My Recovery Story – Part II

Shadows from the umbrella danced on my legs while I hid in plain sight. I watched the world go on from my lounge chair by the pool, wishing I could melt into the seething white cement without anyone noticing. I didn’t check my watch; I had no interest in knowing how long I had been there. Playful shrieks floated up from the pool while a woman walked by with her newborn. The tiny baby nestled in her arms as she watched her other children launch into cannonballs from the side of the pool.

She beamed.
I silently wept.

My mind buzzed with relentless agitation and raged against the unfairness. I would never know that kind of joy. All I could do was park myself within arm’s reach of humanity, cry, and wait for Nortriptyline to quietly breathe life back into my ravaged brain. This was my second time fighting Major Depression.

Four months prior, I was stable—stable to the point that my doctor, husband, and I decided I could try weaning off my antidepressant. It had been four years since I was first diagnosed and went into remission, and I had worked hard to maintain my wellness. Quite honestly, I had worked hard to even like myself again. Now, we dreamed of moving on and starting a family. My goal was to accomplish this without Nortriptyline, and I hoped I was healed to the point I wouldn’t have to take it again.

I weaned very gradually over four months, relapsed at the end, and had to go back on my medication—for good. The suffering was real: extreme side effects from starting the medicine again, depression itself, and thinking I would never become a mom. And so, I spent many hours sitting next to that neighborhood pool with the warm sunshine wrapping itself around me. It was the closest thing I had to hope.

My recovery was won in small steps over time. I made the commitment to take Nortriptyline every day and keep regular appointments with my psychiatrist and psychologist. I let go of the idea that it wasn’t natural to take daily medication to be myself, and instead appreciated it for the freedom it gave me to be my best self.

I confronted my fears about taking an antidepressant during pregnancy, passing on depression, and being a good mother. This involved finding the best mental health care in our region and seeking a consultation from a maternal-fetal health expert. In my case, there were very few risks. It would not be considered a high-risk pregnancy. Truly believing I was fit to be a mom took longer, but therapy helped me separate the facts from my fears. On my good days, I would visualize myself in the hospital delivery room with my husband, holding our newborn for the very first time. On the challenging days, I would carefully tuck that dream in the back of my mind. I placed it out of sight so I wouldn’t dwell on what I didn’t have, knowing that I could easily summon it when I was ready to move forward again.

I realized that I would be a better mom for having battled depression. The simple acts of getting out of bed each morning and giving a good morning kiss to my newest love would not be taken for granted. I’d have more compassion for everything from stubbed toes to moody streaks and broken hearts. Depression has given me patience, which would certainly come in handy while pacifying tantrums and waiting for those tiny fingers to pick up every last Cheerio. I’ve undoubtedly gained the humility to ask for help at the first sign of needing it. I figured if I had the stamina and determination to survive being secretly unwell, I could be a tremendously capable mom when feeling well with full support.

Was I ready to become a mom despite depression? The final answer came to me on a wintry Saturday morning run in 2015. My footprints blazed the trail in the pristine snow, and ice glistened on the bare tree branches overhead. Playful shrieks floated up from a nearby hill where families had gathered to sled. Parents chatted on the hilltop while their bundled children flew down the slope with excitement.

They beamed.
So did I.

I knew that I was ready to share the beauty of life with our children—as perfectly imperfect as life may be.

~Sixteen months later~

recovery-2-pic

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “My Recovery Story – Part II

  1. When those hard moments come, keep reminding yourself that you are worthy to be your child’s mother. No one can do what you can for this child. And you are deserving of every happiness that comes with being a mother. Thank you for sharing 🙂

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s