There’s something about ptsd that makes you think it’s not that bad – and then it is.

“My trauma wasn’t that traumatic” repeats constantly through my head, and then I’ll have flashback nightmares that remind me just how terrifying it was. Nightmares that make me scared to fall asleep. Nightmares that cause panic attacks at 3am. Nightmares that disrupt the little sleep I do get as a mom. Then there’s insomnia. The exhaustion of having a baby is so intensified by my PTSD symptoms, and I am so tired of being tired. These sleep disruptions are just another thing I was not prepared for, starting the moment my labor began.

My Birth Story

On a Tuesday morning at the end of August, I felt my first contractions. They were small, irrelevant cramps, but I knew they were contractions. They started 15-20 minutes apart and got close to 10 minutes apart. This is when I called my husband, and he came home from work so ecstatic that it was baby time. Contractions continued until after dinner when they finally started to get intense. I couldn’t speak through them, started grunting and focusing, and we left for the hospital around 10pm when they were 5-7 minutes apart. Once we got to the hospital and in triage, they slowed way down to 12 minutes apart – of course, just my luck. I had them check me just in case, and I was barely a quarter centimeter dilated. We were sent home and told to come back when my contractions were powerful and 2-4 minutes apart. I tried to lay in bed that night, but with strong contractions every 10 minutes I was barely able to make it through an episode of Friends. I did everything I could to distract myself from the pain, but I ended up next to my bed bouncing on my birth ball until 6am when I finally went downstairs.

Day two of contractions was taxing. I was still contracting strenuously every 5-10 minutes, and I’m now running on fumes after not sleeping the night before. We went on walks; short and slow walks that felt like hours. We watched my favorite movies and tv shows, and even had a friend stop over for encouragement. I made it again until the late evening before I could not physically handle it anymore. This was it. On the way to the hospital, I knew my birth plan was not going to stay as-is. I wanted to stay as unmediated as possible, for as long as possible. Not only because I wanted to prove myself, but because I had a severe needle phobia. But at this point, I had been laboring for over two days and I was beyond fatigued. Once in triage, my contractions stayed steady at 2-4 minutes apart and just as strong as they’d been before. I was ready. But my body wasn’t. I was a half centimeter dilated, and they wouldn’t admit me. Through my tears of exhaustion, I begged for help. I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed a break and I needed sleep. What lovely foreshadowing. Wednesday night I was given a shot of morphine and sent home to get some rest, and again, come back when contractions are 2-4 minutes apart and unbearable. Isn’t that what I just did?

Luckily the morphine kicked in on the way home, and I was able to get 6 hours of sleep that night. Thursday morning the contractions picked back up and grew to be extraordinarily powerful throughout the remainder of the day. I have never felt pain like I felt at this point in my labor. Around 5pm is when I knew this wasn’t going to be okay. I couldn’t move, but I couldn’t remain still. Sounds were coming out of my mouth that were inhuman. The sheer force of my hands burst open a stress ball that forced goo all over me and the walls. I wanted to punch holes in the walls, and scream until I had no more air to give. And yet, I was terrified to go back to the hospital only to be sent home. Once tears started pouring from my eyes, and I could not stand on my own, I was convinced to head to the hospital for the third try. Finally, after what felt like hours, they checked my dilation. This… this is the moment I have felt the most depleted and defeated. I was barely 2 centimeters. They said they couldn’t admit me until I was at least 3 centimeters dilated. I broke down. My contractions were 3 minutes long, and only offered me 1-2 minutes in between. I truly believe they thought I was exaggerating until they hooked me up to a monitor. My contraction intensity was topping the charts. I pleaded with multiple nurses to call my doctor and see if I could be admitted for an epidural. Thirty minutes later, they gave me the news that my doctor gave the go ahead to get me into labor and delivery. I wish I could say I was relieved – the contractions were still occurring and didn’t give me a single second to be relieved.

