Our May Mom-to-Mom post is a Mom’s brave account of the reality of significant perinatal distress including suicidality. And her determination to make it through to the other side. Please note that this piece includes descriptions of suicidal thinking.

If you our someone you know is feeling suicidal, please call the national suicide hotline at 800-273-8255 or go to your nearest emergency room.

My first birth broke me, literally and figuratively.

There was the 3rd degree tear and bruised tailbone that took six months of pelvic floor physical therapy to make bearable. Then there was the crippling postpartum anxiety and depression, feeding issues, and learning how to navigate our new world that broke me. That time period was the first time I felt like I wanted to die, and it absolutely terrified me to have those thoughts creep into my mind. I felt like I lost myself, and it took months of therapy from the PWC, finding the right medication, and slowly figuring out this parenting thing until I was able to slowly crawl out of that hole and put myself back together.

I loved that new me. She was strong. She made mean pork tacos everyone raved about. She was creative, making new mom friends, and loved Pilates and podcasts. When she thought about the future and having another child, she felt ready for it because she’d learned so much during the recovery process and done research on how to have a better birth next time. She’d picked the perfect time to start trying—August so the hottest part of the summer would be over while she was nauseous, and she’d have a beautiful spring baby.

COVID hit. Along with an unexpected positive sign only a month into the pandemic. I was so excited. I told myself this was meant to be and whoever this baby was, they were determined to join our family. I felt great for a week and thought that maybe I would have an uncomplicated pregnancy because I knew so much more this time. And then the morning sickness hit. I started having nightmares every night about the boy who assaulted me a decade earlier. The worst was the intense feelings of sadness and despair.

I started walking more, figuring that fresh air and sun would help. I got the recommended meditation apps. I was eating ‘healthy’ foods, and drinking water. I finally called my doctor to have my medication adjusted, but the feelings didn’t go away. Every night I’d go into my closet and cry, hoping to feel relief once I was finished. I hadn’t even made it to my first appointment when I told my mom in tears that I didn’t want to do this anymore.

I figured that the this I was referring to was just the first trimester. That I’d feel better once that was finished. But when I laid on the exam table at twelve weeks, staring at my wiggly little human, besides relief they were okay, I felt nothing. I just kept saying with more and more frequency that I didn’t want to do this anymore, not quite ready to look that this in the eyes.

I started therapy again with the PWC. That was my lifeline. In the first meeting with my therapist, she asked me if I was experiencing suicidal thoughts. I paused for a long time. She reassured me that if I was, that didn’t mean I was going to the hospital right away, that there were other factors that determined that. I waited a little longer, pulling out that this, turning it over and truly examining it. Yes, I was. That this was my life.

I beat myself up in every way imaginable. I thought of those struggling with infertility who would do anything to be in my shoes. Or those who had serious health problems who worried every day for their and their baby’s health. Or those who were pregnant and experiencing abuse, poverty, homelessness. Who was I to be feeling like this when others were going through so much more?

All the articles I read said that second pregnancies feel faster because you’re chasing a toddler around. That was not the case. Every minute took an hour. Every hour felt like a mountain. Every day felt unbearable, and the thought of having to keep doing it again and again had me crying every night. My toddler learned to come into my closet, climb into my lap, and wipe tears off my cheeks. That small act of compassion made it worse. He shouldn’t know how to do that. I should be comforting him, not the other way around.

I’d sit outside while my son climbed on a sloping hill of rocks, wondering if I was going to make it to the end of this. When would they lose me? Would I make it to the end of this pregnancy, only to be unable to endure the postpartum period again? Or would it be sooner, and this little life I was making would never have a chance? It’s a weird feeling to be creating a life when you don’t think you can endure your own.

I’d watch my son examine a single rock, then throw it with a squeal while I pictured the woman my husband would eventually marry, who would go on to raise him. She’d be all the things I wasn’t, mostly, not struggling with suicidal thoughts. She’d be the one to watch my son’s delight as he discovered all the small, beautiful things in this world. I wrote in my journal one night that I didn’t want this to be the end of my story. I wanted to keep writing it.

When we found out we were having a second boy, the comments started about us having to try again for a girl. I’d just laugh, or say nothing. Didn’t they know that I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it out of this pregnancy alive? How could they even joke about me going through this again. I didn’t know if I could hold on for twenty more weeks; there was no way that I’d make it through a third time alive.

I tried to tell a few people about how I was feeling. There were a few people who listened with compassion. But the others? They just stared at me in silence, saying nothing at all. I wondered if they thought I was being dramatic, if they didn’t believe me. I wondered what I would have said if I was in their shoes. People don’t talk about feeling suicidal while pregnant very often. I’d heard whispers of people struggling during the postpartum period. But during pregnancy? Nothing.

On Christmas Day I woke up to blood everywhere. I almost laughed. I’d made it thirty-eight weeks and was starting to feel some hope that I could do this, and now something was very wrong. We made it to the hospital and I was declared a high risk delivery. I started to prep myself mentally for the possibility of an emergency c-section. It all was riding on my son’s vitals. We watched his heart rate for nine hours that Christmas Day as he remained strong. At 3:06 after four pushes he was here. We’d made it.

I want other women to know that they’re not alone if they’re feeling suicidal while pregnant. That it’s not their fault. I desperately wanted to hear someone say that they’d made it when I was going through it. To be honest. To be real. I felt suicidal most of my pregnancy and thanks to my support system, wonderful therapists, and medication, I made it to the other side. This postpartum experience has been healing, something I thought I’d never feel. I’m putting myself together again, and this me? I’m loving her even more.

- K.G. Mom of 2