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Chapter 4

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By Sophie

As someone who lives with stage four bilateral endometriosis, I am no stranger to anxiety and depression. My journey to motherhood was fraught with surgery, clinical appointments, loss, risk in pregnancy, a slow postpartum recovery, and breastfeeding challenges. All these experiences, on top of my daily struggle with chronic pain led to an even more stressed mental state.

After the births of my son (now 7) and daughter (now 1), I struggled to cope. Even though I had access to a trusted counselor, loving partner, supportive family, and friends, I struggled. Still today, the demands of my disease and the NEED to care for my own body, are often at war with the needs of my children. I am learning that you can have all the support in the world, and still struggle with your mental health.

I often think: “If only I try harder, do more, I can push past the way I am feeling”. The truth is, we need to feel these feelings, with the right supports in place. We need to hold them close, not push them away. In fact, we may never push past the way we are feeling. Mental health isn’t about getting over something, it’s about learning to live safely with the what ifs, the down days and the panic.

The challenges around motherhood are deeply systemic, starting at the beginning, with how those of us with reproductive-related disease are treated in the health system, how postpartum bodies are NOT supported and how women are often expected to put aside their needs for EVERYONE else.

My story comes from a place of privilege. I am a cis-gender white woman surrounded by friends and family who support me. Imagine the postpartum experience of those who aren’t in the same position. I’m not yet out of the darkness. Some days are tough, and I want to be someplace else. I often wonder if I made the right choice having children. Is it supposed to be this hard? Or is it just hard for me? While I may not love being a mom every day, I do love my kids, and that is what matters most.

Chapter 3

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by Anneke VB

I have four kids. During all pregnancies and postpartum I was flagged as showing signs of depression. I wasn’t surprised; depression is something I had been familiar with. It was just always there, especially during the first 10 years that I was in Canada. As an immigrant, I had a hard time fitting in, and unsure how to access the resources I needed. I didn’t have a community, and though my husband is my best friend: he really was all I had.

Two years after first arriving in Canada, I got pregnant. It was planned, but I couldn’t have been less prepared emotionally. I was 26 and I hadn’t given parenting much thought, but I winged it. Child is 14 now, still alive and without major trauma, child says. In the following years, I just went from pregnancy to postpartum, always was screened and found to be scoring slightly too high on the (flawed) Edinburgh scale. A doctor would mention something about looking after myself, and that was it. I didn’t give it much thought, as I plodded along.

It wasn’t until my last one when things started to feel off for me. One of my earliest memories of postpartum with my 4th is what I now refer to as headlice day. It was the first day of winter break, and I had found headlice in all the kids’ hair, my husband’s and my own. It’s a rite of passage for most family with young kids, but it couldn’t have come at a worse day for my family.

With my husband having to work overtime, I spent the whole day doing headlice treatments, the nasty chemical kind. I was exhausted, which is to be expected 3 weeks postpartum from a c-section, and baby had to spend a lot of time unhappy in their crib. It was (and still is) the longest day of my life.
Once it was time for me to give myself treatment, I had given up. While the kids maybe had a few headlice here and there, my hair was literally full of them. I saw no other way out then cutting all my hair off, and giving myself a treatment, while husband put the kids to bed, way after their bedtime. There are benefits to wearing a head scarf and rarely having visitors. Nobody asked me a question.

While headlice day was an exhausting day for good reason, I never really recovered mentally. I was already not doing great after baby was born, but now I literally felt myself spiraling. I didn’t enjoy life and didn’t enjoy being me. My doctor got me on a waiting list for counselling, as we didn’t have insurance and due to our financial situation, we didn’t have many other options. I didn’t want medication, as I thought it too complicated, and I had no energy to research the options to make a well-informed decision.

Early March I had to drive my child to a birthday party, and while navigating traffic with 4 kids, I thought how much easier it would be if I just had an accident. I can’t say it was a scary thought, as it wasn’t. It felt like an option that I felt rather intrigued by.

After that day, slowly things got better. I started to realize that I had options and that felt very liberating. With the warmer weather I was able to get out more, which was only getting easier with baby getting older. Counselling had started and while I never thought it particularly helpful, it gave me the opportunity to reflect on my life and who I was beyond being a parent.

By summer, things had much improved, though it wasn’t really until I started working a part time job 10 months postpartum, that things really started to change. Work brought (and brings) me so much joy and I love what I am doing. An important part of my work now is to share my experiences as an immigrant parent with perinatal depression, but also to create services that support parents who are situations like I was. I did it (mostly) alone, but parents shouldn’t have to. There are so many resources out there now. Please, ask for help. It is the most courageous thing you can do for yourself.

Chapter 2

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by Catherine M

My journey with Perinatal Mental Health includes a pre-existing mental health condition diagnosed in childhood (OCD) that had been managed for decades before I got pregnant. I wasn’t educated on how pregnancy and postpartum could affect my experience of OCD. Nor was I educated to know that in becoming a parent I would experience increasing and challenging sensory overstimulation. It would leave me feeling like my skin was aching daily, and my ears would ring and throb to the point of making sleep difficult. With my first pregnancy and birth, I was fortunate at the time to live in Toronto and receive care after my first was born. When I gave birth to my second in Waterloo Region, I realized how few supports were available once outside an urban community.

I once made a list of all the people I thought could raise my first child for me, because the weight of the responsibility sent me spiraling into a cyclone of intrusive thoughts, every hour of every day. I was certain I had made a horrible mistake and that I wasn’t supposed to be raising him. Instead of sleeping, I listed all the people that I could ask to take him for me. And that if I was lucky, it would be someone in my family so I would still get to be a part of his life, see him grow up. I was heartbroken and lost, more than I had ever been in my life or in my experience of my disorder up until then.

I still struggle. I will always struggle. I know this. That doesn’t mean I’m a mess every day, but some days I definitely can be. I have never loved anything more in my life than my children. And though that is a gift I get to live every day, it can also turn to fear and terror very quickly.

I am a white, female passing, womyn who lives within a circle of privilege – including a strong community and support system around me. Imagine those who aren’t the same position.

Chapter 1

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by Lisette W

Postpartum hit me like a brick. On the outside I was happy, keeping it together. Inside I felt like I was drowning. So much doubt. So much self-loathing.

My first’s birth was traumatic, followed by a NICU stay where we fell through the cracks of support and had to find our way ourselves. Add the struggle to breastfeed and I was gone.

I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety. I was screaming at a three week old. I would snap with sudden rage at a little baby who thought I was her whole world. I didn’t want to be her mom. I wanted to run away. There must be someone out there who can love and care for her more than me. Better than me.

This side of parenthood isn’t talked about. The ugly side where you’re at the door with your keys wondering where you could go that isn’t here. The feelings of utter failure because you’re incapable of nursing – the thing everyone notes as natural and easy. Being surrounded by people but not knowing how to ask for help that’s helpful. Surrounded by people but grasping for sanity.

Thankfully I was able to start seeing a therapist who specialized in perinatal mood and anxiety disorders and got onto medication. I am a much better mom for my kids when I take care of my needs first.