I Still Fear the Stigma of Antidepressants

I tucked the bottle of Zoloft under the gloves in my purse. That way, if someone caught a glimpse inside, no one would see the pills and suspect.

“Don’t tell your mother,” I ordered my husband. “The last thing I want is your whole family hearing that I’m crazy now.”

Of course, I don’t believe I’m actually crazy, but postpartum depression has a terrible stigma. I knew my mother-in-law would jump at the chance to “help” (take over my home and child) and blab to the world about her poor, helpless daughter-in-law. For someone who suffers from depression herself (and is extremely vocal about it), she is less than empathetic. But I digress.

The truth is, I’m ashamed – ashamed that I even need these pills in the first place. I’m ashamed that I’m not strong enough to overcome this on my own and be the mom I know I’m capable of being. Even after all the warnings and literature and education provided to me during my pregnancy, I was still woefully unprepared for the experience. I didn’t think it would happen to me.

At first, I experienced what I can only describe as the New Mommy High. I was over-the-moon smitten with my beautiful little girl and nothing could bring me down. That feeling lasted four months, and then I started to notice a change. There was a definite shift in my mood. I felt a lot more anxiety. I’ve always been an anxious person, but this was different. This time, I couldn’t control it like I had before.

I chalked it up to sleep deprivation. My little bundle of joy was up every hour on the hour for two months straight. I was sure that once I finally got some sleep, my anxiety and depression would subside. Sleep training to the rescue! By nine months old, my daughter was consistently sleeping through the night. I was more rested, but no less depressed and anxious.

I thought generating an income would help. I hadn’t anticipated how inadequate I would feel as a stay-at-home mom. So I found a job I could do from home – babysitting. I felt better – for a while. Then I started to dip again. So I found another way to make more money from home – freelance writing. Eureka! I finally found my calling in life. I made pennies, but it was much more fulfilling. Until it wasn’t.

I was getting worse and worse and spiraling into this dark place in my mind that I was sure I would never escape. I felt like something was innately wrong with me. I was getting angry at my kid for being a kid. I was angry at my husband because surely somehow this was his fault. I was angry at myself because I was never doing enough, and I should be able to fix it. What was wrong with me? I had what I had always wanted. I could stay at home with my amazing little girl. I spent my days playing with two little ones and watching them grow and learn and laugh together and even develop a sibling-like bond. It was beautiful. On top of that, I finally found a way to make an income writing, and I loved it. I still do. I’ve never felt more fulfilled at a job.

But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the depression. Nearly one year after I first noticed feeling depressed, I finally sought help. I had become consumed by my fears. The thoughts in my head were no longer my own. I contemplated running away, in more ways than one. I was sure I would never feel better. But I had to. For my baby. For my husband. I had to do something.

So, I bit the bullet and called a therapist. Within five minutes of meeting, I was already sobbing uncontrollably. She suggested medication. One month prior, I would have said no. I didn’t think it was necessary. I thought depression was something I should be able to handle on my own. But I couldn’t control the thoughts anymore or the waking nightmares of what might happen if I was away from my baby for too long.

I swallowed my pride and went to my OB. I told her everything I told my therapist. She wrote a prescription for Zoloft. Once I began to notice a change, it was incredible. I could feel something besides fear again.

It’s still not perfect. I’m still depressed. I still feel anxious. Some days are harder than others, and I’m still in therapy. But the thoughts have subsided. They aren’t completely gone, but they are weaker now. They don’t have the power over me that they had before.

I have a new purpose – finding things that make me happy. Not at the expense of my family, of course. This is to help my family – to make us stronger. It is so I can be a fulfilled, self-actualized, confident version of myself. I’m learning to be the person who isn’t afraid to tell someone where to go if I need to, to stand up for myself when no one else will.

But even after all of this, I’m still hiding the Zoloft in the bottom of my purse, hoping no one catches a glimpse of it. I don’t want to be labeled. I don’t want to be defined by a condition that I have no control over. A part of me is still ashamed. Logically, I know I am not weak. In fact, it is strength that prompted me to finally seek help.

But I still fear that the rest of the world won’t understand. I still fear the stigma.

Nadine works at home as a freelance writer and babysitter and is a mom to one energetic, chatty toddler. In her spare time, she watches Friends reruns while I contemplating the meaning of life and devouring the junk food she hid from her husband and kid. She accomplishes all of this while putting off housework. You can find more on her blog Focus on Yourself or follow her on Twitter._