I Wish I Had Known

A young woman’s journey through postpartum depression

As told to Devorie Kreiman

 

My two daughters are three years apart, and they have different mothers. I gave birth to both of them, both births went smoothly, and both girls are perfectly healthy. I had every reason to be happy.

That’s why I was so unprepared for what came next.

I wish I’d known that what happened to me can happen to anyone… that even mothers like me—with no history of mental illness, who are in a healthy marriage and hold a job successfully—can tumble into debilitating postpartum
depression and anxiety. My husband and I were delighted to become parents. Our first child was born during COVID, and I was cooped up in our small apartment during her infancy, but I handled it well. When my second daughter was born, nearly a year ago, I was excited about dressing her in cute outfits, taking her out and showing her off.

From the day she was born, I couldn’t sleep. Not the interrupted sleep of a newborn’s schedule. I couldn’t sleep at all. My baby would fall asleep, and I would lie down and closem my eyes, but then I’d panic about having to wake up soon to feed her and my body would get tight, and I’d have trouble staying calm. I’d watch the numbers on the clock change, and I’d become more and more agitated as the minutes and then the hours passed. I’d obsess: If I fall asleep now, I can get an hour of sleep before she wakes up… if I fall asleep now, I’ll get 45 minutes… now, 30 minutes… Oh, what’s the use of even trying?

After a week of this, I called my obstetrician and told him that my lack of sleep was starting to feel dangerous. My baby was on formula, so I wasn’t worried about taking medication. He prescribed Ambien. I took it for a few weeks and managed to get a few hours of sleep between feedings. I figured we’d solved the problem.

I wish I’d known that inability to sleep after childbirth can be a symptom of a more serious problem.

When our baby was nearly two months old, my husband and I took our daughters to visit my grandparents abroad. We arrived and settled in, but I couldn’t sleep. At all. Even on Ambien. At first, I blamed it on jet lag. But night after night, as I tried to relax, horrible thoughts came to me, and I shook in terror. And I had an eerie sensation of being here but not really being here. This was not jet lag! I dragged myself around in a state of exhaustion and, at the same time, with a jittery energy. We called a local doctor, and he prescribed Klonopin. It helped me fall asleep, but when I woke up the scary thoughts returned along with the disorienting sense of being apart from my body.

I cried to my husband, “We have to fly home. Now! I can’t be here! I don’t know why, but I can’t be here.”

He was shocked. We’d been looking forward to this trip for months. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.” At home, I thought, I’d be more grounded and feel like myself again.

My husband changed our tickets and we flew home a week earlier than we’d planned. The flight was a blur. I kept bursting into tears and couldn’t even look at my kids. We landed on Erev Shabbos. My husband drove straight to my parents’ house and told my mother that I wasn’t well. I collapsed onto her couch and stayed there all Shabbos and Sunday. My mother took care of the kids.

When I got back to my own home, the simple tasks that I’d always done easily became impossible. I couldn’t put a slice of cheese onto a piece of bread for my daughter, couldn’t give my baby her bottle, couldn’t write a mitzvah note to the morah, couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t sleep. It got so bad that I dreaded getting into my bed and stayed on the couch instead. Sometimes, I jumped up and walked back and forth in a frenzy, adding up all the things I was doing wrong. I was a terrible mother, a terrible wife…

My work allowed for a 12-week family leave. During the day, my older daughter went to preschool, my baby went to a babysitter, and I stayed on the couch—a useless lump. In the evenings, my husband, who learns full time, came home to feed the kids and put them to bed. We moved into my parents’ home every Shabbos and often stayed until Sunday night so my mother could watch the kids. When it was time to go back home, I fought the urge to wail like a toddler and refuse to leave. I yearned to ask my mother if I could move into her house until I felt better, but I didn’t because: What would people think? My baby was a few months old, and I was living in my parents’ house?

I wish I’d known that it’s okay to ask for help, okay to accept it..

My siblings became very nervous around me, especially the younger ones. They kept their distance, and even when they spoke to me, they were stiff and overly cautious. We’d always gotten along well, laughed and talked easily, but now they acted like I was a stranger. I can’t say I blame them. I’d stay on the couch crying for hours or lapse into long periods of silence.

If only we’d known as a family that it’s okay to talk about depression and anxiety and how it makes us feel.

