Sometimes I wish I could be more like my husband. He and I are pretty much polar opposites, in nearly every way you could think of: he’ll eat anything, I pick and choose; I like to spend (a lot of) money, he likes to save it; he’s good with his hands, I’m good with words; he’s reserved, I’m outgoing and quite loud.
The differences between us go on and on, but it seems our dissimilarities are what makes our marriage solid. Over the ten years we’ve been together, we’ve formed a nearly seamless fabric of existence, working together to create a happy home for ourselves and our children. I know I do my part in this equation and I know what I contribute is very valuable to our lives, but still. Sometimes I wish I could be more like my husband.
I can’t help but think that if I were more like my husband, I would never have developed postpartum depression. Putting aside the fact that he’s male and unable to be postpartum in the first place, he has the type of personality that renders him nearly unshakeable, even when under huge amounts of stress. Me? I crack like an egg when I’m pressured.
Case in point: In high school, I played volleyball, and every time I had to make a crucial serve, I would have the nearly unconquerable urge to laugh hysterically. Similarly, I once had to present a major paper in front of my college Shakespeare class, and I threw up in my mouth just as I began speaking. My point being, I do not perform well in stressful situations.
One of the most stressful situations of womanhood (or my womanhood, at least) is the carrying and bearing of children. The hormones, the weight gain, the nausea, the indignities suffered in the doctor’s office and delivery room, these all contribute to an overwhelming sense of pressure and anxiety to perform. Even when things are going well, the desire to provide our children with the perfect environment for growth and success in life puts a considerable amount of strain on mothers.
It’s no wonder, then, that so many women develop postpartum depression. Aside from the unpredictability of hormonal imbalance and the physical toll pregnancy and childbirth takes on the body, the sheer emotional weight of caring exclusively for another human being is staggering. These situations where much is expected are usually the ones in which I buckle. And during those times, I wish I were a man; specifically, my husband.
He is the type of calculating, rational person who never gets flustered. If he were so inclined to learn how to play, he’d be a poker champion, I’m sure of it. His poker face is that good. On the other hand, I’m the world’s worst liar, and I couldn’t bluff if my life depended on it. He is able to consider a situation from every perspective, and he takes every single factor into account before making a decision. Therefore, it’s usually the right decision. Me? I prefer to make several wrong choices before making the right one, mostly because I’m not so good at planning ahead. He rarely lets his emotions get the best of him or interfere with decision-making, whereas I make nearly every choice solely on the basis of whether or not it “feels right” to me.
All these characteristics are what I used to see as the weaknesses that predisposed me to postpartum depression. The impulsiveness, the irrationality, the emotionality–all these historically female qualities are the ones that were exponentially magnified when I was depressed. And I thought to myself, If only I were like my husband, I wouldn’t let my emotions get the best of me. I’d be able to think through my problems, instead of throwing money or food at them. I wouldn’t be depressed.
I don’t know, perhaps all that is true. Maybe those qualities within me are the ones that made me a perfect target for PPD. But those are also the traits which make me Alexis, for better or worse. My irrationality is what led me to the knowledge that I would marry my husband–I was 18 at the time, and no rational 18-year-old wants to get married. But I knew, even though he didn’t, and I like to think I’m responsible for everything we have today: our marriage, our children, everything. My impulsiveness is what makes our lives interesting. The last-minute road trips when we were childless were always my idea, and they are some of our fondest memories. My sometimes out-of-control emotions have become a sort of gift, even though they are unpredictable. My family will never doubt that I love them, because it’s all right there on the surface.
These characteristics aren’t deficiencies, as I’d previously thought them. They are a part of that fabric my husband and I have made together, and if I were to pull at any one thread, the whole thing could come apart. PPD is a part of my history now; it’s one of those threads. All the qualities that make me me, that may have predisposed me to PPD, aren’t good or bad. They just are. And now that I see that, I can just be.
Alexis Lesa
