Just before our son was born, my husband and I moved to a new town over an hour from the one we’d called home for four years. I was isolated and alone in a new place with no friends, no close family, and no support. My husband drove my car to work, so my only transportation was a beat-up old pick-up truck with no air conditioning and no safe place to latch a carseat. I was alone with my son from the time we woke up until 7 every night, when my husband got home. Still recovering from an emergency C-section, I had no one to help me with housework or cooking, no one to hold the baby so I could shower, no Meal Train or frozen casseroles from friends.
I was alone with my baby and my thoughts and it was terrifying.
I’d lie awake in the middle of the night, afraid to go to sleep, convinced that my son would stop breathing, that the few weeks I’d had with him would be the only time I got. I hovered and fretted, checking his breathing constantly. I stayed awake until I was physically unable to keep my eyes open, only to wake with a start a few hours later, panicking that I’d drifted off and left him alone.
I had postpartum anxiety, although at the time I didn’t even know that postpartum anxiety existed. Postpartum depression, sure—all new mothers read about the horrors of PPD, the baby blues x 1,000. It was on my radar and contributed to my worries: What if I developed PPD and was unable to care for him? What if my depression got so bad that I had to be hospitalized? Who would feed him and change him and love him while I was away? Postpartum anxiety is characterized by irrational worry and fear, intrusive thoughts, insomnia, racing thoughts, and an overabundance of caution about everything.
There was nothing wrong with my son. No medical problems, no delays, nothing at all that would indicate he might not be well. He was a robust, healthy five-week-old baby who was developmentally on track. Still, I obsessed over his health. I pored over baby books and articles. I lurked in new mom groups where desperate mothers told stories of their own babies’ illnesses and failures to thrive. I scoured the internet for every bit of information I could find on caring for a newborn.
I was consumed with his well-being and I was tormented by worry and guilt and shame because I was struggling. I was convinced that I was failing and that something awful was destined to happen to him because of my failures. I waited every day for social services to knock at my door and tell me I was unfit because he wasn’t napping well or because he cried and was fussy. I cried constantly and was overwhelmed with worry.
My mind was constantly swirling with intrusive thoughts, thoughts that, even now, I don’t like to admit I had during that first year. I waited for him to get sick, to die, to be taken away. I waited for the doctors to tell me he had a horrible disease. I waited for my husband to take him and leave. I was convinced that some unimaginable thing was just around the corner.
A year after he was born, we moved again, this time to a larger town with more options for mothers with young children. Where we’d been before, a tiny town with a population of less than 5,000 mostly working-class people, didn’t have much in the way of mom groups or library programs. The majority of families had two working parents and kids in daycare. Our new home was different, and I was able to find and join mom’s group where I met a few mothers with kids the same age as my son. They don’t know it, but they saved my life. After a year of constant anxiety and fear, I finally had a support network. I finally had experienced mothers who could answer my questions and help calm my fears. I had friends. I had relief.
A few months later, when my son was around 18 months old, I finally recognized that my experiences weren’t the norm. None of the mothers I’d befriended worried like I did or had anxiety attacks over everyday things like rashes or teething or milestones. So I saw a doctor about my symptoms. I was diagnosed with PPD and PPA and referred to a therapist. The fog finally lifted. I could see my son for the amazing little boy he was and not as a source of fear or anxiety. My worries calmed to normal, typical mom levels and, thankfully, after my second child was born, I was aware enough of the symptoms of PPA and PPD to overcome them.