The Stranger in the Mirror

As long as I can remember I have wanted to be a mom. And that doesn’t mean when I turned 20 – it means since the time my memories began taking shape as a child. At four years old when my brother was born, I would pull the rocking chair in his nursery over to his crib and drag his tiny belly over the sides every morning. Sometimes I would even climb in with him. That feeling never went away. I started babysitting at 11 and loved every minute of it. I always dreamed of growing up, getting married and having lots of kids (at least four).

I had an amazing pregnancy. No vomiting. No stretch marks. Minimal weight gain. (Before you decide to hate me, please keep reading.) It was 41 ½ weeks (yes, you read that correctly) of sweet anticipation and excitement for the life I was growing inside me.

The day my son was born is one I will never forget. My husband was stuck at my side guiding me with his silent strength, coaching me through the process which ended with him catching our son in his arms. We called out at the same time “It’s a boy” as we suddenly – and immediately – became a family.

From the outside, the days, weeks and months that followed that day likely seemed picture perfect. After all, I had everything I had ever wanted. I was part of the club…I was a mom.

So why did I feel so far away from myself?

It started with mild anxiety. Traffic. Errands with a newborn. Then a near panic attack on an international flight. My mind wouldn’t focus. I tried to reason with my very self-aware self. Nothing worked.

I started seeing a therapist. I told her to move quickly and push me through the process. The sooner I could be back to myself, the better. Then she took me to a place I wasn’t ready to go. I fell deeper. And I stopped going.

A year later, a female guest at a friend’s wedding was being nice to my husband. Nice. I couldn’t handle it. I was afraid of losing him. Afraid I wasn’t good enough anymore. Wasn’t fun enough. These thoughts scared me. They weren’t me. It was as if some stranger had taken over my brain. I called my therapist immediately and asked to come back. She welcomed me with open arms, and promised to take it slow. Neither of us knew just how fragile I was before.

Therapy helped. It gave me a safe place to unravel as I got worse. The words “anxiety” and “depression” quickly become all too familiar to me. They began defining who I was. I couldn’t go anywhere without them tagging along. The fear soon set in that I had lost myself forever. My sweet son would never know the woman I used to be when I dreamt about being his mother. My husband had lost the woman he loved more than anything…his partner. I was a shell of who I used to be. It was terrifying.

I became thin – no, skinny. Anxious. Scared. Insecure. Sad.

Months went by. I was committed to healing, but scared – frightened – of taking medication to get there. I tried acupuncture. I went to doctors. I got worse.

All the while my therapist stuck by my side. Committed to helping me cope. To find my way back. Funny thing is, she didn’t even know who I was before – but she wouldn’t give up trying to. The day she convinced me was one of the best days in recent memory. She told me drugs would allow me to stop gripping so hard. Would allow me to let go. At least help me heal. You see, it’s hard to heal when you’re holding on so tight. I could sit back, even if just a little.

It’s been about six months now since I let go. I bought a house and moved my family 1,000 miles to a new city. A few months ago I laughed so hard I cried while watching an episode of Modern Family. That’s when I knew it. I was coming back.

Laughing feels good again. Loving my son feels amazing. Trusting and appreciating my husband is a sweet gift.

In my wildest dreams I never thought this sort of thing could hit me. Not the girl who wanted this so bad. Not the one with the picture-perfect pregnancy and delivery. I never dreamed it would be this hard. That I would go so far away from who I was. Who I wanted to be. But, post-partum doesn’t discriminate.

I am still terrified by the thought of having a second child. I have an internal reaction every time a friend tells me she’s pregnant for the second time. Those feelings of inadequacy and the fear of being a bad mother can creep up without warning. But, I’m choosing my life first. And my son’s. And sweet husband. We are all healing.

And I’m learning that’s a process.