Story #96 - Katrine, Montréal, QC (CANADA) - OCD, Postpartum Depression, Difficult Pregnancy, COVID, Intrusive Thoughts & Mental Health Journey
I had a very difficult pregnancy.
I threw up from the moment I got pregnant until I gave birth. I would be sick everywhere (in my shower, at work, in the middle of the night...) I remember picking up a very strong certain med at the drugstore and the pharmacist telling me, "Jeez! You must be really sick to take this!" It was awful.
I had to work at the same time, which was almost impossible because I was so sick. I would have liked to go on maternity leave before I gave birth; that's when it would have been the most helpful.
I took childbirth classes in September, and my daughter was born on Halloween. Everybody talked about breastfeeding a lot, but nothing about bottle feeding, pumping, or even formula. Nada. So from the very beginning, I felt like I didn't have a choice.
After I gave birth, I remember one nurse asking me when was the last time M. had fed. I said, "four hours," and she flipped. Told me it was every two hours, at least eight wet diapers a day, and basically chastised me for letting my baby sleep.
I was "lucky" because my daughter never had a problem latching. She was a textbook baby. But I felt exhausted, and after we went back home, I was so lonely.
After four weeks, I told my partner to introduce a bottle.
Once again, I got lucky and didn't even have to use a pump: my milk would literally spill out of my breasts, straight into the bottle. Yet, I hated it. Felt like a dairy cow. I would hand express a lot just to get the feeling of the milk leaving my body.
Unfortunately, she stopped taking the bottle in mid-December and never took it again. Back to the breasts, we were. This period was hard because I felt stuck. Stuck and responsible. I was always looking for a way to get rid of breastfeeding.
It took a nurse from the CLSC, five months after M.’s birth, to figure out what worked for us. She suggested that I put the milk in a little cup: it was a revelation. For the first time, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Had I been more assertive and supported initially, I would have never breastfed and would have introduced the bottle or the cup from the beginning.
I strongly believe that the challenges I faced during my pregnancy contributed to the degradation of my mental health after our child was born.
I felt irritable and stressed, as if all the exhaustion and physical fatigue from constantly vomiting reached their peak during my first postpartum months.
My first four weeks were okay mental-wise because I was not throwing up all the time. I had this spike of energy and felt great. But then I crashed. I thought it was the baby-blues, but I couldn't shake off the anxiety. I wouldn't wake my partner up at night because he worked during the day, so I would feed our daughter alone, sobbing all night.
My partner was incredibly supportive throughout the first couple of weeks and beyond, but I'm someone who likes to see people and go out. I longed to go back to work the day after I gave birth. So to go from being pregnant and sick to my maternity leave, and then head straight into the stay-at-home order because of covid felt like my world ended. I was stuck inside all day, and I know it was one of the causes of my depression.
My mood swings were terrifying. I was angry: angry at being imprisoned in my own house and from the pressure to breastfeed. Angry at the mess in the house because I needed to tend to this baby and didn't have time for anything else.
I'm very organized in life, and to lose control that way was brutal. I say "organized," but I have mild OCD—for example, my closet is organized by colors and categories. If something isn't put back correctly, I don't feel well.
I've managed it throughout the years, but to welcome a child is the most extreme form of disorganization.
And I did not react well.
January came. I vividly remember changing my daughter, M., in her playpen and getting a rush of heat passing through my whole body. I grabbed the wipes dispenser and threw it against the wall. Then I screamed. I screamed at the top of my lungs. The dispenser almost hit M., and I started crying. It could have hit her. I felt so guilty. My partner told me to take a walk, but I refused: leaving the house would have been like losing control even more and abdicate.
Days went by, and I survived my mood swings by locking myself in the basement to scream in my partner's office. I wasn't myself. I was aware that I wasn't myself, but nothing I was doing to regain control over my emotions worked.
So I asked for help. I called the nurse from the CLSC and asked for a referral to see a therapist. I told her that I couldn't do it anymore, that nothing I had tried was working.
