≡ Menu

the one about anti-depressants and breastfeeding

pride comes before the fall

(I was all proud of myself for parallel parking for the first time in 12 years and then locked my keys AND MY BABY in the van.) (Right before I went in to talk to my doctor about my anxiety.) (THE ANXIETY WAS HIGH.)

It was going to be different this time. I’d stopped nursing Kaylie when she was 8 months old because of work and a new boyfriend. (I chose to stop, he did not make me – and I was completely fine with stopping). I wanted to nurse Liliana longer, but made it only to 7 months because of work and other commitments that kept me away from her for most of the day. Noah was on parental leave and was home with her. I had a really hard time with it. I wanted to keep nursing Liliana, but circumstances were against us. (I’d get into all the reasons I had to stop, but I might make this post about being angry about those things and, well, … moving on.)

This time, though, this time I had a plan. I was going to nurse this baby until he was about 14 months, long enough that he didn’t need any formula and I could wean him right onto cow’s milk. Formula is expensive and has to be prepared and carried everywhere whereas breastfeeding is free and convenient, always there and always the right temperature.

It’s not working out like I’d planned. My anxiety and depression, while they were in remission for a number of months, reappeared during my pregnancy with Preston. They call it anti-partum depression, but what is the difference between regular depression, anti-partum depression, and post-partum depression? They’re all the same to me. It’s all depression and it all sucks.

I can’t explain it. I wasn’t depressed about being pregnant. I mean, I don’t particularly like being pregnant, at all, but I was very much looking forward to the end result of that pregnancy — the baby. I wasn’t depressed about having a newborn — it’s my favorite part. Whereas some moms can’t wait for the baby year(s) to be over, I wish they’d last a little longer. I’m completely happy with my husband, my girls, my boy; I want for nothing. It’s not my circumstances that are making me depressed. It’s my head. My mind. My psyche is sick.

I finally caved to Noah’s requests and made an appointment with my doctor. I was nervous, because I knew what the outcome would be. I knew he’d put me on medication and I knew I couldn’t take that medication and continue nursing Preston. I also knew, though, that I didn’t have a choice.

I made an appointment for Tuesday morning. I showed up early, which was a good thing, because I locked my keys and my baby in the van. I locked my crying baby in the van BY HIMSELF. I don’t know if I was distracted because I’d just parallel parked for the first time in 12 years or because I was nervous about the appointment, but somehow I found myself outside the van without my keys and without my baby. Thankfully, I had my phone in my bag and frantically made a couple calls. Noah showed up 20 minutes later with keys. I spent that longest-20-minutes-of-my-life watching my baby cry in his car seat, by himself, while I tried to make faces at him to cheer him up. (It didn’t work.) Is it irony that I had an intensely anxiety-filled thing happen moments before I saw my doctor about my anxiety?

Categories: anxiety/depression, parenting is hard

Comments on this entry are closed.

Next post:

Previous post: