100 days

It was maddening. I thought I was going crazy and had no understanding of what was happening to me. I was drowning in anxiety, and there was no escape. I wanted to crawl out of my own body and be free. Moments of peace were fleeting. My mind raced with worry. The fear inside felt like it was resting on my skin, worn like a wool dress made of darkness, guilt, and anguish—an outfit that I couldn’t remove. Its clingy characteristics lingered with me throughout the first few months of motherhood.

Three non-stop months, almost 100 days of hell. It’s called Postpartum Anxiety, and luckily, mine was cut short.

Postpartum Anxiety hit me like a cold chill to the bones. My post-birth body took a plunge into an isolating and fearful place of no return. I felt afraid all the time.

External noises echoed with turbulence. I shuddered to keep my balance from the bellowing and deafening sounds of people and objects. Outside was too much. The walk to the shower felt like I had to drag myself away from her. I could hear phantom baby cries every time I was away from my newborn. For months, I would run with stress, listening to her cries. I convinced myself that my anxiety was flooding her tiny essence as well as my own. The crying was constant, and the guilt was increasing. The baby cried, and my inner critic said I was creating dis-ease in her. My harmony was absent, the noises rang too loud, my heart beat too fast, and her crying was endless. The cycle continued like that for 3 months. I couldn’t find any peace for us, and so all I could do was curl up and cry when she cried.

I smelled pungent. Sour breastmilk mixed with acidic turpentine. It seeped out of my armpits. It was a raging cocktail of hormones that I could not begin to understand. I struggled to maintain life with high cortisol levels. A body sweat came from the adrenaline that rushed through me every time I ran back to soothe my baby from her cries. I washed myself well so many times a day, but nothing would keep the seeping stench off of me. I was in a sea of stench and gut-wrenching fear. My emotions carried me to the limitless depths. There was no end.

Then there was HER, this soft, beautiful, and tiny creature. She is my best accomplishment and the treasure of my life. She is perfection. She is love incarnate. The love of us, my husband and I. All wrapped in a tiny, gorgeous body. I held her, placing my face onto her soft head covered in little strands of silky hair. I took in her scent, of newborn freshness, a kind of smell that can only be understood with a feeling of purity. She was light in my hands, and her small and delicate fingers were well developed. Her fingernails were so round and perfect, drawn out of a book. She was the illustration of GOD. Perfection is not physical beauty; it beams from purity and newness. She wasn't born for us to adore, but I couldn't help myself. She was raw with pinks and reds from the fluids and waters that covered her all those months before.

I adored my newborn baby. I saw her as my life's greatest blessing, yet I was unraveling. The undoing of each internal thread, spilling over like a puddle of water that couldn’t be contained. The thoughts invaded me. They made me feel like I'd have to hand her over to someone else until I could come back to myself. I wasn’t able to feel secure enough for her to be well. I wondered who I could hand her to? I couldn’t. My postpartum journey was a mess that needed a cleanup.

Someone once told me to swallow my tears. They tasted like salt, but I wondered if the crippling fear would taste bitter or even dry; like grains of sand? I swallowed my tears in hopes that the water would hold this memory forever. This was my demon, the voice inside that said that she wasn’t safe with me. The voice that haunted me.

It was month two, and I still was not able to enjoy my baby. Depleted of sleep and exhausted from pumping, the crying was from me. I was the source of fear because she was drinking my milk. The taste of disappointment and Mama's milk were not enough to satiate this tiny newborn. I felt a small hand push up in the middle of my throat. It was like a version of myself was trying to speak, but there was no space to be heard.

I would get moments of mental clarity. I considered these symbols and images as tiny blessings. There were symbols on the tiles in our bathroom walls and floors that would form into messages of hope. The images formed into pictures of a mother and an infant. I'd piece the images together, tuning into my psyche, and stabilizing a sense of focus. I saw drawings of a mother singing and holding her child. I saw the baby sleeping between her mother and father. The father was holding the baby and a cat. I even saw breasts feeding the baby. I knew that these images were forming to give me glimpses of where I could train my mind to settle. Focus here instead of the fears, it would say. I received more. In moments when my mind was calm, I'd see blue dots hovering over everything. Small light speckles of blue lights would sparkle in the room over my baby and me in broad daylight. The blue lights were blessings from a higher power, telling me that the journey was not in vain. That plus the daily tile training helped me focus my attention on her. It gave me the courage to keep going.

I decided to do something profound at the mark of 100 days. I decided that the anxiety and the fear would not control me. It was time to take the grieving dress off and let my new skin feel the sunlight. I knew my baby would grow away from all the moments that I could not be present for. I craved that connection more than I allowed myself to let the hormones be in charge. I needed to feel peace, for both of us.

So I wrote to myself. I wrote a conversation back and forth with the versions of myself that were riddled with anxiety. I could hear and feel that parts of me needed to take action, while some needed attention. I decided to meet that little girl inside. I held her hand that pressed on my throat, and let her speak. She warned me that if I lost myself in this version of motherhood, I’d focus on myself too much, and I'd neglect my baby. She reminded me that I felt this way in the first year of my life. I took time to meet with her, nurture her, and make agreements and promises to her. She was not nurtured before.

At four months postpartum, my anxiety lessened. My baby latched, drank my milk, and we began to connect in a way that satiated us both. My period returned, and my hormones began to rebalance themselves for the next few months to come. It took one year for the fight or flight to deactivate. I regulated, and together, we healed. We ALL deserve to be held in the light. I am now ready to embrace motherhood again for the second time. I am ready.

As I write this, I conclude the sentiment with a belief. Darkness, pain, suffering, and loss are necessary. They are the worst parts of life and the most feared. I reminded myself that I was the master of my life, and all the experiences I live come in to serve me. The times I felt lost in darkness have always come to help me understand a greater and more dynamic part of myself. Surviving this not only serves me as a mother and a woman. Now, I've birthed a new version of me that is more resilient and less fragile. I can be and feel what MOTHER needs to be, and I remember that everything happens for a reason.