The story of the bushes

 I was writing in my journal and only got five words written when I had the thought that I should write about an experience I had almost eighteen years ago.  It's depressing and I've only ever written about it in my journal.  I used to be deeply ashamed about it but the older I get and the further away from it I get, the more wisdom I gain as well as the ability to give myself grace.  

It was about the second week when Will woke up and started crying.  

I say that but really, the first night foreshadowed things to come.  The nurse brought Will in at some point for me to feed him.  She didn't stay and I actually had no idea what to do.  Mike had gone home to get some sleep and the nurse just put him in my arms and left.  I tried, and failed, to feed him, not knowing the first thing about nursing.  He cried loudly for two hours straight.  In the morning, when the nurse came in after shift change, she said, "Oh, you are the one with the angry baby last night."  

Will cried so much and being a mother did not come naturally to me.  I was so unsure about how to care for him that I asked Mike for his opinion on almost every aspect of care.  I thought that my intuition would take over and we'd fall into a rhythm but everything I tried failed.  I'd read books and try the tips and nothing worked.  I became a pro burrito wrapping swaddler, thinking if I wrapped him tight enough, he'd settle.  I tried to watch signs for over tiredness, and tried to decipher the difference in his cries--is this one hunger, sleepiness, boredom, or a poopy diaper?  He cared nothing for his swing and only mildly for his bouncer.  I tried driving him around town in his carseat to lull him to sleep but that only made him more angry.  

Feeding him didn't bring him comfort.  It actually only brought him malaise.  His suck was hard and hurt me terribly, even after the cracks healed from the initial sucks.  I bore the pain as well as I could.  He would suck, suck, suck, pull off and throw his head back and scream.  It's try and settle him and reattach him, only to have him suck, suck, suck, and pull away in screams again.  Nursing him on both sides took ages, and I'd jealously watch my sister-in-law efficiently and quickly nurse her infant, ten minutes on each side.  In desperation I made an appointment with a lactation specialist.  She watched me nurse him and asked what medications I was taking.  I mentioned the seizure medication I was on and she pulled out a giant "medication bible," thumbing through until she found the medication I was on, and then paused, closed the book, and told me, "You need to stop nursing him today.  You are poisoning your son."  She probably said, "That medicine is poisoning your son" but all I heard was, "You are poisoning your son."  In the car, I sat crying along with my screaming baby, abusing myself thinking, "Not only can you not figure out the first thing to do to help your son feel better, you are poisoning him on top of it." 

I drove home and called my neurologist, reporting to him what the lactation specialist said about nursing him on that medication and he agreed that while it might be a good medication for pregnancy, maybe not great for nursing.  He disagreed, however, that I should stop nursing him that very day, stating that if Will was predisposed to seizures like I was, stopping cold turkey could make him begin having seizures and, in the worst case scenario, make him have a permanent seizure.  On the one hand, I was poisoning him and, on the other, about to induce a permanent seizure.  I felt as though I had no business being a mother.  

Over the next six weeks I had to wean Will from the medication which meant nursing and bottle feeding until eventually he was only on the bottle and then, when the medication was out of his system, reintroduce nursing.  I'd sit up with him for hours. He'd cry and I'd cry and when I finally got him back to sleep, I'd sneak upstairs and pump and then fall into bed only sleeping briefly before he woke again. At my six-week check-up, the OB asked me how things were going and when I explained the situation with the medication and the nursing, he kindly patted my knee and said, "Giving your son a bottle does not make you a bad mother.  You should not put this kind of stress on yourself."  He wasn't known for having a gentle bedside manner so his encouragement meant a lot to me.  I decided that once Will was fully on the bottle, I'd stop nursing him altogether.  

One night we visited with some friends who had a baby just a month or two before us.  We talked for a few minutes before Will started crying.  Mike and I awkwardly explained that we had to cut our visit short and, the couple, trying to reassure us, said, "Oh, we don't mind.  We totally understand.  Our baby has a good thirty minutes every night where he cries." Mike and I glanced at each other, incredulous, realizing that they had no idea what we were going through.  Will's cries would continue long into the night, and once home, we'd settle into our nightly routine of shift-taking, one of us trying to sleep through the crying in the other room while the other tried to patiently soothe Will until our patience ran out and we had to tap out, handing over the red-faced Imp.  We were glassy-eyed, defeated, and depressed.