She put in a request, but it took a little over one month for everything to begin. Until March 2020, I was on my own.
During that month, my mental state deteriorated: I didn't want my partner or daughter to be affected by my mood, so I began to cut my clothes. I'd toss objects onto the wall, throw the laundry basket in the air. The house was an absolute mess. I'd scream and hit the wall all the time.
In a way, mutilating my wardrobe was like mutilating myself. I'd think: "You don't fit in your pants anymore, so cut them."
I felt ugly, disgusting. Hair salons were closed due to the pandemic, so I didn't even have that outlet to feel better about myself. I eventually cut my own hair, and—of course—it looked terrible, and I hated myself even more.
I felt like had no one to talk to except for my partner. Even my mother didn't understand. I don't think she fully grasps what has happened to me. I've always felt like she would tell me: "I had three kids. Get over it!" I felt guilty to bring it up because I believed she had it worse, and that I should be able to cope.
I minimized my story to almost nothing. M. had the perfect latch. She slept through the night since she was seven weeks old. What was I complaining about?
But I couldn't sleep. Insomnia became worse, and I'd have panic attacks in the middle of the night. I spent weeks without sleep. My partner didn't understand how I was still standing. But I simply couldn't sleep. To this day, going to bed still gives me anxiety. I'm terrified to rest.
This is when I began to think about leaving. I'd fantasize about packing up my suitcase and never coming back. One morning, I got up and told my partner, "Take care of M., I'm leaving." But I came back two hours later. Then one week later, it happened again. This time, I went to a park and called my mother. I said, "I cannot go back home. I cannot do it anymore. I love them, but I can't go back."
I felt like I had so much love to give but didn't know how to.
I remember watching all these new moms and their babies in the park, with their perfect strollers and perfect lives. I couldn't stop crying. My mother said, "Wait for me there, I'm coming to get you."
She picked me up in her car, and we drove around. I'd left at 7:30, and we came back to my house at 12:30. She directed me to go to bed but I couldn't, so I called my doctor.
They told me therapy would probably not be enough, and I needed to be medicated. I couldn't fathom taking medicine: I'd read about gain-weight and the possible effects on breastfed babies, and I refused to take them.
But a couple of weeks later, the suicidal ideations began. I didn't have a specific plan, but one afternoon I was vacuuming downstairs—another attempt at regaining control over my life—and I tightly wrapped the cord around my neck.
It was my way to try to cancel the pain. If I could numb myself enough, I'd stop suffering.
That's when I decided to go on antidepressants.
I still don't understand how I had gotten there. It's as if I spiraled out of control but in slow motion. Like it was all part of a dream. The cord around my neck was my wake up call.
At some point, my doctor mentioned hospitalization, but I couldn't go there. The shame... the shame was unbearable. To be honest, it was not the first time I had dealt with suicide thoughts or high anxiety. Even before getting pregnant, I had dealt with mood disorders and was aware that transitions were incredibly difficult for me.
But again, I thought I'd be able to cope on my own.
It's hard because you think that you have to one to talk to. There's so much shame associated with that. I was lucky to have my partner who truly supported me and was present throughout the whole process. And fortunately, the antidepressants worked quickly on my mood but had a devastating effect on my guts. I had to use sleeping-aid to help with insomnia. But M. was almost weaned, so I didn't fear the side-effects on her as much. We had a lovely summer. It was boring due to the pandemic, but I was able to enjoy it a little.
I found a friend with whom I can talk. She referred to what I went through as "Matrescence." Like adolescence, but for motherhood. I like the expression. Becoming a mother is both hormonal and a transition that can lead to an identity crisis, similar to puberty.
Yes, I'm still Katrine. I still have a job that I love. I'm an artist and a mother. But I feel I don't have time for myself. I'm not sure when it will come back. And even if I did I have time, I have no motivation. I'm coming up with these creative ideas, but my drive to achieve things is gone. It makes me so incredibly sad.