The triage nurse grabbed my birth plan, and before she even said the words I yelled that I needed an epidural. And then the nurse made a statement that sent me into this state of blankness. The anesthesiologist was backed up two hours. I could not process the thought of continuing like this for two more hours. I must have sounded like Godzilla when I lost it and said that’s not possible. No. I can’t wait. That’s when I was offered something I originally said no to. A drug I’ve only heard of in reference to overdoses in severe drug addicts. And here I am insisting on it through tears. Fentanyl. The look on my husband’s face told me I should consider other options, but that’s the thing. There weren’t any. I could not walk around the hospital screaming – I couldn’t even stand up by myself. I definitely could not wait two more hours for the epidural. So, I got my IV of fentanyl.

It only took a few minutes for me to feel some signs of relief. When my needle phobia kicked in, I realized there was an IV in my arm and I begged the nurses to tape it down and wrap it up so I couldn’t see it. It was sufficient enough – and it clearly wasn’t my main concern at the moment. \When the anesthesiologist arrived to give me the epidural, he checked the charts in order to time my contractions. The epidural needs to be inserted in between contractions to minimize movement from the mother. The nurse informed the anesthesiologist that I was having coupling contractions, so he had about 30 seconds to complete the epidural. Normally, contractions average a minute break in between, and the facial expression from the anesthesiologist sent yet another wave of fear through me when he said, “Wow, I’ve never done it that quickly before!” As he’s setting up, my contractions are lasting for upwards of 4-5 minutes, topping the charts, and giving me only 30 seconds to take a few breaths before they ramp up again. Now, I see the needle that’s supposed to go into my back. This, along with IVs, is my biggest fear. I now realize I’m also having a panic attack, but no one else notices because I’m also in so much physical pain. I’m hyperventilating from sheer panic, and can’t catch my breath between contractions.

Nearing midnight, I’m in a bed, hooked up to many machines, maxing out my epidural dosage. I try to get some sleep but am constantly being checked by nurses. A few hours later, my nurse notices that I’ve spiked a fever. It’s not too high, but it’s a precaution. The babies heart rate is also high. They woke me up to let me know that they’re going to be coming in more frequently to check on me. I’m not sure how much time has gone by when all of a sudden the monitors stop beeping. My nurse quickly walks into my room, and repeats some code into her radio. Four other nurses swiftly move into my room and start repositioning me. I knew what was happening, but no one said it aloud. They lost the baby’s heartbeat. It couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes when the monitors were beeping again, the nurses let out a collective sigh, and left the room. My nurse, however, was still on edge. At this point I started violently shaking. I’m not talking about fever shivers, this was close to full convulsions. And I couldn’t get my body to relax. The nurse checked my temperature again, and my fever was exceptionally high. She told me that I was now on a Sepsis Alert. It was possible that I had an infection that could be passed onto the baby. Cue more panic.

Another hour or two of shaking, another dose of the epidural because it wore off, and a few minutes of sleep later, the monitors suddenly stopped beeping again. And again the nurses rushed in. As they were quickly repositioning me, my water broke. The second time we lost the heartbeat was just as silent as the first. No one was telling me what was going on, but I knew I was scared. I was laying there, shaking, with so many hands on me and things happening to me, and I couldn’t do a thing. After the nurses got the heartbeat back on the screen, they let me attempt to rest until I was fully dilated. An unknown amount of time later, they checked and I was finally 10 centimeters – fully dilated and ready to push. My doctor arrived in 20 minutes and was very calm, which helped. I started pushing, and quickly realized how exhausting it is. It wasn’t as painful as my contractions, but I did feel the urge to push, and it was incredibly overwhelming. Halfway through pushing, my fever spiked even higher. I needed antibiotics right away and they needed to check my blood. So now back to my needle phobia. I have an IV in my hand, an epidural in my back, and I am laying with my legs in the stirrups trying to push out my baby. Now I have two nurses, one on each side, taking blood from each arm. I never could have thought up this scenario, but this now tops the list of greatest fears.

