My Journey Through Perinatal Depression

By: Taffeta Chime

TW: depression, suicide, self-harm

If I could describe my pregnancy and the early years of motherhood in one word, it would be grief. How ironic that pregnancy is the welcoming of a new life into the world. To me, it felt like it came at the cost of the ending of mine. As soon as I held that positive pregnancy test in my hands, I felt like my life was over. I was the only one mourning the loss of myself; everyone else was so happy about it and expected me to be too.

“Isn’t it a blessing?”

“Did you ever think you’d have room for this much love in your heart?”

“Aren’t you so happy?”

Whenever someone said things like this, I felt like something was wrong with me. Why didn’t I enjoy this? Wasn’t this supposed to be the amazing miracle of motherhood? Other women are desperate for children–shouldn’t I at least be more appreciative?

Depression runs strong in my family, so I knew the signs and symptoms. I’d had depressive tendencies for years, but I was able to keep myself in check. Pregnancy was different, though. Everything felt out of control inside my own body, where I was used to thinking surely I had control. I didn’t feel like myself anymore; I was just a shell housing this growing parasite taking my resources and nutrients.

“You’re glowing! Don’t you feel great?”

I was expecting postpartum depression to hit, but I didn’t know perinatal depression, which encompasses both your pregnancy and postpartum experience, was even a thing. In hindsight, I realize how depressed I was and how that set me up for even more depression in my postpartum journey–but not in the way I expected. I thought I understood that hormonal changes in the first few months would cause a risk of PPD, so I thought if I made it through the first six months or so, I would have it beat! I just needed to hold on a bit longer ….

Picture by Nathan Dumlao via Unsplash.

Those first few months were rough. Yes, the hormones were a whirlwind; I remember watching Bird Box with my mother and being deeply disturbed by it. The sleep deprivation left me foggy-brained and struggling to keep up with just about anything. It felt like any time I tried to go out and do the things I wanted to do, I’d have to leave for some reason or another. I couldn’t help friends who needed me, because the baby needed me. I was touched-out but also desperate for adult interaction. However, the moment I was around other adults, I felt like all I could talk about was the baby because that was all my life revolved around. I was so isolated.

Then the pandemic started. I was sequestered with a one-year-old for two years, until a vaccine became available for her age group. My mental health plummeted. What I didn’t know about PPD was that you could experience it years after birth, and there can be another wave of huge hormonal fluctuations after weaning–which I did when my daughter was eighteen months. By the end of 2020, I was at my lowest. I cried every day for months. I couldn’t sleep. I was angry, not taking care of my basic needs. I couldn’t do the things I wanted to and barely had energy to take care of the baby. 

My thoughts became more intrusive: If I just turned the steering wheel hard this way, I wouldn’t have to deal with the responsibility anymore. Or I could just leave my phone at home, walk out, and vanish. What can I take before bed to make me sleep? If I take a couple more, could I just not wake up?

“Don’t you wish this baby phase could last forever?”

I was usually able to shake off the suicidal thoughts, but they kept coming. I felt increasingly out of control. I thought maybe I should get help, but the whole world was in a state of catastrophe! There were bigger problems than this middle-class white girl who couldn’t handle being at home with a toddler all day! I didn’t want to bother the doctors and nurses who were already pushed beyond their limits.

Photo by Alexander Grey via unsplash.

Then one evening, after an argument with my husband in the kitchen, I reached for a knife. I wanted to hurt myself. As soon as I gripped the handle, I knew I needed help. I was no longer able to do this on my own. I put down the knife, ran out of the room, and cried on the back porch. I couldn’t believe I actually began to respond to one of those intrusive thoughts. It scared me.

“Isn’t being a mom the best?”

Soon after, I told my doctor I wanted to get in their system as a new patient. It wasn’t until the nurse was asking about my history that I mentioned I might want to get tested for my mental health. I am so grateful to that nurse. She asked me more questions to find out the extent of what was wrong, and I remember shrugging her off because of the pandemic. She crouched in front of me, looked me in the eye, and said, “Just because other people are having problems, that does not mean you don’t have some serious needs of your own. We’re going to get you the care you deserve.”

I was officially diagnosed with major depressive disorder when my daughter was two years old. I began a treatment plan with Vitamin D, thirty minutes of sun a day, sleep aid, antidepressants, and therapy. I remember one of the first things my therapist said was so simple, yet so impactful: “Reduce stress and pursue joy.” I began getting help with the baby. Going out for social activities. Taking time to write, read, play video games, and watch TV–something other than Cocomelon and My Magic Pet Morphle. I bought a drum set. I hugged my cats regularly. I took days off.

I now have a much better understanding of how to validate my emotions, give them room to breathe, and move through them in a healthy way. The best thing is that my daughter is learning the same thing. Does she still see me cry? Yes. But when she does, she brings me a tissue and reminds me to take a deep breath. When she becomes frustrated or overstimulated, she knows she can count to ten, hug a toy, and come back to us when she’s calm again.

When I became pregnant again in October, my feelings surrounding pregnancy were drastically  different. Was I still terrified? For sure. But was I better prepared? Absolutely. My second daughter is now nearly three months old, and my mental health is far better in this postpartum period than it was with my first daughter. It is amazing to me to see the pictures of me moments after labor. One is a terrified first-time mother who feels trapped in sinking sand. The other is one who is aware and equipped with the tools to help pull herself out.

Taffeta after the birth of her first daughter.

I am finding myself again. I give my grief room at the table and acknowledge that, yes, my old life is over. But that also doesn’t mean I can’t find new life in the place where I am now.

Taffeta after the birth of her second daughter.

Taffeta Chime received a BA in English and Creative Writing and an MA in English and Foreign Language both from Middle Tennessee State University. She especially enjoys writing fiction and poetry, with two novels (Stoodie, 2007, and The Last, 2011) and several short stories, poems, and articles published across a myriad of outlets (including Dad Fixes Everything, Palisatrium’s Poetry Substack, and The Renew Network). She currently works as a freelance writer and editor in Tennessee with her husband Shane, daughters Beili and Ailin, and two cats.

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