The day I found out I was pregnant I became a mother. Instantly my life was no longer my own and I was elated! We had a baby on the way! Wow. I felt honored I was chosen to carry the little life that was growing inside of my womb. For months I bought clothes, decorated the nursery, crafted baby books, tirelessly looked over our registry, and celebrated time and time again the coming of this sweet little girl that was going to enter the world.
On January 27, 2018, at 8 p.m. I went into labor. My husband and I rushed to the hospital where I was admitted and given a room. We were excited we were finally at the end of a 41-week pregnancy and only labor stood in the way of us welcoming our girl earth side. After 20 hours of a ridiculously hard labor, Ella was born via emergency c-section at 4:39 p.m., January 28, 2018. Giving birth was harder than I imagined it would be but whew — it was over, and I finally had this beautiful darling girl…..and she didn’t feel like mine at all.
Visitors came. They [oohed] and awed over Ella. And I just sat there in a haze. I hadn’t had time yet to process all my body had gone through as well as all of the responsibility that was suddenly placed on my shoulders. We went home [three] days later and I entered my own personal hell.
Birth did not go as planned. Breastfeeding was not going as planned. Bonding was not going as planned. I did not emotionally feel the way I had planned. Three weeks went by and I continued to decline. I was sitting in a metaphorical pit [that] blocked out any light or happiness from entering in. I started googling things like ‘Is it normal to cry all the time after having a baby?’, ‘Is it normal to hate your baby?’, etc. Search result after search result pulled up ‘Postpartum Depression’. I began to read articles and symptom lists and mentally check every box for ‘Yep! That’s me.’
I uttered the words to my mom (who had graciously been staying with us), ‘I think I have postpartum depression.’ We talked about it some and decided I would talk to my OBGYN when I went for my next postpartum checkup. But little did I know I wouldn’t be able to make it until then. The next day, my mom was going to leave to go home and I begged her not to. I was terrified of what I would do to Ella if I was left alone with her. I was terrified of myself.
The next day landed me in ER after confessing to my husband I was homicidal towards Ella and starting to become suicidal as well. There I was prescribed my first antidepressant and anti-anxiety medications. Though the medications helped some they were not ‘curing’ me. Things got worse and eventually spiraled out of control.
I woke up on a perfectly sunny Tuesday in March of 2018. And I instantly regretted it. My tired and sleep deprived soul whispered, ‘Why Lord? Why did you not take me in the night like I asked you to?’ Nonetheless, I willed myself to get out of bed because my 8-week-old baby is downstairs with my mom. As I crept down the stairs, dread filling me with every step, I finally see my baby and mother asleep on the couch in the living room.
I freeze.
I sit down.
I lose it.
My soul screams, ‘Lord, if you didn’t take me couldn’t you have at least taken my baby?! I can’t look at her, Lord. I can’t stand her!’
Guilt enters. UGH!! I suck as a mother. Who in the heck would ever think that towards their child? I mean, I’m supposed to be the one protecting her, right? And here I am wishing she would die. And not even just wishing but desperately begging for God to kill her. What’s wrong with me?
I’m disgusted.
I move to the kitchen.
My mom walks in.
I begin to make tea because I need the sweet caffeine to wake my body up. Trying to get a grip on reality I think, ‘Okay, okay. If I can just wake up, maybe all of these horrible thoughts will go away. Surely I was just sleepy and my mind wouldn’t betray me the way it was. I love my child. I think…I hope… Oh, good grief – I feel like I hate her.’