Emily on late onset postpartum depression in the form of anger and rage

February 1, 2021

Content warning: Discussion of postpartum depression, birth trauma, domestic abuse or other tough topics ahead. If you or someone you know is struggling with a postpartum mental health challenge, including postpartum depression or anxiety, call 1-833-9-HELP4MOMS (tel:18009435746)—The National Maternal Mental Health Hotline This free, confidential service provides access to trained counselors and resources 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in English, Spanish, and more than 60 other languages. They can offer support and information related to before, during, and after pregnancy.

Speaking My Secret of Late Postpartum Depression

I took in the view before me: a standard exam table with its fresh tissue paper cover, a blue disposable pillowcase and extended stirrups with athletic socks covering the angled foot holds. My mom beside me at my request and I reached for her soft, wrinkled fingers. Their wisdom was a source of life I desperately needed in that moment. The true weight of my shame and burden rendered me speechless and I doubted the small padded bench would hold us.

A colorful clay fish mobile turned a spotted red fish ever so slowly towards us. Its oversized lips froze in an “Oh!” of surprise as if it was already shocked by the words that would finally come out of my mouth when I broke my silence.

As my long-time gynecologist entered, the smell of disinfectant seemed too impersonal a witness to my heart’s biggest confession: Life as a mother of two was as terrifying as a horror flick. I stared at the floor and offloaded all that I had assumed I needed to carry. I spoke of sudden and intense mood swings that had erupted at simple requests from my three-year-old like, “I want more cheese,” or “Where my shoes?”

At first these eruptions had come and gone, but had amped up at seven, eight, nine months postpartum. I was feeling paralyzing, skin-crawling feelings of overwhelm and agitation daily between diaper changes with my ten-month-old. These feelings consumed me like a frenzy of sharks. I found myself pacing. I found myself talking to myself in irritation, annoyance and confusion.

“Why do the protests to finish her milk send me on a rampage?” I found myself crying and hitting my calves with both of my fists clenched trying to make the sensations stop. The sound of my yelling, and door slamming, would reverberate out to our front porch. At my worst, one sunny April day, as my three-year-old was running toward me, I suddenly experienced rage like I’d never felt before.

“Mommy’s not safe. Stay back!” I shouted, with my hand outstretched in protest. I didn’t trust myself in that moment. I didn’t recognize myself.

With eyes that saw me, my gynecologist took my other hand and said, “You’re a good mother asking for help.” I wanted to believe her. I tried hard to. I felt like a failure. Next, she ordered some labs and left the room to scrounge up a list of local psychiatrists. My mom hugged me, and I exhaled more fully. The bench was still intact.

I had heard of the term postpartum depression and I imagined just that: a sad, downtrodden person. Sure, I felt depressed but it was not the prominent feeling. The staccato electricity of anxiety, annoyance, and rage were my bread and butter. I was experiencing postpartum something because I did not recognize the mental landscape that was playing out in my mind. There was a monster in our house and she looked like me.

Then in a few seconds, as quickly as the end of a full bath whirls down the drain, me– Emily– would “come-to” in my body, to my kitchen, to the fearful eyes of my three-year-old. Next a flood of guilt, shame and apologies washed through me and out my mouth. Kneeling down I offered a hug to my oldest daughter and try my best to scrape together a teachable moment from the hell I had created, “Mommy is doing a lot and mommy got really frustrated and overwhelmed. I’m so sorry I yelled. It scared me, too. Know that no matter what comes out of my mouth, I always love you.”

“No matter what, you always love me,” she said as she hugged me back. Then, scooping up the crying baby from the other room I held her tight, rocked her and muttered into her ear, “Lo siento, lo siento. De veras te amo. Perdóname!” (I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Truly I love you. Forgive me!)

As if sitting on a train, watching the horizon change and wiz past me, I had begun to watch my behaviors of perpetual negativity play out in my living room. Intrigued by it all, I began sleuthing peer-reviewed research to see if knowledge could set me free.

Articles became ropes that I clung to as I slowly ascended out of a very dark hole just as my baby turned one. I learned different medical perspectives, Eastern and Naturopathic, viewed the postpartum time differently. My personal postpartum period would take up space, like my belly did. I was assured by the research that my later postpartum time issues were not my fault. Data showed that my brain would require two years to look even close to what it did prior to getting pregnant and my PPD could last up to three years. Learning this let me breathe and gave me hope.

Sharing my secret moments, my confessions, to my gynecologist and mother, was the beginning of the end of my journey of suffering in silence. I’m so glad I summoned the courage to speak my secret. Those two additional witnesses helped bare the weight of my late postpartum struggles. Thankfully, the western world is slowly starting to acknowledge a longer postpartum time. This means that the challenges inherent in it exist and eventually fewer women will go unseen.