Often on Motzaei Shabbos, my husband would insist that I go out with him—just the two of us. Once, we brought the baby along. My husband was at the counter and I waited at the table with the baby—who wouldn’t stop crying. I felt helpless and just sat there, frozen, while my baby shrieked in my arms. An older single girl came up to me and said, “Would you like me to hold your baby so you can eat your pizza?” I put the baby in her arms and felt relief. It stayed with me—that kindness from someone who didn’t even know me.

My husband and I ate our pizza without talking, while our baby fussed in the arms of that sweet girl, and although the memory is a painful one, it also gives me strength. From that interaction, I learned to look around and take notice. Is someone near me having a hard time? I will offer to hold a baby or entertain an older child because I know, firsthand, what a difference it can make.

At home, I was lonely, but I didn’t feel up to having conversations with my friends. Besides, what would I say?

I wish I’d known that all I had to do was share what I was going through and ask my friends to come visit me; it would have been a welcome distraction.

I tried grocery shopping, but I got so panicked at the idea of meeting someone who would start a conversation that I abandoned my cart in the aisle and left.

When a friend called to tell me that she had a stock of unopened jars of baby food that I could use for my baby, I told her that I couldn’t come to pick them up. She lives ten minutes away. I could hear the surprise in her voice. “You’re not working, right? Why can’t you just stop by to get them?” I didn’t know how to tell her that the thought of going to my closet, choosing an outfit, putting on a sheitel and leaving the house made me dizzy. I mumbled something about not feeling well and hung up.

I walked around in a haze of confusion. I’d forget if I made a brachah before eating, forget how to cook even the simplest recipes that I’d made hundreds of times. Once, I took out the garbage. It felt monumental. At the same time, I remember thinking in disgust that I was so far gone that I craved a “Taking Out the Garbage Award.”

I wish I’d known that my effort did deserve to be acknowledged because, in the throes of depression, when you’re living without sleep, every action is noteworthy.

My family tried to help. My mother called me every single day, and we spent every Shabbos and most Sundays at her house. One of my sisters offered to make dinner for us once a week for as long as we needed it. At first, I was embarrassed. What a nebach! Having dinner sent every week! But it was a real help. We knew that we didn’t even have to think about dinner on Wednesdays. Another sister sent iced coffee and Danishes from time to time, which always gave me a lift.

My husband prepared most of the meals and did the shopping and laundry. He also took care of the kids in the morning and dropped our older daughter at school and the baby at the sitter before he left the house to learn. He came home in middle of the day to make me lunch. I didn’t want him to miss his last seder, so I made a monumental effort to take care of the kids by myself until he got home in the evening.

When I was alone with the kids, I went through the motions, but only the barest minimum. I put food in front of my daughter and gave the baby her bottle. Everything else—giving baths, reading books, playing a game, hugging them—was too hard. Reaching up to take down a box of arts and crafts for my daughter… too hard. Putting ketchup on a bowl of macaroni that my husband had prepared for her in advance… too hard.

The “old me” had delighted in the parshah projects that my daughter brought home from preschool. Now I pasted an interested expression on my face and recited my lines like a robot, “Oooh. Nice. So proud.” I used to love listening to music, but that, too, irritated me. I was a “mother of stone,” unsmiling and silent. Occasionally, I lost patience and yelled at my little ones, and immediately, the guilt twisted inside me like a knife. I didn’t allow myself to say it out loud, but what went through my mind a lot of the time was, I hate being with my kids.

I wish I’d understood that what I really hated was being with myself…

A few times, I thought about calling Hatzalah and crying out for help. But then I realized that I’d probably end up in a psych ward. The idea of being locked away paralyzed me.

I thought about the mothers I knew. Some had many children. They all seemed to have their act together. I thought, What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I manage with only two kids who aren’t even home most of the day?

My three-year-old daughter came to me one afternoon while I was curled up on the couch and asked, “Mommy, you’re still sick?” Because when she was sick, it lasted a few days, or at most a week or two. Whereas in my case…

One night, I watched my husband feed the baby, and I said bitterly, “I don’t know why you’re still married to me.”

He said, “You’re going through a hard time. We’ll get help.” And so we began the search for help. I’d read that losing weight could improve my mood, so I booked a series of consultations with a nutritionist. She helped me set up a food plan, but I wasn’t up to making salads and cutting fruit. I went through my days crying and grabbing cookies and chips and anything that was on hand that tasted good. My weight soared.

