Guest Writer’s Series: A Letter to My Postpartum Depression
By Kirstin Brueckmann Kruip
TW // Suicide, Self-harm, Pregnancy, Child-birth, Mental Illness
No one tells you that the newborn phase is like Groundhog’s Day — every three hours, it is diaper change, feed, sleep, repeat. Throw in some inconsolable crying, dozens of doctors appointments, formula trial-and-error, and hundreds of loads of laundry and you get the picture. In addition to the typical newborn struggles, I was struggling with something that I still struggle to put into words. Something that gets swept under the rug and forgotten once the baby starts sleeping and their first smile washes away everything else. In the time since my child was born, postpartum depression has been an uninvited guest who refuses to take the hint and leave.
Giving my postpartum depression a name has helped me separate the depression from myself and my identity. It gives me someone to tell to fuck off when intrusive thoughts start to interrupt something of which they have no business being a part. My postpartum depression is a middle school bully named Karen. Like any true mean girl, she has the unique skill of being able to suss out your biggest insecurities and the thoughts you hide in the darkest corners of your mind. She then unapologetically drags those thoughts out of the darkness and into the harsh, fluorescent lights of a middle school bathroom, putting them on display for all to see. This is my letter to her as I work towards being able to say goodbye once and for all.
To Karen
You found me in my lowest moment, alone in the dark, struggling to hold myself together. You took advantage of the cracks that were starting to form and slipped in. No one told me you might try to find your way into my life like this. No one was honest about what an awful, spiteful person you are.
Every minute of every day, I didn’t want to be alive.
As soon as I closed my eyes, all I could think about was hoping I didn’t wake up again. I thought about driving my car into a brick wall or downing an entire bottle of Oxy. I thought, “What if I just walk off this cliff?” If I weren’t alive, I wouldn’t have to feel like this. If I weren’t alive, everything would be better. Ben would be happier and the baby wouldn’t be stuck with a mom who doesn’t know how to love him. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to feel the immense weight of responsibility for this new life. If I were dead, I wouldn’t have to explain to my partner that I hate myself and our baby. I wouldn’t have to explain that I regret every decision that had led us to this.
My mind started to do what I do with Spotify when I drive — it got stuck on one playlist and insisted on playing the same song over and over again. The lyrics went something like this:
You don’t deserve to be a parent.
You made a mistake.
You should die.
You’ll never love your baby.
The baby will hate you for this.
You’ll never enjoy another second of your life.
It would be better if the baby died.
Ben thinks you’re weak.
Ben made a mistake marrying you.
Ben is going to leave you.
You should die.
I never thought I would look at my child, a literal piece of myself, and think, “I wish you were dead.” The thoughts would come and go so quickly I wasn’t sure they were real. But there was a small part of me that hoped something would happen to put a stop to this endless cycle so I could finally sleep again. I would think, “If he stops breathing, then it’s not my fault. It just happened.” When I thought about something happening to him or him dying, I felt nothing.
I had an idea of what motherhood would look like. I pictured myself feeling an immediate connection to the baby. I had struggled to find this connection during pregnancy but felt sure that as soon as I held him, things would change. As soon as I started breastfeeding, we would have a magical bond that only we would understand. Then I had to have a c-section and wasn’t able to hold him in the operating room. Almost immediately, he was wheeled out with an oxygen mask over his tiny face and taken to the NICU for respiratory complications. When I think of the first time I saw my child, I don’t think of the doctor holding him up over the drape as she pulled him out of me. I don’t think of the nurse bringing him to my head so I could meet him. I think of that tiny oxygen mask and the wires and tubes that he was hooked up to to help him eat and breathe.
Every time I felt like I might snap under the weight of my pain and sadness, I told myself that this was my punishment. I hated pregnancy and told anyone who would ask how unhappy I was. I made all the decisions that led me to this moment. I was unable to bring him into the world without major surgery. I was unable to feed him. I was unable to love him. I deserved this. I still feel deep shame surrounding my pregnancy, birth experience, and postpartum period. I am to blame. Everything that happened, everything that went wrong, is my fault. By being able to blame someone, even if it was myself, I was able to at least feel something for once. But I’m learning that I’m not to blame. You are, Karen.
