Notes from a Drowning Mother
BY CHELSY MEYER
Photo Courtesy | Chelsy Meyer
“It took 13 months to admit my depression.”
That’s what the note says in the Notes app on my phone under the heading “Thoughts”, which is a catchall heading for any story, feeling — or yes, thought — I feel like I need to write down to remember later.
I don’t know why I felt like I needed to remember that later. I don’t know what prompted me to write it either. But I stare at it now, one year later, wondering what finally made me admit to it. I realize thirteen months seems like a very specific amount of time to know you’d been depressed without fully admitting it. But when I wrote that, my son was thirteen months old.
Postpartum depression doesn’t always look how you think it will. For me the darkness was sporadic, not constant. I suspect that’s why I didn’t realize I had it. Those thirteen months were some of the darkest of my life, but also the most loving and beautiful months of my life. My son is a sunbeam and a thunderstorm. He’s a walking trip to Disneyland: full of joy and magic, but sometimes exhausting and frustrating.
I didn’t want to hurt myself or my baby. I felt very connected to him. To a suffocating degree, even. I wanted to bury myself in a hole with him so no one could touch him, but I also felt like I was doing everything wrong. I felt like I wasn’t a good mom and that I needed help. I’d be lying with him, getting pulled on and screamed at, and feeling shame for the amount of anger flooding my skin. But I wanted my baby for so long, having to undergo a fertility procedure to have him. I was so sure the appreciation I had for every moment, even the bad ones, would make something like postpartum depression impossible for me. I was wrong.
I could feel the emotional toll parenthood was taking on me. The sleep deprivation, the solitude, the anxiety, the rage, the sadness, the unfulfilled expectations. It was all boiling up and out of me, but I just assumed it was me. Something was wrong with me. I didn’t have the emotional or mental fortitude to handle the emotions of parenthood. I felt weak.
I spent so many months (thirteen, apparently) looking to Google for answers. Was something wrong or was I just not handling motherhood well? I searched, postpartum depression, baby blues, what is the cutoff for postpartum depression, why am I so angry when my baby screams, postpartum depression symptoms, postpartum anxiety symptoms, anger management resources, maternal mental health.
Since then I’ve purchased a parenting course, a web class for postpartum rage, and an anxiety in motherhood course. I went to online therapy sessions. I read books and articles. I listened to podcasts. I followed every parenting and maternal mental health account I could find on social media. I desperately wanted to do better. I wanted answers for why I was feeling this way.
On the rare occasion I opened up to loved ones, I’d hear things like, “Everyone hates when babies cry, it’s biological,” or, “You’re doing a good job.” But that just left me feeling more confused. Does everyone really feel this way? This is normal? That can’t be true, or no one would have more kids. I remember rocking my baby boy, the thing I loved most on this planet, and saying to myself, “I can’t ever do this again,” while silently crying. Do all moms do that? Was this doing a good job?
“I hate myself.”
Another note in my Notes app under the heading “Thoughts”, six weeks after I wrote that it took thirteen months to admit my depression. When I found it, one year later, I reacted as if I’d been slapped. I read it again. I don’t remember writing it. I don’t remember why I wrote it, but I can guess why. I’m sure it was during one of those days. A day when the baby has a screaming day and I have an angry day. When he screams because he doesn’t want to be changed or he hits me for telling him, “no.” When I’m so fed up I yell back. When my thoughts are so dark that I retreat to the bathroom to scream so I can drown them out.
I recognize the feeling behind those words. I hate myself. I’ve said those exact words in my head on those kinds of days many times. I’m just shocked I wrote it down. I guess I wanted to remind myself that I hated myself.
I still have those days all these months later. I feel trapped in a world where my baby screams about everything I do, I scream back at him, then I cry and hate myself — rinse and repeat. I’m mad at him even though I shouldn’t be. I’m mad at myself. I worry I’m ruining him. I worry I’m ruining our relationship. I worry I’m ruining his relationship with others in the future. I’m worried he’ll leave me one day. On the bad days I envision my baby boy as a man. Tall and beautiful, glaring at me with visceral hatred for the times I fell short in his childhood. It makes my body cold.
On those days, I’m drowning in a sea of desperation. I never hate myself more than I do on those days. I force myself to feel as bad as I can. I think that’s what I deserve. Maybe if I feel bad I’ll be better next time. Maybe I need the punishment. Soon, I’m so far beneath the surface that I can’t see the light anymore, but instead of swimming to safety, I force myself to sink further.
In truth, both my son and I have the same issue: we can’t manage our big feelings. For him it’s because his brain is still developing. But why is it hard for me? What’s wrong with me? Before I was a mom I was never forced to manage anger, sadness, and frustration in a healthy way. I could always run. I could always avoid. I could always fight. I could always self medicate. As a mom, I’m forced to stay in it. I’m forced to confront those feelings. But I don’t know how.
I wrote that note one year ago. I hate myself. But I could have written it yesterday.
Every now and again a new mom asks for advice for those entering motherhood. At first I’d think of birthing positions, zip up onesies, and postpartum hair loss. But now I tell them, if something feels wrong, it is. Trust yourself. Instead of wondering if it’s normal or assuming it’s just you, ask for help.
“You’re a good mom.”
Another note in the Notes app. This time under the heading “Read this”. It’s pinned to the top, so it opens to this note every time I open the app. I wrote it a few months ago. Almost one year from the note in which I admitted my depression. I wrote it to myself to read when I’m sinking. When it’s a bad day. When I want to yell and get angry. When I’ve already yelled. When I’m sad and lost. The note goes on to say that I’m allowed to feel my feelings, but to manage them in healthier ways. To breathe before reacting. To put my hand on my chest. It reminds me that my bad feelings won’t last forever.
I’ve read this note to myself many times. I’ve read it while sitting on the cold tile of my bathroom, tears clouding my vision. The door locked so I can remember how to swim before I sink. The note tells me to remember what the little version of me would have wanted when I had big feelings. She’d want patience, a hug, to be told it’s okay. So I should give that to myself now, and to my son.
I’ve read this note with shaky hands curled in a ball on my couch, voice hoarse from screaming into a pillow. The note tells me to breathe. It tells me not to feel bad, that this is all new. That I’m scared and tired, but it’ll be okay. It tells me to keep working at this. That I am strong, and I’ve made it through so much. To keep working through my feelings because my son needs me to.
Most days with my son are filled with so much joy that all the shattered pieces of myself fall back into place. They are shined beautifully, wrapped in paper, and placed in a cozy box so they don’t break again. He’s everything I’ve wanted. He’s made my life warm and loving and secure. But then I’ll have a bad day, and I’ll take that box my son wrapped up so carefully, and I’ll hurl it into the ground. This note is my attempt to keep that box safely on the shelf.
Sometimes it feels like the person who wrote this note to me is someone else completely. Someone who is compassionate and kind. Someone nonjudgmental who gives me more grace than I deserve. Someone patient and forgiving. When I remember that person is me, I have a clarity about myself that isn’t obscured by murky water when I’m drowning.
If I can be this patient and loving to myself when I’m having a bad day, I can be that patient and loving to my son when he’s having a bad day. I can find it in me to stay on land so that both of us are safe.
If hating myself worked, I’d be the perfect parent. So I guess I’ll give loving myself a shot.
CHELSY MEYER is a University of Montana journalism graduate who is now a copywriter living in Boise, Idaho. She is passionate about finding peace in parenthood through hearing raw stories from other mothers. Her poetry and writing has been featured in various books, blogs, and magazines. Writing is her passion, motherhood is her muse, and her hair is a mess. Read more of her poetry on Instagram @chelsywrites.