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The internetz have been abuzz lately with lively discussion about when to quit breastfeeding, how to nurse in public, and whether breastfeeding is anti-feminist, or whether the anti-breastfeeders are the anti-feminists.
It’s enough to make your head spin. Except, mine was already spinning. And I’ll tell you why. I have been depressed off and on for most of my life. Not most of my adult life – most of my entire life. My first visit to a psychiatrist was at six years old. For crying too much. I have since been diagnosed with quite the grab bag of ailments, including, but not limited to: bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder, paranoia, borderline personality disorder, OCD, ADD, and mild psychosis. And I had scars from self-injury and one half-assed suicide attempt under my belt. Anyway, this is just to say – I know what depression looks like, right? I should anyway.
I had my first child, a daughter, Elysia, sixteen years ago. I was only twenty-one, and was not in the best of what you might call “socio-economic circumstances.” Meaning I was anti-social and broke. My membranes ruptured at 30 weeks, and I was hospitalized, while they tried to hold off labor. She was born a few days later, and spent five weeks in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit). It was easy for me to pass off my constant weepiness and feeling like a failure as a parent on the stress of having a premature infant. I obsessed over what I might have done to cause it, and was bitter that I never really got to enjoy her life before I became terrified about it ending. Because my marriage to an abusive alcoholic was so difficult, I did not have the support to get myself really well. It took a divorce, and a few years on top of that, before I really felt stable again.
Fast forward twelve years, to when I was pregnant with my very much longed for second child, Ethan. Over the course of the intervening years, I had battled depression, and even been hospitalized twice. But it was a situational issue, and did not seem necessarily related to the chronic mental health problems I had. During my pregnancy with Ethan, I did everything I knew to be healthy. I ate well, exercised, rested when I could, and planned a home birth with a capable midwife. I bought cloth diapers, I learned how to make my own baby food, and I planted an organic garden. My life was calm. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but I had learned to keep the world around me quiet so that my mind would be quieted. It seemed to work. I taught myself to recognize the signs of trouble, and worked to get what I needed to stay well.
Then came Ethan.
The circumstances surrounding Ethan’s birth and early life would be enough to make anyone just a little crazy. My planned home birth turned into five hours of pushing, and ended in a transport and a vacuum extraction. We were back home before twenty-four hours had passed (because I insisted on it), but I still felt disappointed and saddened – again, like I had failed at the birth experience. My husband worked third shift, and he worked mostly seven nights a week, so after taking a couple of nights off, he left me alone. With an infant that would not sleep.
Ethan cried non-stop all night, and would not let me put him down. Not ever. When I finally decided just to try to sleep with him nursing, he stayed attached to me the entire time. It’s the only way we could sleep, so co-sleeping it was. I felt good about being flexible enough to find a solution to the sleep issue, but it also made it difficult for me to get the rest I needed to stay on top of my thoughts. My relationship with my daughter suffered, because I was so tired. I became terrified that something would harm Ethan, so I controlled his diet and the way people handled him.* I freaked out about chemicals in foods, in the house, in toys. My OCD escalated to full-blown fear of germs and over-protectiveness of Ethan and myself. I lashed out at my husband and his parents over their unwillingness (as I saw it) to adhere to my strict ideas about safety. Nevermind that they were not the usual new-mommy fears. I thought they were perfectly legitimate and reasonable.
We
