Mother's Little Helper

I just turned 35. I guess that’s okay with me, but it’s strange because it is the age I imagine my parents to be when I think of my childhood. And as a kid I had this sense of safety and trust in my parents that I didn’t need to question. Never in a million years would I have considered that my parents did not know what they were doing, but instead were just making it up as they went along. I could definitely admit they made mistakes (more so than my brothers as I was a pretty precocious little stinker), but never would I think that they needed HELP.

Now I’m 35, and sometimes I need help.

Let’s talk antidepressants. There’s been a lot of shame associated with them for many years. Even though mental health is seen as a more legitimate part of overall health than in the past, the stigma is still pretty entrenched. A lot of people think antidepressants are for people that can not handle life. That they signed up for the course, not fully understanding how hard it was, and they failed. And, that if they have to resort to such EXTREME steps they certainly can’t be trusted to handle anything else life has to throw at them. While it is true that stress often precedes depression, I think it is more accurate to call depression another challenge to handle; it's another form of stress rather than a coping-with-stress FAIL.

I’ve had the Rolling Stones song “Mother’s Little Helper” in my mind all week, especially the lines “she goes running for the shelter of her ‘mother’s little helper’ and it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day.” Why? Because I ran out of my Zoloft prescription and had a hell of a time without it, yet I kept not finding time to go get a refill. And, I guess I must have felt a little ashamed. My son is 16 months old. Surely, post partum depression is over by now. I should not have to rely on this chemical substance to get my head right, should I? Well, except there is such a thing as withdrawals—you’re not supposed to go cold turkey. Also, I am still nursing the little babe. Oh, how he loves to nurse. I’m kind of over it by now, but I just melt when he sticks out that bottom lip and points to what he wants. Anyway, nursing means my hormones are still not back to normal.

So, the battling thoughts. Well I did some quick research and the “little yellow pill” spoken of by Mick Jagger is valium. Not an antidepressant, but a sedative meant to dull senses. Maybe this is already obvious to everyone out there, but it helped me a bit to make the clear distinction. The kind of antidepressant I take is an SSRI –Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. It keeps serotonin from being reabsorbed in the brain, which helps brain cells send and receive messages and improves mood. According to “my” therapist (I only saw her once), if you don’t have an imbalance of serotonin, then the medication should do nothing. Therefore if it does help your mood, that’s how you know you HAD a serotonin imbalance. So it’s pretty simple. An antidepressant corrects an imbalance. Just like if you have a thyroid imbalance you’ll take something to correct that. What causes the imbalance in the first place is a whole other discussion.

So, back to me, since this is my blog. I have worried that my post partum depression may someday be called depression (minus the post partum). It worries me a bit, because that means it’s permanent. But, then, so is diabetes or many other types of treatable illnesses that people live with. It kind of stinks, but it will not make my life any less fantastic. If anything, it should motivate me to seize joy.

I’m a little hesitant about this next part, but . . . this is me, right now, without the SSRI (luckily this is infrequent): I feel tense always. Physically I feel as though my teeth and hands are clenched, though they are not. My precocious destructive three-year-old breaks something or hurts her brother and a demon is unleashed. I can almost watch myself shouting at her and pleading and begging with her to not set off that thing in me that comes out of my mouth and my bones and gnashes its teeth and stomps on everything. Yes I'm just talking about shouting, but it's shouting that doesn't feel okay. I try to tell myself to take it easy. It’s a very good thing I have made a commitment to never spank my kids or touch them in any negative way. Yes, that kid needs discipline. Frequently. But she needs that from an adult who has some self control.

I know this might sound weird to some because my depression manifests as anger, but whatever you want to call it (Post-partum Anger is a thing), more serotonin is definitely my friend.

Me, now, with the drugs: Despite my fears and worries prior to starting antidepressants, I feel more like myself WITH the stuff. I have a much, much, much, much longer fuse and a better functioning brain. I can discipline with calm. I don’t feel any rage boiling under the surface. I can relax. Physically I feel . . . just normal.

This is no mother’s "little" helper. This is what saves me and makes me an okay mom, even a good one maybe? This makes PPD something I can master. This also makes it possible for me to think about having another child. I love my kids so, so, so much and I don’t feel quite done. I do still hope that when I finally get the babe weaned I will be able to ditch the drugs completely, partially just because my memory is poor, but whatever the case I am not going to give up and say I can't handle life.

I’m 35 now and sometimes I need help. I’m pretty sure that’s okay.