When we came upon the subject of mental illnesses in nursing school, I was immediately captivated by the complexity of the human mind. I was so interested in the subject that I fully engaged myself in learningeverything thatthere was possiblyto know about mental illnessesso that when I walked onto the psychiatric ward to start my first clinical day, I was going to help people.
Then I met my first patient.
I left that clinical day feeling frustrated and helplessbecause I had all the concrete nursing knowledge in the world yet I didn't know how to help her. I also felt heartbroken for her and for every person with a mental illnessbecause I never knew the depths of pain a soul could experience until I saw it etched on their faces.
I still didn't fully understand that pain until I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
To me, my depression is more than just feeling sad. It literally feels like my body has been plopped in the middle of a thick fog where every one of myhuman senses aremuffled. I can't see in front of me. I can't see behind me. Every step I take is with great trepidation because I don't know where I'm going andwhether I'm making a step forward or backwards or sideways.
Quite literally, I am lost. And sometimes it's just easier to not take a step at all so I stay where I was plopped, in the middle of chaos. That space is so terrifying, empty, and dreadfully alone.
So what can you do to help someone who is experiencing this?
For me, the single most important thing that someone can do is to just call, or visit, or email. This lets me know that you are stillwith me and even though I feel completely lost,that you are there fighting through this fog trying to find me.
Because fighting through this fog of postpartum depression takes a village of support and love and encouragement, and knowing that you are there WITH us means the world to us.
Oursupport systems need help, too, in knowing whatthey can do to help us. So what are some of those things? How they can better help you?
Kimberly
When I was at the worst of my PPD, I made two rules for my friends when they called. Don't begin the conversation by asking me "how I am?" because invariably my answer (shitty, horrible, depressed) would make me cry. And don't ask me what I'm up to? (sitting on the couch crying) Because that answer would also make me cry.
Instead, I asked friends to just call and start the conversation by telling me something random that they read in the paper or some random moment from their day. It really helped get us past that first awkward part of the conversation.
I think that our friends and family don't really know what to say or ask. They handle us with kid gloves. I think it's great that you told them what you needed.
I agree with SHK. I had some well-meaning friends who wanted to try and "fix" things and so phone calls became something I dreaded rather than looked forward to. No one wants to explain for the umpteenth time "no, I'm not feeling good and trying x, y, z or any of your other suggestions isn't the answer." The conversations, especially via email, of everyday life (not about PPD or new motherhood) were what seemed to help the most. There's a quote I found, during that deep, dark time of PPD, that I felt said it all(for me and in my situation/experience):
"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."
-Samuel Paterson
When my wife fell to post natal depression (or post-partum depression) she didn't know what she wanted; she was lost. I didn't know what she wanted either only that she didn't want to be left alone. I did that as little as possible. A rotten illness. BillyT
That is a very beautiful quote. Just knowing that they are there with us, fighting along with us means the world.
Yes in the thick of it we don't know what we want or what to do but being there for us…saying that "we" will be this or "I am always here" etc. let's us know that we are not alone.
For me, calling a friend or telling my husband how I felt; I felt like a burden. Almost felt guilty for not sharing my pain. Because of that friends thought that I was feeling better so they stopped calling. And at home, I retreated to the bathroom to cry alone.
So I think it's important that friends and family still stay involved. Calling or emailing or visiting helps me know that people are still concerned, helps me feel like I'm not burdening them with my problems, allows me to be more open with my feelings, and definitely makes me feel less alone.
The best thing was to just come & be with me. I didn't necessarily WANT company, but I NEEDED it. My mother was amazing with her willingness to spend the night when needed. I had girlfriends bring me a cup of tea in the middle of the day & tell me to go hop in the shower while they held Harrison. Just those simple acts of knowing someone cared for ME, not just Harrison, was good for my soul.
& maybe it's the Southener coming out in me, but FOOD. When friends brought over diner & casseroles & an extra one to keep in my freezer, it lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. With their help, I could provide a healthy, homemade, hot meal to my husband simply by turning on the oven.
I agree. It's so much easier to pick up the phone when it's ringing and answer the "How are you?" with full on tears than it is to pick up the phone yourself and reach out.
NOT helpful were the people who were constantly trying to remind me of how lucky I was to have a beautiful and easy baby, how wonderful my life was, and how silly I was being to believe I couldn't be a good mother (all true, but NOT helpful).
My most helpful friend was the one who popped by unexpectedly every week or so, announcing we were going for a walk. She would strap my baby to her own chest with my sling and we'd head out and walk the neighborhood. No planning neccessary on my part. Many times, she would do all the talking, telling funny stories or just chatting about her daily life. When she could tell I needed it, she was able to call up a million horror stories of her own months as a new mother… how crazy she felt, how much she cried, how unnatural it all felt. It was strangely comforting to hear those stories from someone who I had always seen as a "supermom."
When I did feel like talking, she listened. When I expressed guilt over not enjoying motherhood, she said, "this part isn't to be enjoyed. It's to be gotten through." She was the one friend I never had to lie to–and that was the best gift she gave me.
Yes knowing that someone was there for me made the world of a difference. Also friends baring food was a bonus since my anxiety was so crippling that making simple choices like what to eat for dinner would lead to more stress.
A lot of the time, I felt like I was a burden when I would call people. It was such a relief when they did the calling. They didn't even need to ask me how I felt, just a simple hello and an I love you was all that was needed sometimes.
What a wonderful friend. For me, I was the first friend in our social circle to ha e a baby and to have postpartum depression (or any mental illness) that a lot of my friends didn't know what to do or say.
It was my sister in law, who battled and beat PPD herself, that asked the questions and knew what would help/not help. Then my friends followed in her lead. I am so thankful of her for that.
I do agree that the statement "you should feel lucky/blessed etc" made me feel even worse. I'm sorry that someone had said that to you.
This was a great post and I owe so much to my best friend who was there for me the whole time.
I love your rules. Great idea!!!!