I went to see my doctor, who has known me since I was a child. I told him all my symptoms and asked if I should take medication. Here’s what he said: “You don’t need medication. What you are experiencing is normal. You had a baby, and you’re tired and overworked. It’s called Jewish Mother Syndrome, or JMS. Just tell yourself that you’re not sick.”

I called my mother on the way home, giddy with hope. “I have Jewish Mother Syndrome. It’s normal. I’m not sick.” My mother and I chattered happily for a while.

Normal. Normal is good!

I felt good.

It lasted an hour. Then I was on the couch again. Crying. Yelling. My husband found another doctor—who, after seeing me, prescribed Lexapro, a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, or SSRI, used to treat depression. On the one hand, I was ashamed. How could I take these pills? I imagined going to my doctor or dentist for a separate health issue and being asked what medications I was on and having to answer that I took antidepressants. Horror! On the other hand, I was desperate, and the idea of a pill felt miraculous. I could swallow it and feel better!

The Lexapro made me so nauseous that I lost even the minimal function I’d had. I threw up everything I ate and drank—including water. In an almost funny irony, I went to my appointment with my nutritionist, and she saw that I’d lost six pounds in a week. She said, “Great! Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” I didn’t tell her that what I was doing was vomiting around the clock because I was reacting to my medication for depression… A few days later, I stopped taking Lexapro.

My sister-in-law came over one day and insisted on taking me outside. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and breezy, and I felt a bit better just being outdoors. I also started journaling every day, which offered some release, though a lot of what I wrote was garbled and repetitive.

I started therapy through an organization, but the therapist and I weren’t a good match. I tried another therapist. Same story. Now, looking back, I realize that therapy on its own could not possibly have been enough.

I went back to the doctor. He prescribed Zoloft, another SSRI. He didn’t tell me that my depression could get worse on the medication before it got better and that it’s best to start on half a dose and work up tolerance. Although it’s possible that he did tell me that but I wasn’t focused enough to take it in. The Zoloft also made me nauseous. I tried to keep taking it, but I kept vomiting and my anxiety intensified. I lay in bed thinking about dying. I never planned to take my own life, chas v’shalom, but I fantasized about scenarios such as getting into someone else’s car and being in a car accident. Anything that would take me away from this world, from this suffering.

I called the doctor and told him I couldn’t handle the medication, and he told me to stop taking it. I wish he’d encouraged me to tough it out. I wish he’d reminded me that it takes about four to six weeks to start working. I wish I’d understood that mental illness can be managed with the right combination of medication and therapy.

When my baby was 12 weeks old, my maternity leave was up. I was scared to go back to work, but we needed the parnasah. I notified my office of the date of my return and went shopping for new clothes—hoping that if I looked nice I’d be less miserable. In the clothing store, I pulled on skirts and shirts but was unable to make myself care about how any of the outfits looked. The thought kept coming up: You are sick. It’s a mistake to go back to work.

I wish I’d trusted myself enough to listen.

I work in a busy office. I used to love socializing during the workday. On my first day back, my coworkers greeted me warmly and asked to see photos of the baby. I held out a photo and then ran to the bathroom to cry. When I got back to my desk, I had trouble concentrating on my work. I spent most of my workday shaking and sobbing in the bathroom.

On my way home, I cried so hard that I couldn’t see the road. At one point, as I waited at a corner, the tears poured down my face. Suddenly, I was jolted by a crashing sound and felt my car rock back and forth. Someone had backed into me, and I hadn’t seen him coming. Later, the insurance company ruled that he was at fault and compensated me because he’d backed into me, but I wondered: If I’d been more alert instead of crying so much, perhaps I could have beeped at him as he got closer and prevented the accident. After that, I avoided driving. When I had no choice, I took one of my younger sisters with me. It was the only way I felt safe behind the wheel.

My husband was solidly supportive. When I went into crying jags or started to panic, he calmed me, promised to keep looking for the right doctor, the shaliach who would help me heal.

When my baby was six months old, we found our shaliach—a top-level psychiatrist. When we called her office, we were told that she had no available appointments for months. My parents worked their connections in the community, and I got to see her right away. While this was good news for me, I’m sad that it works this way. I wish that everyone who’s struggling would have access to quality care—whether they have “pull” or not.

The doctor listened carefully to my symptoms and diagnosed me with postpartum depression and postpartum anxiety, PPD/A. She prescribed Prozac, another SSRI, which I started at a very low dose of 10 mg and increased gradually after the first two weeks. She also renewed my prescription for Klonopin to counteract the side effects of the Prozac, and she advised me to stop working. I applied for disability and, baruch Hashem, was able to get paid while staying home from work.