M. started daycare in August. I thought, "This will be my time to rebuild myself." But it's so chaotic because of the pandemic that I'm now spending most of my time handling schedules and regulations that change every other week.
Recently, she had diarrhea, and the daycare wouldn't take her. I spent hours on the phone with health care professionals, wondering if it was covid and if she qualified to get tested. She also ran a mild fever one afternoon, but no pediatrician's office would see her because it was too risky for them to have her, and we had to drive to the ER at the Children's Hospital. It was so stressful.
When I wanted to send her back to daycare, they told me the regulations had changed, and I had to keep her longer at home; I always had to justify her re-entry.
Her fever eventually went away, as it often does with babies, but it triggered more mood swings, and felt like I was back to square one. It was not as intense or violent as before, but my irritability threshold is reached very quickly.
Our lives are made of all these ups and downs due to covid. In October, I'm going back to work. What will happen if she gets a runny nose or has a fever?
I had to call the nurse at my doctor's office the other day because the meds made me so sleepy I couldn't function. I also started to throw up due to them. It's so challenging.
I know they're doing the best they can, but I still consider we didn't have all the support we needed. It's difficult to admit that we are alone in this.
In a way, I am telling my story so my daughter understands why her mother was so sad when she was little. I wrote her poems to make sure she knows it wasn't her fault, hoping she forgives me one day. I want her to know that I was learning. That she was the one who taught me how to become a mother.
I'd also love for my mom (and my dad) to grasp the magnitude of what is happening to me. She's from a generation where they would tell you, "You wanted to be a mom? Put on your big-girl pants and do your job." I'm also sharing this story hoping my little sister gets it. I think she understands better because she's a nurse, but her experience was so different from mine.
I'm not weak. There is just so much taboo surrounding postpartum depression. People are scared. I had a friend last winter ask me if I needed anything. I said, "Call. Check on me. Come and visit." She never did. I don't resent her one bit. People have lives, but it's difficult.
And this situation affects so many people. We never think of the partners in this story. Never talk about them. My partner is also on a waiting list to get an appointment with a therapist. He was the one who had to hold everything together for months and live in fear he might lose his partner. He's also ridden with anxiety, juggling the different roles; dad, employee, student, etc.
We are lucky because we are solid. We communicate well, and he was so caring and kind when I was at my worst. He kept telling me, "I don't want to lose you."
There is so much shame associated with dealing with depression. When I was pregnant, no one talked to me about it. It didn't even cross my mind that it could happen to me. I was in control. But then I went through hell, and now I'm trying to rebuild myself.
I'm not sure why, but every time I try to talk to my friends or my family about that, no one seems to know what I'm talking about. I get a lot of "You'll see, it gets easier with your second!" or "Life is so much better with kids isn't it!" I don't get how things can be beautiful at all times. I don't need a second child; I want to give everything I have to my one child!
The pandemic is challenging, but in a way, it has the advantage of allowing my partner and I to focus on our family. He works from home, and our quality of life greatly improved. I don't know how I would have made it without him here to help. He also had a prolonged paternity-leave and was able to witness M. grow for the first year of her life. I could tell him to come upstairs when she crawled or walked for the first time! He got to experience all of her milestones. It was truly a blessing in disguise.
I hope the workforce recognizes the benefits of working from home when the pandemic is over.
We drop M. off at daycare together every morning. Our meals are always shared and delicious. No rushing to run after the train or missed breakfasts.
I still live in fear of one day having to wean myself off my meds. It feels like danger is always looming. I watched a documentary on anxiety disorders the other day, and I recognized myself a lot in the patients. It doesn't take much—a plate that breaks, a jar that won't open—and my day is over.
I'd love to have a brain that naturally understands that sleep is beautiful and that I don't have to be scared of everything, but it's not the case. I'm afraid of relapsing. And I don't fully trust the meds because of their side effects.
There are days I still think that I should have been (should be) able to mother and live without them. The pressure is extensive and brutal. I'm trying to push aside the guilt. But it's not easy. Nothing is right now.