It was in our second month of colic hell when the days were long and the nights dreaded, when I felt so depressed that I could see no hope of things improving.  My brother and his wife invited us to a presentation and dinner at a local hotel.  I can't even remember what the presentation was for but the free dinner sounded appealing so we agreed to go.  I felt a great deal of stress, assuming that Will would never make it through any part of the evening quietly.  Mike rocked the already fussy Will in his arms while I quickly ate my meal and then we switched, Mike eating, and Will and I rocking, until his fussing got louder and louder and I could no longer stay in the room with him.  Everyone was kind, giving me looks of sympathy, as I gathered our things and left the room--Mike still eating, but promising to come out as soon as he could.  

I sat in the car, feeling resentful and angry, little love available for my uncomfortable and sad baby. I wished for every scenario but the one I found myself in.  I wished for every baby other than my own.  I felt jealous of the babies who quietly slept in their mothers' arms or heartily nursed until they fell asleep in a milk-induced coma.  I felt a complete inability to mother Will, wondering how I could have so poorly guessed I'd be this kind of mother and he'd be this kind of baby.  

These and other damaging thoughts rushed through my mind and I was filled with a deep feeling of self-hatred and sadly, some hatred for Will.  I knew my hatred was misplaced but with every howl any ability to think past the current despair and see into a better future, lessened until I just saw darkness ahead.  It was at that very moment that I saw a row of bushes in front of the parking lot.  I thought, "What if I just unhooked his carseat and placed him in those bushes?  Surely someone who could love him would find him.  This would all stop and he would be better off without me anyway."  Then, I imagined Mike feeling betrayed and repulsed, horrified that his wife would leave their child in a bush. 

He'd call the police.  

He'd divorce me.

I'd go to prison.

I didn't move from my seat, frozen in fear and deeply ashamed that I had imagined such a world where I would actually leave my son in a bush.  Mike came out to the car not long after and I tearfully confessed my dark thoughts.  He did not curl back in disgust but in concern said that maybe I ought to talk to a doctor.  

The saddest part of this story is that I did not.  

Instead, I endured the crying and depression, the migraines brought on by my raging hormones and magnified by the ear splitting screams, and the looks from those that passed us on the street.  Sometimes Will would perk up a little, cease his crying around others, and I'd overhear things like, "I don't know what she's talking about.  He doesn't cry that much."  Then, I'd spend the next few hours gaslighting myself, telling myself that it was all in my head.  He didn't actually cry as much as I thought and it was a result of my impatient, selfish, and naive personality.  Anyone would be a better mother to him.  

I never considered leaving him in a bush again.  I never shook him or hurt him.  I did try to disassociate from his crying, ignoring his wails in an attempt to separate myself from the rising anger.  I occasionally would yell at him, "Why won't you stop crying?!" Mike would lovingly take over, tell me to go sleep.  I didn't really feel scared to be alone with Will, but I did dread it.  My journal entry read, "I am pretty sure Will hates me.  I'm not sure if we will ever like one another."

The happy ending is that Will and I do in fact really like each other.  Those first five months are etched into my heart and brain and I honestly never would have guessed that the angriest baby would emerge into the most relaxed and happy individual.  Each successive baby dredged up similar darkness in me, though not as bad, and none of my babies were affected quite as badly by reflux/colic as Will was.  

If I could redo it, I would.  If I could go back to that day with the bushes, I'd go home and call my doctor. 

I am not in a deep depression like I realize I was then.  But I am depressed and my go to is to push through it--do more yoga, stay out in the sun longer, take deep breaths, exercise more, etc, etc.  

Two days ago, I started depression medication.  

I'm sad it took me 18 years to take this step but I'm handing this over to God.  I don't actually need to endure it on my own.  I can ask for help.  I've probably held onto too much pride, proud that I am a high functioning person and have so many tools to keep me out of bed.  I never told anyone how deeply depressed I was with any of my babies.  Some people could probably tell but no one asked.  I don't tell people I'm depressed now, not until recently when I wrote on my blog, and some people can probably tell now too without asking. 

Why am I confessing about my day by the bushes?  I'm not sure.  

Why am I talking about being depressed right now?  I'm not sure about that either.  

I'm thankful for 18 years of growth.  My last confession is that I'm a really great mother.  My intuition isn't always spot on.  I make parenting choices that might not play out like I hoped but I have grown into a really good mother.  I would say that after six babies, the newborn stage is still not one that I show up the best in, but we emerge on the other end, with love and a strong attachment to one another.  

My kids know I'm on depression medication.  They know I'm going to therapy.  They also know about the day with the bushes.  I'm not afraid to share with them that I'm not always my best self and I hope that if they have some similar struggles, I will know how to show up for them so that they don't find themselves sitting in a car and wondering if putting their baby in the bushes is the only way ahead.  

I'm thankful those thoughts never came to fruition.