A Fallen Leaf: Surviving Postpartum Depression

My very limited experience with a new addition to my exercise routine has taught me one thing. Relaxation Pose in yoga is by far my favorite. I've only been a yoga beginner for 30 minutes, but I already know that Mountain Pose is nothing more than standing on my yoga mat, Downward Facing Dog hurts my weak wrists, and Greeting The Sunshine Pose involves something called “eye softening” which I am awkward at. There are other poses that I have not mentioned for good reason. They all involve contorting, stretching, and balancing precariously which makes me feel old, uncoordinated, and awkward. As I am transitioning from a cross-­legged Sitting Prayer Pose into a new position where I am lying on my back on the floor, I catch a glimpse of my newly opened "Yoga for Beginners" DVD box and wonder "What was I thinking when I bought this?". Then my braided pony-­tailed instructor guides me through Relaxation Pose, and I know my $11.95 had been spent wisely.

Lying flat on my back; legs, feet, arms, hands, and head all resting heavily on the ground, I can easily see why this pose is called Relaxation Pose. Gone is the awkwardness. All contortions have vanished and no coordination or balancing is required to lie still on the floor. Yet this pose makes me feel most alive. I am keenly aware of every part of my body from the very tip of my pinky toe to my scalp. I am floating .The rise and fall of my chest and stomach link my mind to every breath. I am acutely aware of the pause between the bottom of each exhale and the beginning of each inhale. For a moment, my mind wanders...then wonders, "What if I were trapped forever in the bottom of an exhale with no hope of life sustaining oxygen ever entering my lungs again?". At this thought, I am startled out of relaxation and transported back in time to a decade ago when I was on the edge of my last exhale...and I didn't care.

Sitting on the steps of my porch one October afternoon in 2003, I watched as a leaf,weakened by the fast ­approaching end of Fall and cooler temperatures, struggled to stay attached to a tree limb despite the wind’s best efforts to dislodge it. It seemed to cling on with all of its remaining strength, as if it knew that once it was separated from

the limb that had provided it with nourishment and sustenance, it would die. From early spring, when it first appeared as a tiny, green bud; through the long, hot days of summer where it had grown to its full, strong, beautiful potential, the tree branch had been its lifeline. While still on the branch, beauty gave way to glory with the onset of fall and the healthy leaf burst forth in a vivid shade of reddish-­orange. She was wonderful! Vibrant! Full of life! Now, however, with the tree retracting its water and preparing for winter rest, the leaf was being sacrificed. Beauty had given way to a dry, withered appearance and gone was any hint of her previous glory. In these last moments of life, she was desperate, frantic, frightened. She was fighting for her life, while at the same time knowing that her death was inevitable. I watched her and imagined her feeling empty and neglected.

I watched as one last gust of wind shook her shriveled stem. In my mind, I even heard her let out a cry as the connection between herself and the tree was severed. I wondered, "Was she forcefully blown from her lifeline? or did she willingly let go?". It was as if the pain she felt as her current self, mourning the loss of her previous self, was so agonizing that she gave up the will to live. Was she so hollow inside that she chose to put up no resistance to that last chilly wind gust? I also wondered if, as she was spiraling slowly to the cold earth below, she remembered herself as she had been. Beautiful. Wonderful. Glorious. Full of Life. I recall saying aloud, "That leaf is me..." as she found her final resting place atop the decaying carcasses of previously fallen leaves.

Eight weeks before I imagined myself as that dying leaf, I had given birth to my third child. A gift. A treasure. A baby girl. A life that had grown inside me and filled me with hopes and dreams of how she would look, who she would grow up to be and what joys she would bring to our family. Why was it, then, that my precious infant daughter was inside the house napping while I was outside dying along with that leaf? She was seldom in my arms. Why did the sound of her fussing make my heart race so fast I thought I'd faint? I sought refuge in my 2-­year old son's closet, surrounded by his stoic army men, wishing they could vanquish the enemy that was warring inside of me. Why was I seeing things in shades of gray instead of color? I wasn’t ever hungry. Why did I prefer solitude and sleep to interaction and activity? I didn’t even have the strength to lift my arms above my head in the shower to shampoo my hair. Why did it take me nearly an hour to force myself out of bed each day?  Holding a conversation was an exercise in frustration as my usually talkative self seemed to have been put on “mute”. What was this horrifying "funk" I was in and why couldn't I get out? I would fall asleep each night half hoping that I wouldn’t wake up the next morning.

The Diagnosis

The answer to my questions and explanation of my behavior came a few days after my leaf friend died. The answer came from a nurse. The same one who had hooked me up to an EKG machine shortly after I had been rushed to the Emergency Room by my confused and frightened husband. The ER doctors had been baffled by how a healthy 32-­year old was showing signs of severe cardiac distress. No history of heart palpitations. No previous cardiac-­related health issues. No consumption of large amounts of caffeine. No strenuous exercise that would have put me into cardiac overdrive. Just my simple explanation that I was standing by my kitchen counter when, for no apparent reason, my heart seemed to be trying to make its way out of my chest through forceful, agitated, elevated pumping. My head felt like it would explode with each thunderous heartbeat. My breath was labored and heavy. I felt nauseous. I felt dizzy. My limbs went numb.

