the price of love

I have been struggling with the decision whether or not to blog about the reality of my current and seemingly ceaseless state of depression, over the last 2+ years. This goes hand-in-hand with the fact that I've been avoiding treatment for the same.

"Avoiding" treatment isn't exactly the correct term... More like, attempting to plug the hemorrhaging dam of my emotional facade with a trembling, arthritic thumb until the "real" help arrives.

After much seesawing and finally, reading this post at ask moxie, I finally found the courage to write about it on more than a superficial level, and take action. (My appointment is at 9:15 tomorrow morning)

I've read so many doctoral opinions, studies and reports about anti-depressants in pregnancy and breastmilk that my eyes have crossed. If you need links, let me know, but I'm too tired to go looking for them, now.

Essentially, they all seem to say the same thing... While a handful of medications are contraindicated, many many antidepressants can and are being used to fight PPD in the breastfeeding mother. The risk of depression should be weighed against the risk of harm to the child from exposure. With many (certainly not all) antidepressants, only a very minute amount of the drug passes through breastmilk, and ill effects were minimal. The older the child is, the less breastmilk he is (supposedly) getting, and therefore, even less likely to suffer side effects. However, the studies I've seen are very small and only follow mother/infant pairs for up to 1 year following treatment.

Who's to say what happens when these children hit puberty or even their 20's? Being the healthy skeptic that I am, I question the loyalties of the medical community at large and doubt the validity of their "findings" in studies that utilize such a small percentage of the population and fail to follow said group for any appreciable amount of time.

I am also well aware, not only of the medical community's general attitude toward pushing medications that have NOT been adequately studied but also of their failure to do so without warning of the possible, documented long-term side effects. In a nutshell, what is a "justifiable risk" to my doctor may not be so justifiable to me or my child. I'm not the least bit interested in sacrificing my son for the good of the whole. Who would?

That being said, this depression is digging in for a long winter. I'm starting to feel the strain on my ability to parent. My son is happy, now and I want him to stay that way... But how long can he be happy when his mother is miserable? How does a woman instill confidence, trust and patience in her children when she has none of the above? When, if ever, is it worth the risk?

I'm concerned with use of drug therapy as treatment for PPD, especially in myself. Neural growth at this age is staggering. We know too little about it. We know even less about the possible long-term effects these drugs can have on the developing brain, even in minute amounts. Could I forgive myself if he developed some sort of mental problems in the future? Probably not. But I can't go on parenting this way. I'm like one big, exposed nerve. And, what about weight gain? Antidepressants have a history of causing serious weight gain which is very difficult to lose, even after therapy has ceased. What kind of self image will I have if I'm even MORE heavy? Not a very good one, I'm afraid. I've been trying to wait it out until he weans, but that just doesn't seem likely.

(The last few weeks, he's regressed, and now takes more of his calories and fluids from breastmilk, again. It's like parenting a newborn all over again. He barely eats and won't drink water anymore. Oh well, ideas anyone?)

I won't go into detail about the many reasons why I'm outraged that PPD exists, as I've posted on that before, and it's been done to death. Yes, it is tragic that American culture dictates a mostly solitary child-rearing experience. It is also quite disturbing that we compete with each other to the extent that women are afraid to unveil their shock and disappointment in the very personal reality of becoming a mother for fear of having their parenting skills scrutinized and ultimately ripped to shreds. These subjects have been broached by much better writers than I, and anything I say will surely pale in comparison... So, I'll leave it to the experts.

My current thoughts revolve around the more immediate concerns of parenting, managing a household, and communicating with my spouse. I have been experiencing depression of varying degrees since somewhere around the middle to end of my first trimester, which was around the same time when I lost Zane's twin. (though not necessarily related) First, I was overcome with fear, then relief, then guilt and grief. Some short time later, I came to the realization that if our baby DID make it, I was going to have to PARENT him or her. I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO PARENT.

(I may have said some of this before, so forgive me for needing to say it again)

With no role models to speak of, I had no idea how to do such a thing. Along with the encroaching feelings of self-doubt, resentment reared it's ugly head. I was angry at my mother for dying before she could see me through this. (selfish, I know) I was angry at my father for being such a horrible parent that I didn't even really want him to know I was expecting. I was angry at my husband for not really "getting" what was going on inside of me. (how could he?) Maybe worst of all, I was angry with myself for wanting a baby above all else and now that I could actually be having one, I realized I had no chance of parenting well. (What the holy hell was I thinking? Me, a mother? Are you kidding?)

Then, the baby came and I realized what hell really was. I second (and third and fourth and fifth) guessed every decision I made. The daily minutiae of newborn parenting fed the obsessive compulsive tendencies within. I could no longer recognize my body, my self, my life. I knew that I loved this little person, but I felt no real connections to him. It felt like a dream. I was waiting for someone to swoop in and say, "oops! my bad, this baby goes to the folks down the hall." To this day, the first 3 months are something of a blur. I have no idea how we made it through in one piece.

As life trudged on, and picked up momentum, I realized that I could, in fact, sustain this life that had been entrusted to me. Whether I could do it well, remained to be seen. He seemed miserable. He cried all the time and never let me put him down, yet he hated to be cuddled or touched. I was depressed and still wept daily, but at least he was gaining weight and filling diapers. That's something, at least.

I still worried that the neighbors would call DHS and report me as a "bad mother" because the baby cried constantly, but with time, even that lessened. The depression, while less debilitating was still sitting on my chest and taunting me. I was afraid to ask for help. I had no one to ask. I was afraid they would come and take him away if I told the doctor that I was anything less than thrilled to be a parent. Fear dominated my life.

I'm no longer afraid of the same things. A whole slew of new fears have replaced the old ones. My son is no longer miserable. (most of the time) And, I'm no longer angry at my loved ones over my own short comings. I am still angry with myself. I strive for unattainable perfections. I want great things for my child and fear that I'm unable to show him the way. I am frustrated and tired. Most of the time, I can't remember any of those great parenting skills and developmental psych factoids that I learned, for shear lack of energy and brain power. I still cry a lot. I'm still depressed.