After 67 hours of labor, and one hour of pushing, my 8.1lb, 21.26 inch baby boy was born Friday, August 23, 2019 at 6:15am. My husband was able to help deliver him, and I reached down to pull him to my chest. But he never made it there. He laid on my stomach for less than 30 seconds before they rushed my husband to cut the umbilical cord and put the baby in the incubator. My nurse called a code and even more nurses rushed in – including a Neonatologist. I only know this because he announced himself as he walked in the room. And just like that, after less than a minute of holding my baby boy, he was rushed to the NICU with my husband following close behind. I was alone with my doctor and nurse, delivering my placenta and being stitched up. Alone. It was two hours before I saw my baby in the NICU, and those two hours felt nothing like I imagined feeling just after having a baby. I put on a tough front, which I now recognize as a coping technique so I didn’t completely break. Nothing was how I expected. Not a single part of my labor. I spent the next few days recovering in my room, with my new baby across the hospital in the NICU. I needed to breastfeed every two hours, so the sleep deprivation set in very quickly. It took me 15 minutes to walk to the NICU from my room, 30-45 minutes to breastfeed and spend time with my son, and 15 minutes to walk back. By the time I was back in the bed and barely had fallen asleep, the nurses station would call to have me go to the NICU to breastfeed again. On top of this, every nurse that came in was pumping me full of fluids through my IV. I was so swollen that I was in pain. My hands and feet felt like they were going to burst, and my face looked like I had gained 100lbs overnight. For some reason, my chart had me listed as a C-Section patient, so I was getting double the amount of fluids. I told every new nurse I had that this didn’t feel right, they’d check my chart, and the C-section was still listed. I did not understand. No one was listening to me. No one told me that I wasn’t supposed to be that swollen. No one told me it was okay to shower, so I stayed in my hospital gown from delivery for two days. No one told me it wasn’t normal to feel nothing. No one asked if I was okay.

The day we were discharged and the baby was finally in my room, I didn’t want to hold him. I left him swaddled in the crib. I let my dad and mom hold him, I let my husband change his diaper. I didn’t know it then, but I do now: I didn’t get to bond with my baby. As we were leaving, my mom asked if I had my baby’s hospital bracelet and his footprints. Logically, my husband grabbed them, but I snapped and said I didn’t want or need them. I raised my voice. I was disrespectful and illogical. That should have been one of the first outward signs that something was not okay.

Postpartum

I have shut myself down to cope with my ptsd. I shut down immediately after giving birth. After multiple days of unbearable contractions, and an alarming final few hours of labor, my baby and husband were gone and I was alone. After all of that… I was alone. I did not get to hold my baby. I did not get to kiss my husband, or sigh a breath of relief. I did not get to look in my baby’s eyes and see if they looked like mine. I did not get my rainbow after the storm. Just more rain. And I felt nothing. Something in my head told me that this wasn’t how I was supposed to feel. I was supposed to be happy my baby was finally here, or scared of him being in the NICU, or sad that I was alone. But I felt nothing. And that nothingness stayed with me for weeks – until it turned to rage. Rage, nothingness, and tears. That’s how I remember my baby’s first year. I have moments of joy that I recall: sitting on the couch eating baked ziti while holding my newborn the first night we were home, waking up in the morning to his stretches and baby whispers, nursing him in the morning sunlight, long walks around our neighborhood, and all of the firsts. But I was robbed of my happiness. I loved my baby. I know that I did. But that instant connection that moms have… I didn’t have that. Maybe it was the traumatic labor, the NICU experience, being across the country from my family and friends, my husband’s deployment, or the pandemic. Regardless, I felt nothing.

Being a solo parent with a deployed husband during a worldwide pandemic has caused me to enjoy less of my baby’s first year. Stress of no help, no family, no break – it all finally gets to me when the baby has been screaming for an hour straight and refuses to sleep. I find myself miserable and wanting to leave, instead of being able to comfort my baby. Finally when he is asleep, I still do not have a break. I need to clean up the mess that was made in the previous few hours. I need to prepare dinner. I need to do everything on my own. There’s no time to sit and cry, so I cry while I unload the dishwasher and pick up toys. I cry in the shower. Yes, because I’m stressed, but also because I’m not able to enjoy this time with my baby. People need breaks. People need help. This isolation and deployment cause me to be constantly “on” from 5am until 10pm, then my brain is too overwhelmed to shut off. How can I be excited and happy about a homecoming when all I feel is stressed and defeated. There’s something about a screaming baby that makes you question everything. Am I a good mom? Can I do this? Does he hate me for letting him cry longer than I should because I just need to turn the baby monitor off for one minute? Is this all my fault?

