PPD

I never felt comfortable around kids. They seemed too needy, too whiny and they never smiled at me.

So when I found myself pregnant at 20, I wasn’t too happy. In fact, I do believe the first words that escaped my mouth once I saw “Pregnant” on the pee-soaked test was, “Oh, s&#@.”

To say that a baby wasn’t in the plans was the understatement of my life.

I actually didn’t even have health insurance when I found out I was pregnant because my mom was between jobs and my dad’s job didn’t offer it. All these voices in my head started snickering, “Some mother YOU’LL make. Don’t even have health insurance for the baby.”  That was the first time I actually felt like a failure as a mom and the journey had barely begun.

Luckily, my mom was able to sign me up for health insurance through her new job and hook me up with the amazing group of OB/GYNs at Hillcrest Hospital. They took great care of me physically.

But emotionally? I was a mess. I felt like having this baby signified the end of my life.

I simply wasn’t ready to be a mother. I honestly didn’t want to be a mother. Not at that time.

I wanted to get married first.

I wanted to graduate from college first, and not have to worry about how I was going to manage my fall semester when my due date fell in the middle of November.

I wanted to have an actual JOB first, not scrape together paychecks here and there from various on-campus gigs.

My due date came and went with no signs of my little one making preparations to come introduce herself. I felt like it was my fault she was late, because she could sense her mommy wasn’t ready to meet her and she was giving me a few more days to get my act together.

When I was later induced, something went wrong and I ended up having a fever of 104, which required an emergency C-section since I wasn’t ready to push. They needed to get the baby out now, they told me. It could be an infection that’s causing the fever. I took a deep breath and said, “Well, here we go.”

As impersonal as the C-section was, I was in awe of her once I finally saw her. No, I didn’t feel that immediate bond with her, but I…liked her? I wanted to get to know her? I’m struggling to put it into words, but I knew this little girl could become the love of my life if I gave it time.

When the nurse handed her to me a few hours later in the nursery I wanted to cry. Not from joy, but fear.

I remember thinking, “Oh, my God. How can they not see that I’m not ready for this? Please Lord don’t let me screw this up!”

When they discharged me from the hospital with nary a Motherhood-readiness test, I began my new role as Mommy. It didn’t help that my husband (then boyfriend) was a pro. He knew just how to hold her. Had just the right amount of patience. Never had a meltdown because the diaper slipped off.

I told myself that he didn’t have the copious amounts of hormones surging through his body so that was my excuse for being so crazy.

For the first full year of her life, I struggled. Most of my friends and family don’t know it, but I struggled. I never really felt like I knew what I was doing, I would get flustered over the simplest things, I would wonder on the daily what my life would have been like if I hadn’t given birth.

There were times I’d have to take her with me to class because we didn’t have a sitter and my classmates kept acting like my daughter was a doll. Each wanted to have a turn to hold her and play with her, like later, if they were lucky, they’d get to play dress-up with her. I wanted to scream, “This isn’t cute! I haven’t slept in three months, none of my clothes fit, and she had a crying fit on the way over here that still has my nerves on edge.”

It didn’t take long to realize that I had a case of postpartum depression. I think my husband knew before I did. He kept asking was everything okay, and I would put on a fake smile and lie through my teeth. “I’m fine, why do you ask?”

But everything WASN’T fine and I WASN’T okay. I felt alienated from all my friends, thrust into motherhood without getting a chance to say goodbye to my freedom.

But as strange as it sounds, part of the reason I was depressed was that I loved my daughter more than anything.

I wanted nothing more than to make her life easier, happier, better. I wanted to give her the best of everything, but I was still in school and my husband was still in his first job out of grad school. We weren’t the most financially stable couple you’d ever seen. We still lived in the dorm. Let me say that again: WE LIVED IN THE DORM. Not in the couples’ or family housing. In the dorm. With freshmen. (Where my husband worked in residence services.)

Can you imagine that? We’d have to get up at 3 a.m. and leave the building because one of the stupid students would pull the fire alarm as a prank. Imagine waking up an infant (who JUST got to sleep!) and heading outside at 3 a.m. in January, because you don’t know if it’s just a prank or if it’s a real fire and you can’t afford to take that risk.

On top of that, I had no job. And with journalism jobs drying up left and right, I was nervous that I’d actually be able to get one.

I would cry almost daily, thinking about how much I missed my old life. I had a plan and having my daughter at this time wasn’t in it. Now I was all off track for accomplishing everything I had ever wanted to do in my life.

The fog began to lift slightly after I graduated from college, when my daughter was about six months old. When I took a picture of her with my cap on, it made all the difference in the world.

It made me realize that her presence didn’t detract from my life, it made me stronger, more determined and more focused. Everything I’ve done since her birth, everything I’ve accomplished I owe it all to her. Thanks, sweetie! You and your brother make Mommy better!