True Joy
By: Lindsey Sprague
Tags: Birth, Motherhood, Postpartum

True Joy

I think I’ve always been an anxious person. Since maybe ten or eleven years old, I have been filled with tension, and what I would call “edges.” Nothing flowed smoothly through my brain, from one side to the other. Thoughts I had were always met with an edge and then took a hard, sharp turn somewhere else, and then somewhere far into the weeds, would end so far from where they started. I started to learn about my anxiety and where it may have stemmed from when I studied Social Work and became interested in human psychology in college, and learned the ways that our childhood and adolescence can mold our adult brains. That was nice — it gave me an out. Something and someone(s) to blame for all those years of thought-racing, body-hating, tension-filled moments, days, weeks, months…you get the idea. When I started to understand the “why” behind my own struggles, I sat in that. I sat in that and didn’t even know there was another way. It was just me. I had convinced myself that every negative situation was mine to fix. Every person in my life needed my input on their incorrect behavior, because, SHIT! Who wouldn’t want to do things the right way? It was just so clear to me that I knew best and the people around me just desperately needed my insight and guidance. Surely then, they would see what was right.

And then…I became a mother.

Most of us are familiar with the struggles mothers can experience during pregnancy and during the postpartum period. We’ve heard about the baby blues, postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety, etc. That was all old news to me.

I had never heard of postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder until eleven months after I had my second daughter, and my therapist mentioned it within the first twenty minutes of our first session. By definition, postpartum OCD is characterized by intrusive thoughts and behaviors that are in response to a perceived danger toward your baby. These thoughts and behaviors are constant and repetitive, and they can severely disrupt daily life. They can severely disrupt daily life. What a fucking understatement.

I learned that postpartum OCD tends to happen in women who are already anxious to begin with. It also happens to women who experience some sort of trauma at birth. I didn’t consider myself a woman who had traumatic birth stories. I considered myself really lucky, actually. I didn’t realize that I could claim both — trauma and gratitude. Like, if I let myself acknowledge the trauma that I experienced during my daughters’ births, it was somehow taking away from the fact that I am so grateful for my healthy, neurotypical, magical, beautiful and wild babies. But the truth is, we can have both — trauma and gratitude. We don’t need to feel guilt for acknowledging our trauma. Yes, someone out there has had it worse than you. Fine, say it. But, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for you to feel your trauma. Our trauma is ours only. Empathy is a beautiful, necessary feeling. But empathy can turn into guilt….quickly.

There were two images that would involuntarily enter my brain, many times, each and every day. I debated about whether or not to detail them here but this is my story, so I will. The first image I would see was my house on fire. My house was on fire and my boyfriend and I got out, but our kids didn’t. The vision of my five-year-old, standing on a stepstool trying to reach for her baby sister to rescue her from her crib while the house burned around them, both of them burned and charred. That was the first image. The second image was me, driving across a bridge with both girls fastened safely in the back of the car. Without warning, the bridge began to crumble. We crashed into the water and I desperately tried to rescue my babies from the car that was filling up. I couldn’t. I couldn’t save both of them.

These images were very real to me. I tried to play out each scenario in my head. What would I do? How could I ever live without my babies? How would life be different? Would I even survive it? How would I fix this? All of these questions circling around my brain for these scenarios that WERE.NOT.HAPPENING. Furthermore, it was as if, preparing myself for these scenarios would somehow make it easier when it happened…because I KNEW it would happen. I just knew it.

I thought all mothers thought these things. I felt like it was normal because I just loved them so much, of course my brain went there. I laughed it off as “just me being crazy!” No. Nope. Those things are NOT normal, and I was not crazy. It took me six years and a really amazing therapist to understand this concept.

My first daughter was born in 2015. I was induced at forty-one weeks, and delivered her the same day of my induction (this is unheard of, lucky me!). She was nine pounds, six ounces and I delivered her vaginally with a smile on my face and Catfish on TV. I remember my incredible nurse saying “Holy shit, you just delivered a ten-pound baby with a smile on your face. You need to have, like, five more kids!” I was on cloud nine. Breastfeeding was easy for us. She was perfect. The next day, I was in the room alone with her when the nurse came in at shift change to introduce herself. Right at that time, I noticed that my daughter’s color had changed a bit. She had started to look really pale, then a little grey. The nurse calmly said she was going to take her to the nursery, then rushed out the door so fast I didn’t even have time to process what was going on. I distinctly remember her not even closing the door behind her. I knew something was weird. I don’t want to turn this essay into my daughter’s NICU stay. Though it was short, it was excruciating. She had swallowed some of her own poop during delivery and spent the next fourteen hours in the NICU, having her stomach pumped, vomiting, X-rays, being hooked up to machines, being away from her mama. I felt so out of control. I think this is where my “journey” with postpartum OCD started. I’m sure they all meant well, but the staff’s inability to give me any honest information and the “all we can do is wait and see” mentality, left me unable to find a single person in that hospital that would just tell me what I needed to hear — that my baby was going to live. I just needed to know my baby would live. I couldn’t fix this. That’s my trauma.

Five days after my daughter was born, we were at my mother-in-law’s (who is a nurse) for dinner. My best friend was visiting from Florida. I was off. I felt off. I don’t know how else to describe it. I had brain fog, my body was not tired but my mind was. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel like I wanted to hurt my baby. But, I felt so off that I didn’t know if I could care for her, and so I felt guilty. A close friend of mine will tell you that something he’s known about me for the twelve years we’ve been friends is that I’ve always, only wanted to be a mother. It was, and is, the only job I ever want to be good at. The only job that truly matters to me. So, why couldn’t I just do it?