As the doctors searched for answers, the attentive nurse heard me turn to my husband and ask, through the oxygen mask I was wearing, "I wonder how the baby is?". She approached and asked if I had an infant at home. "Yes.", I weakly replied. She asked how old my baby was. "8 weeks". The nurse looked blurry to me. My head was spinning. Her voice sounded a thousand miles away. She left the room for a minute, then returned with a clipboard. She went through a checklist of questions. Had I been crying more than usual lately? Did I feel hopeless? Had I lost my appetite? Did I not find joy in things that used to make me happy? Was I feeling a sense of despair? Did I have thoughts of suicide? Did I dread spending time with my new baby? Did I feel hostile toward her? And the list went on. I answered "Yes" to every question except for one. Did I hear voices telling me to hurt my baby or other children? The answer to that was a definite "No".

I will never forget her next words. "I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that you aren't having a heart attack. The bad news is that you have clinical postpartum depression". What? Depression? She must be kidding. I had never been depressed a day in my life! I had experienced some "down" days to be sure, but I was otherwise over-­the-­top happy and enthusiastic. Energetic to a fault, perhaps. I had also given birth to two other children without showing any signs of depression. This couldn't be happening to me. Depression could not be happening to me. But it was.

With my diagnosis came a crash-­course in learning everything I could about postpartum depression. It wasn't pretty. I counted myself fortunate that I didn't have postpartum PSYCHOSIS. I felt better knowing I wouldn't be tempted to drown my children in the bathtub anytime soon. It was a dark sense of luck. The shadows consumed me. Over the next several months I floundered. I continued to slowly "die" inside even though I was taking antidepressant medication. As part of my postpartum depression learning curve, I discovered that I would have to try several different antidepressant medications until I found the one that worked with my own, unique body chemistry. I also discovered that I had to give each new medication at least 10 days to see if it would be effective. 10 agonizing days would pass. No change. New medication. 10 more days would pass. No luck. New medication. It was like being on a terrifying merry-­go-­round that never seemed to stop. Just cycle after dizzying cycle of new medications and failure after failure.

I lost hope. I spent countless hours sitting in front of my computer watching the screen­saver fade in and out on family photos from happier times. The amount of tears my body created during those "screensaver sessions" would have filled buckets and buckets. In the photos, I would see myself as I was BEFORE my depression. I would see my smiling face. I would see images of my family engaging in joyful moments together. I would see my life as it WAS. I missed my happy self. I missed those long gone days of blissful innocence before I was introduced to the darkness. Days where I was full of life and everything was perfect. I could only feel myself in the current moment. Defeated. Sad. Withered. Empty. Alone. Hopeless.

A friend once asked me to describe to her how my depression felt and the best summary I could come up with was, "I feel like the real ME has been squashed, stomped on and flattened. Crushed and crammed into the space at the very tip of my pinky toe. The rest of my body feels like a void. A heavy, empty space that has been invaded by shadows and a suffocating darkness.”

Over the multi-­month course of my treatment, I was forced to make some startling admissions. To myself. To my husband. To my therapists. The most disturbing admission was that, on the day I watched my leaf-­self give in to the unforgiving wind; I, too, had decided to let go of my life. My reasoning was that if every day for the rest of my life was going to feel like I felt that day...if every day was going to be the repeated torture of seeing myself as damaged, wounded, pitiful, wretched and robbed of joy; I would rather not live. I planned it out. I knew where I would experience my last exhale. I knew how I would stop myself from ever inhaling again. I even knew what my note would say. "Remember me as I was".

Lessons Learned

The lessons I learned during my journey into, through, and out of the darkness of postpartum depression were not all bad, painful and sad. I learned that I have a strong support system of family and friends. I learned that they love me unconditionally. I learned that my sweet husband would sleep in my 5-­year old daughters bedroom, under her butterfly blanket, with a newborn in a bassinet next to him for 3 months straight because my body would fly into a panic attack if I heard her cry. I learned that sharing a bed with my 5-­year old because daddy was in her room with her baby sister was therapeutic. Her sweet hugs each night would find their way to that little piece of myself crammed into the tip of my pinky toe and make it feel happy, if only for a few moments. I learned that group therapy really works. I also learned that I can win at Monopoly when I am playing against fellow depressives who were taking higher doses of Xanax than I was. I learned to trust those who told me, "Be patient. This will pass. You will be happy again." I learned that it takes exactly 53 days to find out that Paxil is the best antidepressant for me. I learned that Cocoa-­Puff picnics with a 5 and 3-­year old can bring sunlight through the clouds. I learned that Sarah McLachlan's words, "Cast me gently into morning, for the night has been unkind" were my perfect prayer for recovery. I learned that although depression has no obvious visible signs, like a cast on a person with a broken bone; it is still a very real and dangerous illness.

I also learned that, even though I got bumped and bruised, crushed and kicked, left with only sand where my sea of happiness once was; I came out alive. I survived. My sea of happiness was refilled and now brings me wave upon wave of joy. I have the desire to help others who are lost in the great black nothingness like I was.

Not a day goes by when I'm not grateful that I didn't stay at the bottom of an exhale. As I lie flat on my yoga mat, I rejoice with each inhale. I feel each exhale and am acutely aware of the pause between the two. I consciously make sure that the pause never lasts too long before I breathe life-­sustaining oxygen once again into my lungs. Yes, Relaxation pose is definitely my favorite one in yoga and I am taking the liberty of renaming it “Life Affirmation Pose”. So there.

Rees Wiscombe is freelance writer from Pleasant Grove, Utah. Rees is a wife and mother of three.
Contact Information:
reeswiscombe@gmail.com
801.318.3048