The pandemic is hard on everyone in many different ways. But sometimes I feel like no one gets just how difficult this is for me. Having postpartum PTSD, while being forced to be alone because of quarantine and a deployment, is not how I envisioned the first year of my baby’s life. I have to share my baby’s first milestones through emails. FaceTiming people who have roommates, significant others, or family with them just makes me more sad that I’m doing this completely alone. I have really good days, and I have days where I don’t know how I’m going to make it until bedtime – just to do it all over again tomorrow. I’ve screamed into my pillow more times than I can count. I’ve had to walk out of my baby’s room while he’s screaming because I can feel myself reaching my breaking point. I feel like a worthless person. I have no identity other than being a mother. I don’t feel like myself. Having my entire day and night revolve around my baby is exhausting. Mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. This has been the most difficult time of my life, but I hate that I am wishing it away. I am thankful the deployment was only 3 months, but that was just the beginning of my postpartum mental health journey.

When people hear that a mother has a postpartum mental illness, they think of a sad mom crying on the floor because they don’t have the energy to do anything. What they don’t think of is the crippling anxiety, the panic attacks, the rage that emerges from a depth I didn’t know existed, and the happy face that hides it from the world. And the nothingness. Postpartum PTSD brings in another element. Not only do I feel all of those things, but I become triggered by seemingly unrelated events. When I am alone, overwhelmed, or feeling no control of a scenario, I get sent into a place where I face a monster or darkness. What happens after a trigger is either a blow up or a shut down. If given the choice, I’d choose the latter. My body fills with this immense pressure, much like a pot that’s about to boil over. Except I’m not boiling over water. I’m boiling over with rage. Something completely out of my control is my son’s sleep. This would send me into the wildest rage in the beginning months – outside his bedroom door screaming into pillows, punching anything I knew wouldn’t break my knuckles. Even now, 18 months postpartum, I’m still dealing with that reaction. That intense overreaction.

There are days like that, where I scream and cry and hate myself for being this way. I apologize endlessly to my husband for the way that I am. I didn’t ask for this. I truly didn’t know this was something any mother dealt with. I even apologize as I’m screaming out my rage, “I’m so sorry for yelling, but I can’t f***ing stop, and I don’t know how to calm down!” I have to prep my parents if I know I’m on edge that day. “Just know that if I’m mean or I yell, it’s not me. I can’t control it.” I don’t recognize myself. I would never do or say the things I do when I am in a trigger. But here we are, nonetheless. It still happens. No matter how many therapy sessions I have, or how many coping skills I educate myself with, triggers happen and they shave my patience level down to nothing. It could be one big trigger that sends me spiraling or into a panic attack, or it could be a handful of minuscule moments throughout the day that continuously fill up my rage teapot. Then that last, tiny, seemingly irrelevant moment will send me boiling over and screaming with rage, ending with a sense of guilt and depression that overtakes me like a dark wave in a storm. I’m slowly drowning, getting knocked over and pushed down, no matter how hard I fight to get back to the surface. Some days it’s anxiety, some days it’s depression, but most days it’s rage. Feeling out of control, overwhelmed, and alone.

I’ve come such a long way since the early days of not recognizing there was a problem. Being the first of my friends to get married and have a baby meant I was going at this blind, but finding resources on Instagram, as silly as that sounds, helped me tremendously. Knowing there are other moms going through the rough patches and the storms, meant so much to me. I wasn’t truly alone, and it wasn’t just me. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and after 11 months of suffering in silence I finally found my way to a therapist. Having a postpartum PTSD was not in my plan for motherhood, and my baby’s first year was nothing like I expected. But I am here, I can cope, and I will keep on this rollercoaster journey for my son.