My mother-in-law took my blood pressure and it was high. I don’t remember how high, but high enough to concern her when not much usually concerns her. The next day, I sat in my OBGYN’s office while she told me I was probably within days of having a stroke. My blood pressure was 189/121. I will never forget those numbers. I had postpartum preeclampsia. That’s my trauma.

Fast forward to March 15, 2020. I found myself being induced again with my second daughter. March 15, 2020, in my community, Central New York, was the beginning of the pandemic and all of its social-distancing, COVID-19 restrictions. While we were waiting for my little lucky clover who wasn’t born until March 17th, my boyfriend actually ended up getting sick with the stomach bug while at the hospital. He had to leave on the 16th and never came back to the hospital. I delivered her without him. I was alone for the next several days because he was unable to return and no one could visit me because of COVID-19. The nurses and doctors were great…but I was alone. I am not a strong enough writer to be able to depict what it feels like to be alone, in a hospital room with your newborn baby. Separated from her dad, my other baby, who was four at the time, and all other family members while watching the news about a worldwide pandemic and begging the nurses for formula samples to take home because I’m afraid there won’t be any left on the shelves and breastfeeding is not going as planned. Would we be able to feed our baby? When her pediatrician came to the hospital to discharge her, she spoke to me through the door, I didn’t even see her face. She told me not to bring my baby outside of the house, and to not let anyone in the house because they just didn’t know enough about Covid, and how it might hurt my family. That’s my trauma.

I was petrified that I would have postpartum preeclampsia again. I watched for all the signs, tried to remember all the ways I felt in 2015 so I could recognize it earlier this time. I was desperate to be well. Then it happened, I was changing the baby’s diaper on our second day home and saw the weird, squiggly, white lines in my vision. I panicked. I took my blood pressure and it was high — 160/98. That’s my trauma.

In both instances of my postpartum high blood pressure, it was controlled quickly and effectively. So, why eleven months after my second daughter was born was I still feeling so panicked? So frantic? So out of control? Was this my life now? Was I always going to be this person who constantly lived in fight or flight mode? This woman who constantly felt like danger was lurking around every corner? Was I always going to be this mom that I didn’t want to be? I was so ashamed. Why couldn’t I just be the mom I wanted to be? I don’t think I even realized how bad it had gotten. Has that ever happened to you? You don’t even know how far you’ve gotten away from yourself? Have you ever gone months without feeling true joy? Months with your growing, healthy, happy babies…without feeling true joy? Fear and panic taking over your every thought? So much so that you don’t even realize it anymore? It’s just become the norm.

The first counselor I saw was…nice. She was kind. She was empathetic. She validated me. I needed more. I needed some insight into what the fuck was going on in my mind because I just knew it wasn’t right. My baby was almost a year old and I couldn’t remember more than once that I felt true joy in being her mom. I was so fucking sad about that. Even writing that now makes me feel so sad, and guilty, and shameful. That’s my trauma.

I found a new therapist. One that knew a lot about perinatal and postpartum conditions and experiences. I googled it. Between the intake paperwork and my brief description of why I had sought her out, she immediately saw what was going on. She described thought processes and behaviors of mine perfectly, like she had spent the last six years living inside my mind. I felt understood. She had seen this before. She knew other mothers that did the same things, had the same thoughts. She didn’t push me to do more self care, she didn’t tell me to ‘just forget about the dishes in the sink’, she didn’t minimize my struggles into something that could be easily resolved. She knew I was bright enough to have tried those things already- so she didn’t even mention them. She educated me with science and medical information that helped me understand myself. There was a name for it. Postpartum Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Though it would take some commitment and difficult work, she also supported me to believe that I have what it takes to change my thought processes. She understood my goal: to feel at home within myself again. I felt hopeful for the first time in as long as I could remember. I felt like a good mom for the first time in years.

I have thought about writing something like this for many months. I won’t lie and say, “This isn’t about me! It’s about spreading awareness!” Certainly, there is a part of me who wants to say “postpartum OCD” so that you’ll google it, and be able to recognize the signs, but I am no therapist so I won’t pretend to have the answers in this short essay.

This is about me. This is allllllll about me. I wanted to share my story because it is important, just like yours. I want to remind myself that I am so strong. I am so capable. I am empowered. I want my loved ones to have a glimpse inside my brain, because that insight might help to understand me. If others can gain something from this, that is an added bonus. If these words resonate with you, I am so happy. You are understood.

I am working on so many things. I am working on holding my feelings and recognizing them for what they are. I am working on not making up stories in my head about what is going to happen. I am working on knowing that there’s not always a threat right around the corner. I am working on remembering that the limbic system does not create the right connection between reality and your response to it. I am working on remembering that I am not a disordered person; that my brain has made some mistakes that will take time to correct, and that these mistakes were made to protect me, not because there is something organically wrong with me. I am working on setting boundaries. I am working on only doing what is wise for me and my family. I am working on knowing that I am not the authority for what is right and wrong for anyone other than myself and my kids. I am remembering the person and mother that I am. I am remembering how I want to spend the next five minutes. I am remembering what it feels like to be at home within myself.

Isn’t that what this is all about? Being the best mom we can be. Being the mom we want to be. We are not perfect. This voyage is never ending, I think. It can be really fucking hard. It can be really fucking hard to keep going. It can be really fucking hard to not remember what true joy feels like.

But, then. One day, you’ll be sitting on your couch, wrapped up in work-from-home life, and your fourteen-month-old will come barreling out of the kitchen with her robot-like walk. She’ll be holding a bag of Pirate’s Booty that is bigger than her. She’ll shove that bag of Pirate’s Booty in your face while screaming her version of “eat”…and you’ll feel it. You’ll know exactly what it is, even though you haven’t felt it in days, months, years. Joy. And you’ll know that even though it’s fleeting, it’s still there. Keep going.