A Look Into Undiagnosed Postpartum Depression
{By: Seema Desai}
I remember when my son was 6 months old. Those six months were some of the hardest months I had ever lived. We had downsized from our modest starter home and were living in this shoebox apartment with noisy upstairs neighbors. It was drafty and cold. My husband was working all the time, so it was just my son and me. That would have been fine, except for the fact that I felt so disconnected to him. And then I felt guilt for feeling disconnected. Which only made me feel MORE disconnected. I felt resentment because I felt like my life had been snatched away from me. And then there was the guilt for the resentment. I think you see where this is going.
I remember the day when I asked a family member that was visiting to please keep their voice down, as my son was napping. They dismissed my request, stating that he wouldn’t wake up. They said it like I was being irrational and crazy. Like I didn’t know my son and what would bother him. Like my nerves weren’t already raw from being in a tiny, noisy, and drafty apartment for the past twelve months. Like I hadn’t already been up with him since 5 am, walking him and singing to him for hours before he finally fell back asleep, while my guests had slept soundly and uninterrupted till hours later.
I remember this guest having complete disregard for the fact that they were standing right outside my son’s room while projecting their voice, causing my sweet baby boy to be jolted awake and cry. “Oooooo, I’m sorry. He woke up!”, they said with surprise. They hurriedly left the apartment, away from the screaming baby and on with their life, unphased and unaffected by the position that they had just put me in.
I knew he wouldn’t go back to sleep. Because as a mom, you know your kid. As disconnected as you may feel, deep down inside, you know your kid. And I knew that no amount of coaxing and singing and cuddling would relax him enough to sleep. My head was spinning, so angry at the blatant disregard my guest had for my request to protect my child’s sleep. Angry at my son for waking up (I know that’s not logical, but guess what? Lack of sleep coupled with undiagnosed PPD will do that to you.). Angry at my husband for leaving me alone with this kid while he “got to go to work.” Angry at the world.
In those hours, I broke. I cried more than my son. We both sat there, wailing and shaking and gasping for air. Somewhere in there, I screamed at him, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?” Of course, that only made things worse. I had no one. No one to take him off my hands, no one to hold me. And the guilt for screaming at a six-month-old infant that followed after the meltdown cleared was unbearable.
Someone once told me it looked like I “had it all together” based on the pictures on my IG feed. They were shocked learn that I battled with postpartum depression. The truth is, it’s easy to make that assumption based on a snapshot in time. After you have a baby, it’s easy for a mother to have her hair and makeup done, or do it herself, and muster up the strength to smile for the camera. In the days of filters and photoshop, it’s easy to make it seem like the new mommy’s life is a dream, with the gentle rays of the setting sun brushing her glowing skin. The truth is this: You never know what battles each individual is facing, especially mothers. Postpartum depression lurks in the darkness for many women–sometimes long after their babies are no longer babies. It’s ugly, taboo–moreso in the South Asian culture than the western, and denounced by even the most well-intentioned family members and friends. My own husband–a medical doctor–denied it when I told him I thought that I had PPD. “No, babe. You’re just tired and (insert excuse, excuse, excuse).” In that moment, I felt invalidated. Belittled. Stupid for thinking that there was something wrong with me and not knowing that “I’m just tired.”
Fortunately, as the months passed, I recognized I needed help, and worked my way out of the hole. (You can read more about that journey here.) Almost nine years later, my son and I are best friends. We understand each other in a very special way. While I no longer feel the anger and guilt of that day as much, the memories are burned into my brain. But it all turned out beautifully. Being the mother to my son forced me to grow in ways I never knew were possible. In some ways, he helped to heal old wounds I didn’t even know I had. And to him, I’ll forever be grateful.
Website: https://drseemadesai.com
IG: https://www.instagram.com/dr.seemadesai/
Buy Dr. Seema Desai’s Book: Connected: Discovering Your Inner Guides: A Kid’s Guide to Navigating Their Emotions