On Prozac, I slept the day away. It was as if I was catching up on half a year of sleep. I didn’t see my children in the morning and didn’t get out of bed until the middle of the day—when my husband came home to make sure I got up and to bring me something to eat.

I went back to the psychiatrist four weeks after I started Prozac. When she asked, “How are you feeling?” I exploded. “The meds are not working!” She reassured me, “It takes four to six weeks for the medication to start working, and your dose was very low for the first two weeks, so it may take a little longer. Stay the course.”

I jumped up and ran to the door. “You’re not helping!” But I kept taking the medication, and I marked the days on a calendar—waiting for the magical six-week deadline.

The doctor was right. After six weeks on the medication, the sun glowed bright and warm on me for the first time in months, and my gloom began to dissipate. I started to get out of bed in the mornings, said goodbye to my kids before they left, and was pleasant to my husband.

One day, my older daughter was sick, and I went out to buy her a new book to cheer her up. While I was out, my mother called for her daily check-in. I told her, “I’m at the Judaica store buying a book for Chanale.” My mother cried from joy.

I shopped at the grocery store without worrying that I would faint if someone spoke to me. I hung up a load of laundry, made a phone call to a friend, and, eventually, I prepared Shabbos at home for my family. I was so proud of myself as I set the table for our very own Shabbos meal.

It wasn’t easy to do “normal,” and I still wasn’t doing as much as I’d done before PPD/A. For example, when I was talking to a friend, she said casually, “I’m in the middle of making kugel,” and a wave of despair washed over me. I can’t make kugel. I can’t do anything that involves more than one or two steps. All the other mothers are better than me. But then I reminded myself of how far I’d come.

I found another therapist, this one in private practice. It was expensive but worth every penny.

Slowly, I learned how to be a mother again, to play on the floor with my baby, to bake with my older daughter, and to take joy in my children.

My baby’s first birthday is approaching. I haven’t returned to work yet. My older daughter has been acting out lately, and I think I know why. My heart aches for her; it must have been terrifying to have “Mommy Monster” in the house for almost a year, so I’m giving her a lot of attention and trying to reassure her that I love her and will take care of her properly. And my baby—I hold her a lot and kiss her and whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m
sorry.”

My siblings and I haven’t gotten back to the easy rapport and laughter that we used to have. Even though my mother explained PPD/A to them and they can see that I’m doing much better, they’re still uncomfortable around me. Maybe they’re worried that I’ll go crazy without warning, the way I did before. I hope, at some point, that we can talk it through and reconnect.

I’m on 40 mg of Prozac a day. My doctor recommends that I begin to lower the dose slowly until I’m fully weaned off it. I stopped the Klonopin because I was concerned that it would be addictive. Instead I take Trazodone to help me sleep.

I’m sharing my story because I wish I’d read an article like this one early on in my struggle. I know that Hashem is in charge and that everything happens for our own good. I’ve started to learn a sefer on emunah; it helps me deal with the regrets of the past and the fear of the future.

When I asked about the risks of PPD/A recurring in other pregnancies, my doctor advised me to start medication toward the end of my next pregnancy as a precaution. Although that’s scary, it’s also comforting. There are answers and refuos.

Studies show that about ten percent of women worldwide experience postpartum depression and/or postpartum anxiety. When I hear about a woman in the neighborhood who’s feeling “down” after giving birth, I reach out and ask if she’s up for a visit, and I offer to watch her children.

It’s strange. When I go to the pharmacy to pick up my medications, I still get nervous twinges and hope the people behind me don’t hear what the pharmacist is giving me. I’ve discussed my PPD/A with a few close friends. One of them admitted that she, too, takes an SSRI—but she hasn’t told her parents or siblings about it. Why? If it was strep or diabetes, we wouldn’t feel ashamed. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I’m sharing my story here, but I’m not divulging my name, because we still have a ways to go when it comes to removing the stigma of mental illness.

I’m dreaming of the day when we can approach mental health concerns openly, unafraid to ask for support and to accept it. I’d like to create a program to help mothers with PPD and/or PPA and to nurture them. Wouldn’t it be nice if, at the very least, someone drops off iced coffee and a Danish to a mother who’s struggling? And wouldn’t it be even better if someone stays around to listen? And offers information and resources and encouragement?

The mental health battle is hard enough. No one should have to do it alone.