U
UbiCaritas
Guest
I had PPD badly after DD was born two years ago. I thought I wouldn’t have to deal with it this time. This time, I got help, I talked to DH, I got on antidepressants, which I’ve been taking faithfully every day since DS was born two months ago. Things are better than they were after DD, but not by a huge amount. I’m depressed, but at least I’m not suicidal.
I had a C-section with DD. I had hoped for a VBAC with DS, but when he hadn’t come after his due date passed, I had a C-section with him, too. Probably a good thing–from what my OB said, he wouldn’t have likely survived a vaginal birth, either; he had a short cord wrapped tightly around his neck a couple of times.
However, those C-sections have left my uterus thin and scarred. My OB (who is pro-life, pro-big-family, the works) says I can have one more kid, and after that, “we’ll see.” With another pregnancy, I have an increased risk of placenta accreta (where the placenta grows into/through the uterine wall, causing hemorrhage and possibly a hysterectomy) and uterine rupture. I am not a candidate for a vaginal birth for those reasons.
I can’t breastfeed. I just don’t produce much milk, and as long as I lactate, I’m sick all. the. time.–mastitis, pain, abscesses, the works.
All I can think of is what a failure I am. Nothing about my body works as its supposed to. I can’t have the big family DH and I wanted. I can’t breastfeed. Because of my body, we’re facing decades of extremely strict NFP. Can’t even space kids with breastfeeding to give us a year’s respite. And on top of it all, even when I do everything “right”–take antidepressants, eat well, exercise–I’m apparently pretty badly depressed for a year after each baby. Bonus points for the fact that my antidepressant causes weight gain: I’m creating a 700+ calorie deficit via diet and exercise nearly every day, but the weight’s not budging except to creep upward, albeit very slowly. Bloodwork’s normal; it’s the meds.
My in-laws value education and having a big family over nearly everything else, and not only did I go to a bad school and get a pretty silly (in retrospect) degree, I can’t even have more kids. I’m not sure I’m willing to risk getting pregnant again if I have this level of PPD with treatment. Now that we’ve had a boy and a girl, everyone will assume that I’m on birth control if we don’t have more. I’ve already been told by one “friend” that by having my kids via C-section, I’m not “really open to life.”
I’m miserable, discouraged, and desperately need…I don’t know what. Kind words? The promise that in another 8 months, I’ll probably feel better? I know my worth doesn’t depend on my body’s abilities or education or appearance, but in this family, they really seem to. I’m not even 30, but I feel like I’ve failed at life.
Right now, I’m holding onto the promise of going back to school next semester. I can’t wait for that.
I had a C-section with DD. I had hoped for a VBAC with DS, but when he hadn’t come after his due date passed, I had a C-section with him, too. Probably a good thing–from what my OB said, he wouldn’t have likely survived a vaginal birth, either; he had a short cord wrapped tightly around his neck a couple of times.
However, those C-sections have left my uterus thin and scarred. My OB (who is pro-life, pro-big-family, the works) says I can have one more kid, and after that, “we’ll see.” With another pregnancy, I have an increased risk of placenta accreta (where the placenta grows into/through the uterine wall, causing hemorrhage and possibly a hysterectomy) and uterine rupture. I am not a candidate for a vaginal birth for those reasons.
I can’t breastfeed. I just don’t produce much milk, and as long as I lactate, I’m sick all. the. time.–mastitis, pain, abscesses, the works.
All I can think of is what a failure I am. Nothing about my body works as its supposed to. I can’t have the big family DH and I wanted. I can’t breastfeed. Because of my body, we’re facing decades of extremely strict NFP. Can’t even space kids with breastfeeding to give us a year’s respite. And on top of it all, even when I do everything “right”–take antidepressants, eat well, exercise–I’m apparently pretty badly depressed for a year after each baby. Bonus points for the fact that my antidepressant causes weight gain: I’m creating a 700+ calorie deficit via diet and exercise nearly every day, but the weight’s not budging except to creep upward, albeit very slowly. Bloodwork’s normal; it’s the meds.
My in-laws value education and having a big family over nearly everything else, and not only did I go to a bad school and get a pretty silly (in retrospect) degree, I can’t even have more kids. I’m not sure I’m willing to risk getting pregnant again if I have this level of PPD with treatment. Now that we’ve had a boy and a girl, everyone will assume that I’m on birth control if we don’t have more. I’ve already been told by one “friend” that by having my kids via C-section, I’m not “really open to life.”
I’m miserable, discouraged, and desperately need…I don’t know what. Kind words? The promise that in another 8 months, I’ll probably feel better? I know my worth doesn’t depend on my body’s abilities or education or appearance, but in this family, they really seem to. I’m not even 30, but I feel like I’ve failed at life.
Right now, I’m holding onto the promise of going back to school next semester. I can’t wait for that.