PERRY

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The beginning:

I clearly remember calling Rabbi Smith and telling him how I was weirder than usual… I had a hard time pinpointing what it was exactly, but it was evident that I was not myself. He immediately said, “You are suffering from postpartum depression; be blessed and go to a doctor. Let me know what happens.”

I got off the phone and thought, “Postpartum depression? But I’m not SAD. I love kids. All three of them, under three-years-old (two years and four months to be exact). I’m connecting with my baby. I LOVE my baby. That’s not what this is… I don’t have postpartum depression… No, that can’t be it.”

For a while, my symptoms were masked. I was fatigued (“But I have triplets and they’re all in diapers!”).

I had feelings of guilt, worthlessness, hopelessness (the endless to-do lists, not getting enough done, everyone crying…). By the time I got everyone to bed, I would stay up. I just wanted to silence, and this was the only way I got it. I was not aware of how much damage running on close to no sleep would do.

At the time, there was the Polio “scare” in Israel, and to make a long story short, I proceeded to wash my hands in between diaper changes, baths, etc. (as directed), but I lead to excessive hand washing. I excessively worry and check on the kids, making sure they’re still breathing.

I had thoughts like maybe God would take my kids away from me because I don’t appreciate them enough. They are better off without me. Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus or something.

I was anxious as fuck. You’re reading this though; of course, I was anxious. Depression and anxiety frequently go hand in hand.

I started to pick at any imperfections on my skin. I was convinced that I was taking care of myself by removing them.

I really believed in my heart that this was my life now. That whatever I was feeling is just what comes with the territory. This is the “new normal”. Another version of Perry.

I made an appointment with my doctor, who told me that I had hypothyroidism (an underactive thyroid). Apparently, another serious condition… He said to take some meds and we would reevaluate in six weeks. “But doctor, you don’t understand. I’m suffering. I think I have postpartum depression.”

“Well, you’re four months postpartum, so if you’re depressed, you’re having a, Major Depressive episode. (I had missed my three week check up and came in at the four month point. He, along with MANY other medical professionals, continued to correct me that I was having a Major Depressive episode, that had NOTHING to do with being postpartum. But had my appointment been one week prior, then I could have been diagnosed correctly as having postpartum depression (PPD). I was fighting with professionals who refused to recognize the connection between my medical history and current situation. I was humiliating; I felt pathetic. Fortunately for everyone else, you can now get diagnosed with PPD up to eighteen months postpartum.) But you’ll be okay for a few more weeks, right? Because these meds will probably fix the problem and you’ll be fine.”

I told him I’ve been feeling horrible for weeks and wanted a psych referral. He said it would take a while to see a professional and we should just start the meds. “It’s not necessary. You’re doing great with your beautiful family.”

So I let my doctor convince me that I was fine. I didn’t take my thyroid medication though. What did he know? He was looking at me, seeing me, and telling me I was fine. He wanted me to go home and find the time and energy to make a second appointment within a reasonable amount of time (with all three kids in tow, AGAIN).

I continued on. I would leave my house every day with the kids, because I was afraid that if (God forbid) something would happen, I would be alone and no one could help us. But if I’m outside and surrounded by people, it felt safer. But it was also exhausting. I would ignore my friends’ calls, and then feel lonely without them.

Vicious cycle. Self-isolation.

 

 

Rock Bottom:

One of my children was having terrible tantrums and I remember feeling like I couldn’t stay inside my own skin anymore. So… I dug my fingernails into face and dragged them down as I screamed. My husband forced me to get a second opinion. I called Rabbi Smith again as I was crying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He said, “You’re amazing. You just need help right now. We all do at some point.” While on the phone, I remember looking at the flowers at the park on my block and feeling nothing. They used to bring me so much joy.

 

 

Recovery:

Those six-eight months were some of the darkest for me, but I got connected with a great organization called Nitza (in Jerusalem, Israel). They helped me navigate through the medical system in Israel and make sure I got the right care. God sent me the right messengers when it was time to get better. I started a low dose of meds for my depression and started to treat my hypothyroidism. I was going to reflexology every week and therapy twice a week. I tried to sleep more, eat better/more consistently, and when I moved to Los Angeles I started to exercise regularly. After meeting (IG) @yourtrainerkate, she helped me take my health and fitness to the next level. I started to train for my duathlon and I was feeling better than ever.

I’ve had my ups and downs since. I’ve experienced one major relapse last year, which was very painful on a lot of levels. At that time, I’m grateful to my husband for knowing that something needed attention right away. Within days, I was feeling better.

Just like you take preventative measures with other health conditions, you do the same with depression. For me, this means putting constants in place (and if one is off, then the whole thing is off). Although it is different for everyone, my constants are prayer, exercise, hydration, nutrition, meds, sleep, art, and down time.

 

Now:

I still have scars all over my legs and arms from picking my skin. It’s embarrassing because it scares people. They stare and ask questions. In the moment I try to kinder to myself and accept myself as I am (with all of my “imperfections”). I’m working on removing the shame by practicing being more comfortable in my own skin. I’ve starting learning and practicing a new medium of ar. It is helping, so I’m on the right track.

I imagined having a bigger family; that I wouldn’t take things “too hard” and I would just naturally have enough faith that things would work themselves out. I didn’t know I was having my last baby, and if I had I would have done things differently. I hate how much I have missed out on because I couldn’t be present or fully enjoy them. They deserved better. I was supposed to have another daughter and name her after my grandmother and have another son and name her after my husband’s grandfather (crying as I’m writing this).

I am still mourning over these things, but I’m sure I’ll allow myself to be free of them one day.

I can have ALL of these feelings while STILL being overwhelmingly grateful for what I have been blessed with.

I must note that Yair (my son), from one hour out of the womb has been so intuitive and affectionate, among his many other incredible qualities (which is why not woman will EVER be good enough for him😉 ). He actively brought me comfort in his own baby way. I thought this was my “new normal”, I didn’t know how yet, but it would get better. Everything would be illuminated with light.

 

Looking back:

Having depression forced me to have the biggest wake up call. I’m a firm believer that we are given opportunities to grow, and I know that this experience has made me better. It forced me to face my demons. It forced me to take an active role in my health. It forced me to adjust, let go, and heal. It forced me to find a pinch of bravery when I was so scared. It forced me to see with my own eyes that you can’t pour from an empty pitcher, and that WE ALL have an obligation to take care of ourselves so that we can BE givers. We need the strength to become better versions of ourselves.

I accept that this submission may not be my “perfect” version, but I gave you my all here, as real as I can possibly be without bringing anyone down. Hearing other peoples’ stories helped me see that I am not alone in this. My OCD can many times get in the way of saying anything at all. So today… I will be proud that I put forward the best version I can.

I hope this can help someone.