What Postpartum Depression Looked Like When I Wasn’t Falling Apart

I hate unsolicited advice as much as the next person, but I get a little preachy when it comes to the mother-to-mother postpartum depression (PPD) gospel because the condition isn’t always what you think it is. Only in hindsight can I really see how PPD affected me in the grander scheme — not just on those acute days when I looked like Gollum, hair matted, huddled on the couch, pumping and binging Below Deck. While the completely-falling-apart period ended a couple of months after I gave birth, the PPD didn’t. It just shifted. Here’s what PPD looked like for me when I wasn’t falling apart.

Everyday Errands Felt Like Running Marathons

When I had my first baby, we lived in a four-story walk-up in Brooklyn. All those steps for one errand? Overwhelming. That’s how everything felt — like a never-ending mountain of steps. Just to have food in the house, I had to look up recipes, write grocery lists, take inventory of what we already had, then physically walk to the grocery store and back. I may have taken care of the massive knot of matted hair at the back of my head, but PPD still had my brain in a foggy chokehold, making even simple tasks feel daunting.

Logistics Surrounding The Baby Felt Astronomical

Before I had kids, I ran around New York City from 7 a.m. to midnight — hopping on trains, making last-minute plans, and somehow getting all my work done in between — no sweat. After my daughter was born, I barely left my apartment (see: the stairs). It was incredibly rare that I’d go anywhere without my baby. When our dear friends were getting married just across the river, I even considered staying back with her. “Just get a babysitter,” everyone said. And while I knew logically it was a straightforward transaction, thinking about hiring one — explaining the nighttime routine, the bottles that needed to be washed, or even how to lock the doors (yes, really) — made it feel more daunting of a task in reality.

I Thought I’d Be Stuck Here Forever

One night, I was changing my daughter’s diaper at 1 a.m. in the pitch black. I’d been nursing her in the middle of the night for months, and I was bone-tired. As I stood over her, barely able to make out my own hand, I thought, “I’m going to die here.” It wasn’t a dramatic Shakespearean aside; it was a quiet acknowledgment that there in the dark — physically and in my mind — I was not OK.

I Hated My Dog

Before my baby, I could not imagine loving an entity more than I loved my little rescue pup, Oakley. PPD works in mysterious ways, and as soon as we got back from the hospital, there was no question: I couldn’t even look at my dog. Even as I type this, I feel ashamed I could ever have felt that way about her — but it shows just how manipulative PPD can be.

Postpartum depression is sneaky. It doesn’t always announce itself with violins and dramatic lighting. Sometimes it just moves the furniture around in your brain and convinces you it’s always been three inches to the right. PPD was a hell of a good liar — even on my better days.

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