I’m going to out myself here. My family has a long and robust tradition of depression, and I am no exception. I remember first drinking ink and eating staples at the age of 10. Many long years of symptoms and acting out and generally hating everything later, I went on Prozac briefly in college, when all the kids were doing it. It was kind of a revelation. Stuff just wasn’t that difficult anymore. Really hard stuff, like getting out of bed or concentrating on reading for more than five minutes at a time totally got done without a second thought. I realized that this is what “normal” was like. Not fighting yourself and gravity every inch of the day. Not looking at the world through a fog, or having conversations on a five second delay. It was pretty sweet.

Prozac made me an asshole, though.

With the elimination of chronic second-guessing also came the elimination of self-doubt. I was certain I was right. About everything. Not only right, but also interesting. I stopped worrying about what other people thought. No one could hurt my feelings, and why would they? I was right, after all.

Prozac was kind of a blunt instrument. I went off of it after six months and was grateful to have hit the neural “reset” button. It taught me how to cope better.

Fast forward 16 years. I’ve been through some depressive cycles, struggled some, but been able to maintain on my own without chemical assistance. Go me.

In March, I had my daughter. While I was pregnant, I had this great feeling of complacency. Everything was going to be fine, the universe and my body were both doing their respective jobs. The baby was growing well, and we looked forward to a bright future together. After having her, though, things got a little wonky. I struggled to get up in the morning. The breast pump filled me with despair. I got hit by waves of sadness at random times. I had body aches and felt just old all of a sudden. Why was this happening? Life is pretty great. I have a wonderful husband, an appallingly fantastic, beautiful genius of a baby (ask around) that I am completely in love with. We’re stable, everyone’s healthy and I’m launching a new career and doing work I love. What unbelievable luck on all fronts. I’m grateful and knocking wood just typing this.

So, what the fuck is my problem?

It’s chemistry, stupid.

Eventually I caught on and called around to my various doctors to find one who would just write me a scrip based on my family history and brilliant deductive powers. My Primary Care obliged and I started Zoloft about six weeks ago.

I spent the first week gritting my teeth. I was twitchy and felt like an exposed nerve ending for the first few days. Kept waking up with my jaw all clenched up. But then good things started happening. Those aching feet that had me hobbling around in the morning? Gone. I mean, I kept the feet. But the aches disappeared. My back stopped hurting and it was easier to get out of bed in the morning. I still hate that that bastard breast pump, but it doesn’t make me cry anymore. And I can concentrate (when the baby’s out of the house) on getting work done. Life is better.

Why am I writing this?

Because it’s a low-drama story of treating a condition and we need more of those. It still seems to me there is some stigma around depression. People have a hard time recognizing it, and getting treatment. The nature of the disease is such that it’s hard to get off of your butt and get it treated. You may be plagued by self-doubt, feelings of unworthiness and generalized irritation. You may not want to try brain meds. You may want to wait it out, or you may not know someone who’s discussed it plainly.

I want to be the best parent I can be. It’s my primary motivation. Where I may have been slow to act on my own behalf, I am determined that my daughter have the best I can give her, and that include a mother running on all cylinders.

That’s my story and I’m standing by it.

Some resources:

Mayo Clinic: Postpartum Depression

Womenshealth.gov: Depression During and After Pregnancy

ACOG: Postpartum Depression

This post has also been published on BlogHer.

When I was a teenager, it didn’t take long to figure out that the females among us had a Get Out of Gym Free card. Just mentioning “that time of the month” to a teacher would exempt the card-holder from organized activity, freeing her up to spend her time on whatever trouble-making, boy obsessing, rumor starting, socializing, petty illegal activity or other drama she chose to focus on. Nobody ever wanted proof of this excuse, and male teachers even squirmed upon hearing it, which was mildly entertaining. I abused the privilege without hesitation.

Until one day, when I told Coach Eric I had “cramps — you know.” Eric wasn’t a teacher, but an outside coach we hired to help our team prepare for competition. He responded to my pronouncement with a frank “So what? It’s not like your leg is broken. Get out there and run.” Confronted with my expression of puzzled astonishment, he revealed the kernel of wisdom about exercise that I’m passing on today: “The days you want it the least are the days you need it the most.”

He was right. My cramps went away while I was exercising that day, and the endorphins did me a world of good. We all have off days throughout our lives, male and female alike. Exercise can change your mindset and interrupt the funk you’re in. And that’s one to grow on.

– Denise

It’s the sordid truth about exercise. No one really wants to do it. I mean, no one except for those eerily perky endorphin junkies that make the rest of us sofa clowns nervous. And when you want it least is when you need it most. And I totally trust Denise on these matters for several reasons, as follows:

1. She is very smart.
2. She is congenitally not full of baloney.
3. She is hot. A standing commitment to exercise probably has something to do with that.

You know what else is good for you?