I gave birth to my first child in the summer of 2017. My pregnancy and delivery were normal and even fun. For months I’d walked around watching my belly slowly get bigger, wondering “What is everyone talking about?” When I heard pregnancy and birth horror stories from other moms it seemed un-relatable. One woman told me her delivery had been an absolute nightmare due to her “inverted uterus.” Others shared stories of how sick pregnancy had left them, unable to eat anything but Saltines for three months straight.
I don’t know about you, but I’d have to be on the brink of death to try and subsist on Saltine crackers. My pregnancy was normal, healthy, and even fun: my skin looked fantastic, my moodiness had balanced out, and I was constantly told how cute I looked in all my maternity clothes. At the time I worked as a marketing rep for a local pharmacy, so I came into contact with many people in the medical field. Most everybody had compliments for me, and most everybody had some sort of advice to offer.
Looking back, I find it telling that everybody had a lot to say on being pregnant, raising children, and child development, but there was a (perhaps foreboding?) absence of discussion when it came to the postpartum period of new motherhood. I didn’t notice this at the time, of course; I naively believed that my smooth pregnancy was some sort of harbinger of things to come.
After a slightly complicated but ultimately successful vaginal delivery, my daughter arrived safely and in good health. The first few months were hard, but manageable. My husband, a teacher, was home with us and after a sleepless night or two (or three…four…) he’d take our daughter in the morning so I could get in a few extra hours of zzz’s. We had many visitors – my mom came for a bit, my sister another time. My dad and stepmother lived less than 2 hours away. His sister, his mother and stepmother even came out too. New mom life was hard, especially because I was breastfeeding, but overall I was doing alright.
Realization
And then – everything crashed. The school year began and my husband went back to work. The visitors left. My daughter and I were stuck inside for much of the day, alone, because most of my friends had normal schedules and were at work. The regular human interaction I’d been used to in the working world was gone; on tough days, between naps and feedings, I was lucky to be out of the house for more than an hour without a meltdown.
I’m not sure exactly when the worrying symptoms started to creep in. The dark moods, the disturbing thoughts, the suicidal images, the anxiety fits. I’ve always struggled with general depression, so at first a few “low” days didn’t really sound any alarms for me.
I saw other new moms around me and wondered how many of them were feeling like me? None, it seemed. They all appeared to be fairly happy with their new lives, frustrated at times perhaps, but they certainly didn’t seem to be as hopeless as I felt. I had two good friends with children and when I inquired neither one of them had experienced anything like what I was feeling. They were helpful, but ultimately the talks left me feeling even more isolated.
Recognition
It wasn’t until I was watching an episode of ABC’s black-ish that I opened up to the possibility that my situation had gotten beyond my control, and that I might need help.
We recorded the show every week on our DVR, and one night after our daughter had gone to bed we watched the latest episode (although by that time it was probably a few weeks old, since we were on new parent time now). Bow Johnson had recently given birth to her fifth child, Devante. The episode focused around Bow’s odd and somewhat exaggerated behavior changes, which Dre figured out to be symptomatic of postpartum depression. In the pivotal scene Dre and Bow take a PPD screening questionnaire together, which reveals that she is indeed exhibiting symptoms of postpartum depression.
And this, y’all, is exactly why representation is so important. Here was an educated, middle class, biracial woman pitted in a struggle against something unfamiliar, and she faced up to it and recognized it for the monster it was. I saw my own struggles and symptoms reflected in the episode’s spotlight. I identified with Bow, and it made me realize that I needed help. I hadn’t been able to see my symptoms for what they were before because I didn’t identify with the examples given – mostly women who didn’t look like me. But Bow – I identified with her.
So, after an initial struggle with where to start looking for help (ah, insurance…), I eventually started seeing a therapist and also joined a new mama-new baby support group that met at the hospital I’d given birth at. The group moderator turned out to be the same woman who’d led my pregnancy and birthing classes, a doula named Rhonda. Her words that day were life-giving.
I told her my journey thus far, and the struggles I’d had, and where I was at now. She listened to everything I had to say.
“It’s okay to struggle,” she said. “It’s okay to be where you are. Here in this group, we share the struggles, and we keep it honest. The truth is, we don’t always like being moms. It’s not fun everyday. But we do support each other.”
I felt so relieved I wanted to cry, right then and there. Maybe I did, I don’t remember. But between Rhonda’s group and my new therapist, things did get better. I learned that I was actually not suffering from postpartum depression after all; my therapist, after screening me with a number of questionnaires and queries, told me that I better fit the profile for a standard depression/anxiety disorder and not postpartum depression.
Resolution
I’d never been so happy to be depressed, and that was the truth. After several months of therapy, and meeting in the new mothers group, I was starting to feel back on my feet again. It had been a tumultuous journey, but I was at the end of it. I could breathe easier, and I could sleep better. I grew to like this new “mom life,” and I’ve even gone on to have another kid, which I had sworn off in the early postpartum days.
My situation ended happily, but I wonder how many others are out there unable to put a finger on the problem simply because they don’t identify with those represented. Representation gets played up a lot when it comes to the images we see around us of success, wealth, and beauty – and these are important – but issues that need diagnosis and treatment are often overlooked. There is certainly room for improvement, but I choose to be optimistic – I think, the very existence of shows like black-ish is evidence that we are moving in the right direction.
Hi! My name is Madison West and I live in Tampa, Florida. I have two children, ages 4 and 1, and a wonderful husband. I enjoy writing, spending time outdoors with my family, and watching hair care reels on Instagram.
