Post Partum Depression 3
I managed to get to Dr. Sandonís’s office by myself. I was so nervous that I arrived an hour before the appointment, all weekend anxious waiting for that day to arrive, after months of darkness that appointment was my last hope.
I had already started the treatment with Dr. Bruguera but I didn’t feel much difference, I had to take an anxiolytic at the hint of tachycardia and I was controlling them, I was half a zombie, even so the anxiety that day was consuming me.
When he finally came to meet me at the waiting room, a young man in jeans, white T-shirt, sweet smile and bright eyes. I did not understand why they sent me to a man who specializes in postpartum depression, why not a woman? Why such a young man?
We went into his office and he asked me to tell him what was wrong with me. I burst into tears, I couldn’t keep my fingers still, index against big toe curling in a snail shape in cyclical movements in both hands. My body rocked while I cried, with movements similar to those I had seen in some autistic people, I had no control of my body.
He, serene but attentive to my every move, said, Catalina, I am not a policeman, I will not judge you for anything you tell me. I need you to tell me everything that goes through your head. I told him that motherhood was a hoax and I had fallen into that trap, I wanted to run away. My life was 100% terror 100% exhaustion. I had no room for anything else.
As mom, I was not allowed to be sick, nor think about resting, who is going to take care of the children? The treacherous mind made me think that I had failed as a mother, as a person, as a woman, anything before accepting an illness.
In those last months, in my despair to find out what had broken in me, I had visited endocrinologists, acupuncturists, bioenergeticians, a gynecologist who sent me hormones so that I would not menstruate in 3 months, believing that this might help me, those hormones had increased my fear to the point of a terror so terrible that I never imagined possible.
I had also visited a coach highly recommended by some friends, who apparently had changed their lives, someone with a lot of experience because “he had suffered a lot in life” and knew how to transform lives in a short time. He asked me why did you have children? I did not know what to answer, and I was very scared for not finding the answer, my mind was a black and blurred cloud, it was difficult for me to follow the thread of the conversation, it had been difficult for me to get the strength to leave the house and go to his office, and he told me, Catalina, you cannot go on in life making such important decisions without being aware of what you are doing. I recommend that you take my 1,850 euro course and if you are not satisfied I will refund your money. I got out of there quickly, wanting to vomit, hating myself, so much anger inside of me, with my heart racing and determined to throw myself off the balcony of my apartment.
I thought of my dad, who was sick in Colombia, I knew he had little time left and if I killed myself before he died, I would be committing the worst betrayal. A dad shouldn’t have to bury a son/daughter. I had to be fine to be able to accompany him when his time came.
Dr. Sandonís listened attentively, he said that despite being a psychiatrist, he was not very fond of medicating except in case of real need, but “when you have to medicate, you have to medicate,” he said. All other therapies help, but in due course and I was not in a position to be questioned by any type of therapy or coach. I had to be patient with my body and mind while reacting to the medications. Also, I had to understand that there are questions that have no answer.
He kept taking notes, looking into my eyes and hands all the time. We talked for more than an hour. He seemed to understand exactly everything Iwas telling him, he was not shocked by anything. Little by little I was gaining confidence. He said that he had seen many women like me so far this year, more than 300 told me, that this did not happen only to me. That there was nothing broken in me.
Not in vain there is a branch of psychiatry that is dedicated to just that: postpartum depression, and he assured me that I was going to get out of there, as well as so many of his patients. He made me drawings trying to explain what was going on in my head, I didn’t understand anything but I appreciated his effort to explain, his sweetness and delicacy. For the first time I felt understood.
I would stop the hormones prescribed by the gynecologist that same day. We would add more drugs to the treatment and increase the doses to find the point. We would see each other every other day if necessary, he told me. I would embark on an intense treatment and at that moment I got scared, my body is very sensitive to antidepressants, whenever I tried to start antidepressants my thoughts of suicide increased with more violence.
He said that when I came out of this I would come out even stronger. I didn’t believe him. Depression is very treacherous and makes you believe that you will never get better, that for you there is no way out. I had no choice but to trust her and do whatever she told me to do to the letter.
That day I did not go back to the pharmacist who gave me the medicines as chicken breast wrapped in a bag, I went to the pharmacy crossing the street, where I also used to go, attended by a couple of women, a correct young woman and an older grumpy woman.
The relationship with the neighborhood pharmacists is strange. We do not know their names but they know the depths of our lives. That couple of women had sold me the hormones for my various fertility treatments, vitamins for pregnancy, anti-inflammatories for pain, antibiotics for the husband’s infection, the son was born, his eye was infected, he has a rash on the skin, he has gastroenteritis, fungus in the mouth, postpartum compresses, postpartum panties, breastfeeding pads, creams for cracked nipples, antibiotics for mastitis, for milk pearl, cream for hemorrhoids, pills and whatever they have to help me sleep, and so from our ailments they draw our portraits.
Entering with such a list of antidepressants was not easy, because depression comes with a backpack of guilt and another of shame that you have to carry on your back everywhere you go.
From the outset, and in a low voice, I told the young girl that I came from the psychiatrist and needed all those medications because I had found postpartum depression, someone who knew my privacy so much I could not just show her that list without apology or explanation. She didn’t say anything but her eyes watered and she went in silence to get the medicines, a few minutes later, the older woman came out of the little room where they keep the accounts. I thought she was coming to scold me, so I lowered my head. When she came to me, she hugged me with sych love that only someone who has been in the darkness can hug, and she told me, be strong daughter, and may you have courage, most important is that you have asked for help on time, I am so glad that you were able to speak it out, because this is something not to be spoken about, and it is very painful to pass it in silence.
At that moment I couldn’t answer anything. I squeezed my medicine bag tight. I paid, turned around, and burst into tears again on my way home. This time, I think I cried tears of love, I was so moved and grateful to the two pharmacists who, distant but close, made me feel that I was finally doing something right, and that apparently I was not so alone.