at all the right places, but having no clue what that moments-ago conversation had been about, even while we were conversing.
But images of that time, whether lovely or ugly, are very few. While it is common to go through early baby days in a blur, this time for me was more like a complete black-out. As I write this I'm still surprised at how very little I recall of those early months. In fact, my memory doesn't really kick-in in earnest until My Girl was about nine months old.
This was more than the typical exhaustion of a new baby, more than the forgetfulness of a mind slightly numbed by lack of sleep and major change, although I didn't know it at the time. My family doctor began monitoring me weekly soon after My Girl was born, but I didn't realize that was not typical. She mentioned to me occasionally that, while being blue after a baby is born is normal, I wasn't pulling out of it like she would expect, and that maybe I needed to consider that there was something more serious going on. But I didn't realize that it was as serious as it turned out to be. I thought she was suggesting possibilities, not stating facts. And so I kept on for months, thinking things would change, that I would become more energetic again.
It wasn't just energy, though, that was out of kilter. It was emotion. It was response. It was everything. I knew I loved my dear daughter, but there was no joy in my days. I interacted with her constantly because I knew what was needed for infant development, but I did it with a haze about me, a dark fog that never lifted. It was like I was a distant observer to someone else playing with My Girl.
Then came the day that my doctor told me I really needed to consider treatment for depression. Can I even begin to express the shock that I felt at that? I thought I was doing alright, that I was coping, that I was in control. Can you guess why I thought that? It was because I had learned all I could about post-partum depression since my doctor first mentioned it to me. I had signed out every possible book at the library and read them all cover to cover. I KNEW about post-partum depression. I was trusting in my brain, the intellect that I had nurtured through life. I understood it. I had it under control.
But now my brain had betrayed me.
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Shortcut to Part 3
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This is the first in a series about my walk through clinical depression. It is a continuing walk, not over yet. Please join me in praying for others who are walking this walk and are feeling alone. I pray, too, that while you read my story, you will realize that everyone 'does their depression differently'. The road is not the same for all of us, the depth of the darkness varies from person to person, from day to day. Do not underestimate the pain of one walking this road because it doesn't look like you think it 'should'. My story is not the same as anyone else's, and while there are many things I am thankful for in hindsight, I still wouldn't wish it on anyone. And, thanks to you, for reading this far.
