Jenna Hatfield

Jenna Hatfield is the Online Awareness & Engagement Manager for Postpartum Progress. She is an editor and award-winning writer, having won a SWPA Media & Mental Health Awards in 2012, among others. She is an everyday mom to two boys and a birth mother involved in a fully open adoption with her daughter. She makes her home in Ohio.

About Jenna Hatfield

Jenna Hatfield is the Online Awareness & Engagement Manager for Postpartum Progress. She is an editor and award-winning writer, having won a SWPA Media & Mental Health Awards in 2012, among others. She is an everyday mom to two boys and a birth mother involved in a fully open adoption with her daughter. She makes her home in Ohio.

I Felt Punished for My Honesty

[Editor’s Note: Today’s Warrior Mom guest post comes from a mom who felt like she was punished for being honest about her feelings and struggles in the hospital. -Jenna]

I Felt Punished for my Honesty

During my pregnancy, I worried that I was going to develop postpartum depression. I have struggled with depression and anxiety in the past. Additionally, I have a master’s in counseling and knew no one is immune.

I endured an emergency c-section, a baby who cried non-stop in the hospital, developed a 102.7 fever, and wound up the in the NICU. Would anyone cope well? I struggled with breastfeeding because my milk was delayed. I also developed pregnancy induced carpal tunnel syndrome in both hands. My baby lost 10% of her body weight and I felt awful.

Nurses overheard me telling my husband that I felt like a failure. Before my daughter wound up in the NICU, a kindly nurse suggested I let them take her to the nursery so I could rest when I revealed I was struggling. And feeling overwhelmed. The next day a different nurse was one duty and was judgmental when I requested for a little break.

All of a sudden my midwife came to my room, demanding that I agree to give my daughter formula, and that she would not leave until I agreed to formula and to go on anti-depressants. I felt shocked and said I wanted more time to see if I could breastfeed. Since she was in the NICU being nourished by donor milk, I felt I had time to make this decision.

The nurse again reiterated she would not leave until I agreed and stated, “You are too stressed out to breastfeed. Look what happened, your daughter wound up in the NICU!” I agreed, further convinced this was my fault.

The nurse then called in a psych-consult. I explained the situation to the psychiatrist who encouraged me to go on medication, but not if I wanted to breastfeed. I told him I hoped that breastfeeding would still work out, and I thought most new moms in my situation would be struggling a bit.

I felt like I was being punished because I was honest about how I was feeling and asked for help. I felt shame that, as a counselor, I had a psych-consult on me. I felt that the professionals’ reactions to my honesty were coming from a risk management perspective versus a place of help and support. I envied the women who were “smart” enough to suffer silently because they were not punished or made to feel like a bad mother for wanting to breastfeed or asking for help.

My daughter was fine, and once she was properly nourished, she was released with a clean bill of health. I felt traumatized by the experience and was completely stressed out trying to breastfeed. I felt terribly guilty that because I could not manage my stress, she wound up in the NICU. I had no confidence and was afraid to be alone with my daughter.

It is hard to say if I would have developed postpartum depression if it were not for my experience in the hospital. My daughter is now three-and-a-half years, and I feel it has only been recently that I can think of the experience without getting teary eyed.

As a counselor, I have been trained about the importance of being honest with my feelings and asking for help but the help I received felt punitive and hurtful. Three and a half years later, I have an awesome, healthy, and feisty little girl and continue to be honest about my feelings so other moms don’t feel so alone.

~NRB

Breathe, Mama

[Editor’s Note: Today’s guest post is from a Warrior Mom who endured a traumatic childhood and wants other moms to know they don’t have to end up like their own parents. When you feel triggered, you can choose how to react. You can choose to breathe. -Jenna]

Breathe, Mama

I see you. I see you milling thru another day as someone’s mom. A little human being’s teacher, his guide thru this world.

Maybe you’re pushing a fire truck around with your son and pretending to put out a fire. Maybe you’re changing a diaper and making a funny face at your child as you wipe their bottom for the 17293728th time.

Maybe you’re just going thru the motions while your mind processes something completely different: another time, another place, another child.

Growing up in an abusive household, you often don’t realize that your life is not the norm. You are accustomed to being hit, cut down, bullied, taken advantage of, etc. You begin to brick up your heart and your emotions. You build your wall and before you know it, no one can hurt you. No one can get to you.

The tears become less about being sad and more of an automatic, robotic even, reaction. The yelling becomes less about making a point and more about survival.

Maybe you’re like me: You grow up, move out and in from your childhood, you get married, and you start your own big girl life. You’re in love, and you don’t care who knows it!

