The Postpartum Prozac Roller Coaster

Six weeks after the birth of my second daughter, the postpartum depression hit and attempted to mercilessly strangle me to death. I became the incredible, unfeeling superwoman and cared about nothing. Getting out of bed in the morning?
Ha- yeah right!

At the very worst of it, a few months later, I had a choice: willingly accept necessary treatment, or understand that my husband could petition to have me hospitalized against my will if I should deny getting any help. To say I was not merely “in my right mind” is an understatement- I was so unstable that I had become a danger to myself.

I couldn’t sleep. Fatigue suffocated me, and yet my brain was so manic that it wouldn’t stop racing long enough for me to fall asleep. Irrational thoughts plagued my mind at night, and the exhaustion-induced haze in which I was living made it impossible for me to see a way out.

I accepted treatment. Unwillingly.

After a middle-of-the-night trip to a mental health crisis center, I began counseling and saw a psychiatrist for an evaluation. I did a lot of research on local doctors and found one who promised to take a holistic approach to therapy instead of the pill-pusher type that I saw in the Hollywood movies. I was still in denial that I truly was “depressed”, and I was certain that if (and it was a big ‘if’ in my mind) the doctor recommended a drug, it would be a mild one.

I was wrong, and the name of the anti-depressant that escaped her mouth terrified me. Apparently, my diagnosis of severe depression, anxiety, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and paranoia didn’t exactly fit the description of “mild” postpartum depression. Nope, the words “borderline psychosis” escaped someone’s mouth somewhere in the midst of all the evaluations, and it was clear that I needed more than just a “mild” medication to stabilize what was going on through my head.

Prozac. A very “inclusive” SSRI drug deemed safe enough and prescribed for breastfeeding moms.

I froze for a second before squeaking out, “Uh, why not something like Zoloft instead?”. Ice-cold dread clutched the back of my neck as I realized the depression was much, much worse than I ever imagined. She assured me that Prozac was the right medication for me and explained exactly why she felt it was the appropriate choice.

The thought of taking a psychotropic drug fought against my most hardcore beliefs and sickened me. Here I was, the home-birthing, breastfeeding, cloth-diapering, organic-eating mama who was raised to believe psychologists and therapist are quacks and that drugs are the epitome of evil, and all of a sudden I was being told that Prozac was going to be my key to survival. She might as well have been asking me to chop my leg off with a smile.

I asked my doctor if she thought I was crazy and she assured me that the only “crazy” people are the ones who need serious treatment and refuse it. That didn’t make me feel much better.

I made up my mind. No way was I going to down a single one of those horrible pills. I wasn’t crazy, and I could fight this. Maybe if I doubled my dosage of Fish Oil and exercise I’d be okay. Maybe tomorrow I’d wake up feeling better.
Maybe I could control the hyper thoughts running a marathon in my head. Maybe I was faking all of this and I could just turn it off like a light switch. Yes, that had to be it. Different options and visions of myself strapped in a straight jacket being pumped full of some sort of anti-crazy began swirling through my mind before I could stop them, leaving me anxious and unsure that I’d made the right choice to accept treatment. It dawned on me that if I ran away- just packed up my car and took off to the coast of California or something- that I could avoid this entire nightmare all together.

Yes, those were the incredibly rational thoughts going through my head that day.

Later, my husband pleaded with me to give it a chance and convinced me to call my midwife so that I could tell her what the psychiatrist had recommended. I was afraid to continue nursing while taking this sort of drug, but she explained that it was a “risk versus benefit” sort of situation and she didn’t feel it was necessary that I wean my baby. She assured me that taking Prozac was the right choice, and I trusted her.

And so marked the beginning of my treatment.

I was far from the nightmare that had landed me on happy pills in the first place, but I took it one day at a time. There was no other way to deal with it. I tried participating in a support group, and I froze. Seeing other women in as much pain or in more agony than myself weighed heavily on me- I internalized too much and I couldn’t handle it. I walked away feeling worse than ever and never went back. However, the one-on-one and marriage counseling proved to be positive forms of therapy for me, as did my avid blogging. I didn’t feel comfortable telling my family and friends about my situation at first, so the writing was a refreshing outlet in which I could vent about the fact that I was bona fide nutcase. Or that’s how I felt at the time, anyway.

Then there was the Prozac. Yes, I cringed every time I heard the name of the drug that I was taking, but it was something I had to learn to find a way to accept.

At first, I didn’t feel any different at all. As the weeks passed, though, my husband pointed out some very subtle differences that slowly crept up on me. I no longer panicked about being half a minute late for things or stressed myself to the point of an anxiety attack when everything didn’t go perfectly. The instantaneous anger that followed my constant frustration began to dwindle significantly. And best of all, I stopped calling my husband on a daily basis, frantic, unable to take care of myself and the kids.

It was still a bit of a roller coaster, though. One day I’d think I was doing significantly better, then the next I was falling apart again. However, there was a very noticeable difference to that particular sort of “falling apart”: it passed nearly as quick as it sneaked up on me rather than lingering for days and months on end.

Several weeks after beginning treatment, I realized I was feeling, well, normal. I didn’t feel hazy all the time anymore, and I started to smile again. Instead of dwelling on frustrations and the constant anger that welled up inside of me, I was able to focus on my husband, children, and future goals. I felt alive again, like I could breathe.

A year after my daughter was born, I am still taking that drug known as Prozac. Now that I’ve seen how wonderful life really can be when I am present for my family, I have finally learned to admit that sometimes anti-depressants truly are necessary and that there is no shame in surrendering to that fact.

Between the Prozac and the therapy, I learned how to live again. It was worth it.

Tamra is a writer, dancer, teacher, website designer, and postpartum depression survivor. Most importantly, though, she is a wife to a wonderful, geeky husband and mom to two adorable little boogery girls.