Recently, I have had to work through intense anger not only at you, but at the medical system that violently ripped a baby from my abdomen and then sent me home without another thought about my well-being. As long as the baby was healthy, I didn’t matter. I was a vessel, a body to feed him, hold him, and change him. Even after I broke down crying to basically every doctor and nurse who came into my hospital room, they sent me home with no plan to address potential postpartum depression. They gave me no guidance on warning signs or things to watch for. I felt alone and like I had no support, certain that I was broken and no one else felt like this. If other people felt like this, if this were normal, more people would have talked to me about it. But they didn’t. Other than a basic info sheet at the end of a postpartum care packet, I was in the dark. Even though I had been on an antidepressant throughout my pregnancy and my chart clearly showed a history of anxiety and depression, no one discussed the risks for a postpartum mood disorder. No one thought to tell me that because of my medical history, which was clearly laid out in black and white, I was at higher risk and should be aware of warning signs.
Luckily, even when I felt broken and like I would never stand up again, I knew how to advocate for myself. I managed to get out the words to Ben to tell him that something was wrong — that I was not okay. Taking that step allowed me to get the support I needed. I had therapy in place already and knew the steps I needed to take to reach out to a psychiatrist. After jumping through insurance and medical system hoops, I managed to get a referral and an appointment to talk to a reproductive mental health specialist. But here’s the catch — they couldn’t get me in for 3 weeks. I told the doctor on the phone that I couldn’t stop thinking about wanting to die, and they told me if I felt like I was in danger call 911 and we’ll see you in 3 weeks. I spent every day of those three weeks terrified of myself and my brain. My mom moved in with us for a month because it wasn’t safe for me to be alone. It wasn’t safe for me to be alone with my baby. I didn’t drive by myself. I didn’t have access to my medications. We had to create a safety plan to protect both myself and my child from me. And I wasn’t prepared for any of this because no one was honest about what the postpartum period can look like.
Little by little, one day at a time, I feel myself coming back. I see more of who I was before pregnancy and before he was born. I’m also able to get to know the new parts of myself, the parts that feel fleeting moments of joy when my baby smiles at me or the parts that, even if just for a moment, feel like, “I can do this.” So you know what, Karen? I think you will always be a part of who I am. I will continue to need therapy, medication, and a support network. I will still have nights where I can’t sleep and all I want to do is hide from my life. But little by little, one day at a time, I will come back to myself.
I will never be able to adequately thank the friends and family who held me tight and wouldn’t let go through this entire experience. They have shown me more love than I could have hoped for, provided a shoulder to cry on, and took care of my child when I was unable to do it alone. You thought you had the power to crush me. You thought you were stronger than me - and maybe you are. But you are no match for my support system.
You will always be a part of my story. I will spend days alone with you, struggling to see a version of myself I recognize. But I will also spend days in the sun, laughing and managing to string together so many small moments of joy that I will forget your name, even if only for a few hours.
If you or a loved one is experiencing symptoms of postpartum mood or anxiety disorder (PMAD), please utilize the following resources. Seek help, and know you are not alone.
The Postpartum Health Alliance: https://postpartumhealthalliance.org
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration Helpline: https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline
The Motherhood Center of New York: https://www.themotherhoodcenter.com
Kirstin is a passionate storyteller with over six years of experience in branding and marketing. She is also a Navy spouse of 5 years and first-time mom. In her free time (which we know is almost non-existent with a newborn), Kirstin can be found playing with her dog, drinking iced coffee, and embracing the title of crazy plant lady. By sharing her postpartum journey, Kirstin hopes more people will feel seen and validated in their own experiences, no matter how scary or dark it may seem.
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