Along with marriage comes highs and lows. Though the highs may carry you thru the lows, you enjoy them with discretion, because history has taught you that behind every joy, animosity lurks not far.

“Don’t get too happy,” your subconscious reminds you. “This peace of mind is not what we do!” So you get used to feeling most of the way happy, but never letting yourself 100% feel it.

Then you meet the human that has been growing in your body for nine months (or maybe you adopted, but either way, you’re a mama now.) Then that wall, it begins to sway, like a hurricane is beating down on one side of it. Now you’re a little scared.

What is this sorcery? Excuse me, little bald person, but who are you to waltz in and take over my thoughts like this? Wall demolished. Gone.

Fast forward a few years. The little bald person has turned into a slightly taller, slightly hairier person and today, he wakes up in a mood. Nothing you mention does he want for breakfast. He doesn’t want to get dressed. He refuses to brush his teeth. You hand him a toy and he throws it at you.

You feel your gears starting grind. That feeling of beginning to lose your cool.

Logically, you know that you are trying to reason with a toddler. But at this point, you have learned that logic and toddler do not belong in the same sentence. That toy he hurled at you earlier? That you calmly picked up and handed back to him four times? Here it comes again. This time, your blood boils.

It’s time for limits to be set and bad habits to start being curbed. But then… you freeze.

You see your face in your child’s face. You’re both scared. He, because he can sense that you’re upset. You, because you remember the feeling of being trapped. You break down and cry while your child comforts you and pats your shoulder.

“Why am I crying?!,” you wonder.

Dig a little deeper and you’ll feel it. You are terrified of becoming what you once feared.

This is where you breathe.

You are a compassionate, feeling, caring, nurturing woman. You lived that chapter. It’s over. You lived that book. It’s over. Time for the sequel.

Breathe in your child’s adoration of his mother. Breathe out your self-doubt. Breathe in the freedom of loving and raising your child to be a kind human being. Breathe out the unkindness and animosity of your childhood.

Breathe, mama. You are not your parents. You are not your abusers. You are not them.

~A.S.

I Am a Survivor?

[Editor’s Note: Parts of this post may be triggering as this Warrior Mom and survivor mentions suicide and names some moms who did not survive postpartum mood and anxiety disorders. Please read only if you are in a safe place. You are not alone. You can be a survivor, too. -Jenna]

I Am a Survivor?

I balked the first time my therapist used the term “survivor” when referring to me.

Yes, I had been through a horrible illness. I had lost weight and sleep and the basic enjoyment of life. I had been tormented by recurrent and horrible images of my son being injured or killed in random acts of violence.

I had barely left my home in six months, had not trusted anyone else to care for my boy, and yet, paradoxically, had also been unable to take him into the wide, cruel world. I had postpartum anxiety disorder and postpartum OCD.

Indeed, I had endured plenty—but was I a “survivor”? 

No, the label didn’t seem right. Survivors walk away from plane crashes or flash floods. Survivors beat cancer. Survivors escape from domestic abuse. “Survivor” didn’t seem like the proper way to describe what I had been through.

Time passed and, as I slowly recovered, I became an outspoken advocate for maternal mental health. I attended trainings and conferences, read books and journals, changed careers, and even started a support group. I became a state coordinator for Postpartum Support International (PSI), and I joined the board of a local nonprofit called Postpartum Education and Support.

Even with all of that professional exposure, I still had a hard time identifying as a survivor. A mother, wife, daughter, advocate, doula, yes. But survivor?  It still didn’t feel right.

The turning point for me came in June, at our local Climb Out of the Darkness event. I self-consciously wore the “SURVIVOR” sticker that was passed to me. At the time, the country was reeling from the Orlando shooting, and I felt especially uneasy identifying myself as a survivor. 

As a group, we listened to a message from Katherine Stone read tearfully by the organizers and then had a moving invocation. Emotions ran high as we waited for the walk to begin. I found myself standing next to an older couple named Anne and Mark. Most of the attendees were young families so they stood out. I introduced myself and we began chatting. I asked what brought them to The Climb and Anne responded,

“Oh, I work with Leslie (one of the organizers) and, well, I knew Jackie. She didn’t survive.”  

For a split second, I didn’t understand what she was telling me. Then it hit me. Anne knew someone who had taken her own life while struggling with a postpartum mood disorder.

Jackie was a woman just like me. She wanted to be a mother more than anything, but then felt like she had totally lost herself after the birth of her son. Jackie developed the most severe and rarest form of postpartum mood disorder: postpartum psychosis. We both sought treatment and both fought to get better. We both had very strong support from our family and friends. Yet, I survived and Jackie did not.    

