It was as if I were being buried alive, sinking in quicksand, unable to find my way out. That's how I felt after the birth of my sixth child. I was irritable; I cried; I was exhausted, yet had trouble sleeping. Getting through each day seemed nearly impossible. My own children avoided me; my husband tiptoed around me. I was convinced that my family and the world would be better off without me.
Once or twice a week I work for a very special organization called NITZA, The Israel Center for Maternal Health. Located in Jerusalem, it provides psychological, physical and emotional support for women with postpartum depression. While I have observed that there are similarities between the women who come to NITZA, there are no concrete rules. A first-time mother is just as likely to come to the clinic as a woman who gave birth to her sixth child.
I suffer from an anxiety disorder which includes bouts of clinical depression. Although this illness is usually hushed up and kept secret, one in ten people suffer right along with me, each in their self-imposed silence. I share my story with the hope of educating others to understand the dynamics of emotional illness and what it’s like to be caught in its tight grip. Perhaps as a result of my words greater sensitivity and compassion will prevail and others will react to a sufferer’s pain accordingly.
"Who told you to stop taking your meds, Moish?" His name was Yekusiel Shemaya Tuvia Moshe Wein. “But you can call me Moish,” he said, with an air of someone who’s been through it enough times that he reflexively explained, “I’m named for a few different elter zeides, and I was also born on Zayin Adar, so my father shlita thought it was a good name. But like I said, just call me Moish.”
How could I wait while the world moved on and I was a ghost of myself — not a mother, not a daughter, not a wife? You know me. That woman in the grocery. The one with the freshly washed wig, crossbody, and trendy sunglasses. Super capable, a great multitasker. I was all of those things. Until I wasn’t. This is my story.
I am laying against the wall with my fingers in my ears. My eyes are closed shut. I feel the pressure of my husband’s hand on my back. Holding my breath for a few moments too long, my teeth are clenched. I never knew I had so many tears. I never knew I could be in a world of people but feel like I am stuck in a box, alone, in the dark.
Summer is still very much in the air. The temperature is warm, we are still on a crazy schedule crazy schedule of no sleep, and we take a look at the calendar and do a double take. Really?!? Elul is almost over?!? Can Rosh Hashana be that close to NOW?
Having a baby generations ago was quite different from how new mothers give birth today. I’m not referring to the delivery itself, I’m referring specifically to the attention given to the new mother. Women would have the baby in her home, surrounded by the love and experience of other women in her family, guided by a trusted midwife. It was an event that was recognized as a time to focus on the new mother just as much for the new baby.
“In these challenging times,” “we’re all in this together,” “stay at home.” If no one has given you permission to scream from hearing these phrases, allow me to do that. Being exasperated does not diminish the value of these statements that are 1) acknowledging what is happening, 2) normalizing the experience and 3) making a plan to be well – that is all perfectly sound messaging. However, it is also perfectly human to be frustrated, angry, exhausted, triggered, sad, and overwhelmed by this world health crisis.
I don’t expect you to wake up in the morning- Doing anything more than closing your eyes and yawning- I don’t except you to scrabble eggs- Or shine anyone’s shoes or make all the beds- I don’t expect you to teach science or math- Or give child number three a one-hour bath- I don’t expect you to have patience all day- I actually don’t expect anything today (or any day).
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