I grew up seeing sickly grandparents on handfuls of medication that kept them (barely) living and I knew from a young age that I needed to take better care of myself to avoid turning into them. Doing things that swerved heart disease and type 2 diabetes were high on my list of priorities, but I also never wanted to take any kind of mood-stabilizers that always seemed to have a laundry list of potential side affects (ironically including suicide), or have them change me fundamentally as a person (even though the person I was, kind of sucked).
I was worried about losing the things about me that made me, me. Things about me like my constant irritability at everyone else that breathed the same air as me, or my self deprecating humour that made people either laugh or incredibly uncomfortable…you know, the important stuff. I was also in an environment where mostly everyone had mental health issues but they were managing them “just fine” without medications (if you count drug abuse and alcoholism managing it without medication that is).
These days I’m working on not speaking poorly about myself, to myself and slowly my thought process has become so much kinder to not only me, but others too… However, when I think of my past views on various medications and the people that needed to take them… I was a fucking idiot.
I got everything I never wanted
I’ll start this stupidity rollercoaster off with… I never wanted children. Part of it was selfishness – my time was needed for me and having to look after anyone else when I wasn’t even good at taking care of me seemed like a (rightfully) reckless idea. The other part was the fear that I would fuck them up – be it nature or nurture, I didn’t want to pass on these mental health issues to a helpless kid who didn’t ask to be born. On a similar chain of thought, I didn’t think I was cut out for marriage and the thought of being tied down to a mortgage gave me anxiety…
But as a tale as old as time goes… Once upon a time, a flaming dumpster fire of a girl, met a pretty rad dude.
He was from a broken family but wanted the traditional family unit (a healthy one), complete with marriage, home, children and dog (I admit the dog part sounded cool). He wanted to bring a child into this world and give them everything he lacked growing up. It sounded great in theory, but due to my reasons stated above I definitely wasn’t the right person to be doing any of that with.
We clicked on literally everything else, so I had two options:
1.) Not be with this person and they could find someone more their speed in life (the sanity option); or
2.) Roll the dice on my mental health concerns and fold on everything I was adamant I didn’t want for my life (the fuck shit up option).
I chose the latter… and honestly? Everything was (mostly) fine until I got pregnant.
That can’t be good for the baby
I spent most my pregnancy in a constant state of anxiety. Hyperventilating about miscarrying, or about the baby being sick or having a disability even though every scan showed a healthy fetus (the irony of our future here is prophetic and cruel). I was troubled with concerns of being a shit parent and not being able to put them first, even though their life depended on it. I was terrified I was going to pass down every bad thing about myself onto someone so tiny and innocent. Of course, I didn’t share these concerns or fears with anyone, just kept it all forced down and blamed the developing stomach issues I was having on the pregnancy.
All those concerns aside, I had a beautiful, healthy son (well, as beautiful as scrunchy alien looking newborns get I suppose).
Contrary to my fears of being selfish, I became obsessed with being the best mother I could be for him. He was the easiest baby who slept well, nursed like a champion and didn’t cry. This tiny human became my favourite human overnight. But everyone else in my life became the enemy. My anxieties were borderline delusional and I had fears of the dog hurting the baby (our dog is a fucking saint and would never). My husband didn’t fair any better, I was constantly frustrated with him to the point I completely iced him out. Anyone not the baby was walking on eggshells in our home.
During the day when it was just me and baby, I felt in the zone. The house was clean, the meals were all home cooked and I was able to workout everyday during the baby’s nap time. I wasn’t on my phone and the TV was off whenever the baby was awake – I was hyper vigilant and present for him always. Covid happened shortly after he was born but that just ended up being an easy excuse to keep everyone else away…because I didn’t want anyone else around to begin with.
Something was very very wrong, but I didn’t see it at the time. People asked about postpartum depression and I was adamant that wasn’t what I was going though. The idea of talking to my doctor and getting on antidepressants was raised but I wouldn’t hear it. Everyone else was the problem, not me.
Let’s do drugs – the legally prescribed kind
When my maternity leave ended, I didn’t feel ready to go back to work but did so anyway. I thought that getting back into the working world may help my constant agitation with my family but instead everything got so much worse. Trying to balance my home life and office life was horrific. It felt like I could be a good mom, or a good worker but not both as something always fell through the cracks. My anger towards everyone peaked to such a constant I was starting to clue in that I may be the problem, but it didn’t seem like there was anything I could do about it.
I had been back to work for about 6 months with my whole family putting up with my drastic personality shifts when a girlfriend dealing with properly diagnosed PPD got medicated following the birth of her child. She became a really big advocate for getting medicated if you were struggling because it completely changed her life for the better. I had been vehemently against such medications but her continuous talk about how beneficial it was intrigued me – especially since she was still very much herself, not altered like my previous concerns, just… better.
After one particularly bad screaming episode at someone that didn’t deserve it (they never did), and the feelings of shame and guilt that followed, I finally caved and booked an appointment with my doctor. After an incoherent rambling session of the version of events that I tried to make sound not as bad as they were, I was prescribed the generic version of Wellbutrin. Not the same miracle drug my girlfriend suggested that she was on, but based on whatever my doctor deciphered from my fast talking and hand gestures, it was the one he thought I needed.
Anyway, this is already long as fuck so I’ll get into the nitty gritty next time. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows but this was a pivotal shift into the next gears of starting to figure out my shit.
To be continued next week.
Sincerely,
Sammy