When Motherhood Breaks You

One of the axioms of good writing is writing what you know. Know thy strengths and write about them. When I was pregnant with Landon, I was excited to write about motherhood. I LOVED writing my bumpdates. Chronicling Landon's gestation and birth remains one of the best decisions of my life, and I hope to do that again if I have another child. I wrote authentically (as best a first time mom can) about pregnancy and birth, and I wanted to write authentically about life as a mother. 

But what I didn't know, what I couldn't have known, was that I wouldn't be able to be authentic. Know thyself? I couldn't. I didn't know who I was or what I was feeling. For the first time in my life, I didn't have the words to express what was going on in my head. 


What was wrong with my brain? "A depression suffered by a mother following childbirth, typically arising from the combination of hormonal changes, psychological adjustment to motherhood, and fatigue." (Google search definition.)

 Read about PPD here.

At least my hair looked good . 10 days old.

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I wondered, in the recesses of my mind--when I wanted the world to end because it already felt over--if there was a clinical definition for what was happening to me. But I quickly dismissed it because there were happy days when I could mostly filter out the reality that I was a mom and grasp at any vestige of Susie, or who I thought was Susie. So that can't be IT, I told myself. I'm sure other people feel this way, and they're just pretending. I'm pretending, so they must be, right?

But my pretense only took me so far, and I discovered that I hated writing. I couldn't write what I wanted to write--what I wanted to scream. I wanted to beg the world's mothers to tell me what was the secret; how they could live with such torturous thoughts. I didn't want to write about the dark, painful world that was my path in motherhood, and writing about anything else was unendurable. 

17 days old.

I had a beautiful, chubby baby, but I couldn't feel love. People would tell me how lucky I was, or gush that I must be *sooo happy*, and I'd wonder how they could possibly think that. Wasn't it obvious how miserable I was? Didn't they know I was just playing the game I believed all mothers played? I cared for my child, and cared for him well. I nursed him. I slept with my body and mind alert to him. I got up with him hour after hour. I played with him day after day. I bought him clothes and baby gear. I did all the things "good" mothers do without ever feeling like a good mother. 

6 months old.

I didn't know how broken I was until I began to heal. Once the healing started, it spread quickly. By his first birthday, I felt immensely better. I felt balance, whole, in love with my child. Four months after that, I was able to begin a weight loss journey, discarding the weight my body had gained as a coping mechanism. 

 Tomes have been written about a mother's love, but rarely is the mother who can't feel that love mentioned.  For two years, I despised my broken brain for those months I couldn't feel love. I felt immense guilt for not loving my child, for feeling affection and obligation, but not love. 

I've cried over the guilt many times. Today my love for Landon bubbles up inside of me and manifests itself through hugs and kisses, teaching obedience, and even anxiety that his car seat is tight enough. I love, adore, and cherish my child. If I had a thousand hearts, I couldn't love him more.

 Still, the guilt for not loving him was ever-present. Then, a few months ago, a dear soul in an online forum absolved me of that guilt. She told me the truth. I *did* love my child, but my brain and emotions were too broken to feel it most of the time. 

I loved my child.

I loved my child.

I have always loved my child. 

Pensive. Grown up. My little love. 2 years, 4 months old.

I hope to be able to write often once more. To be able to write joyfully and authentically now that my mind is freed from its dark tangle, and that period of my journey through motherhood is both gone and in the open. 

This is already too long, but that gives me reason to write again. I hope to share the resources and tools that helped me combat PPD, and my plan in case there's ever a next time. 

Happy inside finally! 15 months old.

Happy inside and showing it outside! 2 years, 1 month old.