Feeling Like a Million Bleahs

The sinking feeling of depression has set in yet again, as I anticipated it would.  I waited for it like I was waiting for a late bus.  No matter how much I hoped, I just knew in my gut there was no way to avoid post-partum depression.

I'm isolated with a baby, a toddler, and a husband who is preoccupied with the excitement/exhaustion of having a new addition to our already energetic family.  My friends have come and gone in limited quantity, and none are staying around this time...the second baby isn't the same.  People just don't think it's that big a deal, and it's definitely not the new experience that always had my heart racing with my first.  But without company, it has become lonely.  I'm looking around for me time and coming up woefully short.

There are some distinct differences with the depression this time around.  It's far less relentless, and it strikes at unpredictable times of the day and for no reason at all.  It's also less consistent than with my first round.  Instead of being a sob-fest of guilt and self-pity, it has manifested itself in a way that is indescribably horrible.

You see, I have these images of my kids being hurt.  My kids, my family, my life...being killed by various, nameless ghouls.  And not just killed, but murdered in ways I do not care to rethink.  It's pretty horrific, and always so unforgivingly graphic, almost cinematic in its clarity.  Sometimes I have to close my eyes tight and shake my head violently to get it out of my mind.  And sometimes, that just doesn't work.

When I mentioned it to my lactation nurse, she said that it was best if I stop watching the news, crime shows, reality crime shows, anything to do with kids being hurt, people being hurt, the world being in turmoil.

So in other words, that excludes all television, radio, print newspapers and/or magazines.  I might as well seal myself up in a bubble and send myself to the North Pole.

I realize that the images and daynightmares are all a part of my psyche trying to process the stress of having a newborn and a toddler and no down time at all.  There's also the stress of no paycheck for over a year, which seems to magnify when I pay the bills and realize we have to dip into our savings to pay Mastercard.

I spoke to my obgyn about it at my last visit.  As she was inspecting the c-section incision (which is healing nicely, thank you) I asked her if she thought I needed to see a therapist.  Surprisingly, she said no.  "I think that's normal."  She said without a hint of concern in her voice.  "I had a friend who had exactly the same thing happen."

The question that sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe is:  Is it better to be crying into my breast pump all day long for months?  Or to live in fear that something will take away everything I have? The saying goes, "The more you have, the more you have to lose."

I guess I have taken that a little too much to heart.