I felt like I had been punched in the gut and all the unease I had felt about being a survivor dissipated in a moment. Why hadn’t this hit me before? I knew that suicide was a real risk of perinatal mood and anxiety disorders. In fact, suicide is the number one cause of death for women in the first year postpartum.  

Of course I am a survivor. I survived a terrible illness that sucks the joy and will to live from your very soul. I survived night after night of staying awake to watch my son sleep because I was afraid he would die if I closed my eyes. I survived the images that played through my mind on a gruesome loop.

I did survive, yet so many others do not.

Annie Imlay-Spangler,
Sarah Walker Judson,
Jennifer Lynne Knarr,
Cynthia Wachenheim,
Aimee Ziegler,
Emily Cook Dyches,
Sasha Lewis Hettich,
Allison Goldstein,
Melanie Blocker-Stokes,
Casandra Ashley Vaughan Perkins, and
Jackie

These women didn’t survive, and I did. Calling myself anything other than a survivor would be an insult to their memory. 

If you are struggling, please reach out for help.

Join the other Warrior Moms at Postpartum Progress. You are not alone. Connecting with others is a powerful tool in your recovery.

Find your local PSI coordinator. They will help you find support groups, therapists, and doctors in your area. You can also access Postpartum Progress’ lists of specialists and support groups, or reach out to them via Facebook.

You will be a survivor, too.  

~Carrie Banks

How EMDR Therapy Helped Postpartum Me

[Editor’s Note: Today’s guest post comes from a Warrior Mom who employed EMDR Therapy in order to process her postpartum depression and anxiety. EMDR is one of eight types of psychotherapy for postpartum depression treatment. We’re thankful she shared her experience for others considering this option. -Jenna]

How EMDR Therapy Helped Postpartum Me

I thought I had digested it, processed it, was done with it.

I wasn’t.

Here I was, sitting in my EMDR therapist‘s office, discussing my postpartum depression and anxiety days almost ten years later. With each question asked, I delved deeper into my past, isolating that one biggest moment I knew something was wrong.

I was currently analyzing the ER at my hospital.

Buzzers gently vibrated my right hand, then my left. I was being trained to reprocess this memory. A memory I thought I had processed many years ago.

The ER was bleak, bare, suffocating. It was a small room with beige walls filled with grey fabric chairs with black plastic arms and legs. The carpet was grey too. There was no natural light except for the front doors. I was seated facing forward with the doors on my left.

The chaos around me was shut out by my mind. Random worries played Pong in my head as I tried hard to keep up with all of them. If I wasn’t pacing the floor, I was rocking back and forth in the chair next to my mother.

I hated this woman, this woman I had become. I spent years trying to remove myself from her. I was a failure, a disgrace. Mothering should not have been an occupation given to me as I was clearly failing with that too. I was ashamed.

I couldn’t care for my daughter; I couldn’t even stand to be around her. I hated her and because of that, I deeply despised myself.

How quickly I went from admiring this beautiful baby of mine to cringing at any sound she made. Looking at her adorable face just deepened the hate I had for myself. I removed myself, becoming robotic, between vomiting and crying fits, when taking care of her.

Here I was, in the ER, exactly one month after she was born.

My therapist had thought it a good idea to reprocess this moment. He believed that my postpartum depression and anxiety were connected to the recent events of fostering a special needs toddler and ultimately succumbing to the evil grips of Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety again after having to give him back.

I failed once again at motherhood. I couldn’t balance his needs, my daughter’s needs, and taking care of myself.

Once again, like all those years ago, it seemed as if Postpartum Me was returning. I was dry-heaving every morning and most afternoons and evenings. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I was obsessively worrying about his care and overlooking my daughter’s.

I broke and wound up in the ER once again. I had come full circle.

As I sat with the buzzers going off in my hands that day in therapy, I truly began to think about that day, all those years ago, in the ER. Staring at my Postpartum self as I was now, I deeply looked at her.

She was a mess but she would get better. My therapist told me to go with tha,t which was him basically saying to continue with that thought. Present Day Me knelt down beside Postpartum Me. I took her hands in mine and looked into her eyes. She, still rocking back and forth, was focused on a floral print picture on the wall directly in front of her.

“It’s okay,” I told her, “I know because I have been there. You will get better. I did.”

With that, Postpartum Me stopped rocking back and forth and focused her eyes on mine. Present Day Me was crying. Ten years and I finally had compassion for myself. It was freeing in so many ways. Not only was I able to fully reprocess my Postpartum years, but in turn, because of that, I had processed my Post-Foster years.

EMDR therapy saved me. It gave me the compassion I needed for myself. The compassion I give to so many others, I was now able to give to me.

~Stephanie Trzyna