Postpartum Depression After An Adoption: Yes, it's a real thing.

I have put off writing this post for awhile.  Part of that is because I didn't realize until fairly recently that postpartum depression was an issue which haunted me for the better part of a year following Piper's adoption, but mostly because, upon recognizing this fact, I didn't want to talk about it.  People discuss postpartum depression in general, but not typically following adoptions.  Well, it's time for that to change.

When Caroline (my biological child) was born in August 2015, I struggled with some semi-expected "post-baby blues" for a solid three months, but during that time, I held onto the hope that the things which were causing distress and insomnia would one day return to "normal," if only I could ride out the waves.  And they did.  My hormones quit freaking out, the pain and swelling subsided, I got my pre-pregnancy body back, Caroline learned how to sleep, and Piper remembered that she had been potty trained at some point before her baby sister arrived.  We are still making daily adjustments, as adding a person to the family seems to somehow multiply the craziness of parenthood, but I am able to successfully navigate the difficulties as they come instead of being overwhelmed by them (most days, of course).

Flashback to June 2013 when little Piper (my adopted child) entered the world.  The depression hit me like a ton of bricks before we even left the hospital.  And instead of dissipating in three months as it did following Caroline's birth, the despair worsened.  Piper's birth brought changes which were gut-level and permanent.  I wasn't dealing with a recovering body or hormones that were out of control; I was plagued by intense emotional trauma that people who haven't adopted have difficulty understanding.  Nothing would ever be "normal" again.  

I am not a doctor, but I am convinced, from personal experience, that postpartum depression after an adoption is a real thing.  Three years ago, I was in the throes of this depression and didn't know it.  Thankfully, I have now arrived at a healthy place in which I can objectively look at that period of my life and attempt to explain some of the reasons for my depression.

• Regardless of how an adoption story unfolds, the emotions leading up to the addition of a baby or child to a family have been all over the map.  Coming back down from the highs of being chosen by a birth mother and the actual moment of taking that baby home in the carseat for the first time can be likened to running a marathon, I think.  At the beginning, adrenaline carries you.  In the middle miles, supporters come alongside you to encourage you in your weariness of the process.  The last haul to the finish is practically unbearable, and you keep reminding yourself over and over that this is something you wanted to do.  Then, there is that glimpse of the finish line that drives you to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Finally, it's over.  You did it.  You ran a marathon.  (You adopted.)  Elation surges through your veins as you take in the fact that a dream just became reality.  But then, after they hang that gaudy medal around your neck, after the photos, after the many pats on the back from friends and family...it's usually a Sunday and so it's back to work the very next day.  Your muscles are sore in a million places that you didn't know existed, and even though life will never be the same for you, everyone else has already forgotten and moved on, because it's another random Monday, and that's what they're supposed to do.  In a marathon, and throughout the adoption process, adrenaline can carry you quite a long way.  And then the actual thing happens, and maybe it is what you expected, or maybe it isn't, but either way, the adrenaline subsides, and you can hardly find the strength to get out of bed in the morning because that thing you just did took all that you had.  

• Watching Piper's birth parents walk out of the hospital empty-handed left me with a profound sense of guilt that I couldn't shake.  For weeks after Piper came home with us, I would cry at even the thought of Anna.  I knew that there was nothing in me to make me more deserving of raising a child than she was, and yet, I was the one who was holding this sweet baby in my arms...the baby who she loved and carried for nine months.  I was supposed to be happy, and I was, but I have also never hurt for someone else more.  I hated that my joy was, to a certain degree, connected to her sorrow.

• Sometimes, when people become parents for the first time (or the second or fifth), it brings them closer together as a couple.  This was not the case for Andrew and me.  Communication has always been a struggle in our marriage, and then we added the difficulty of raising a child on top of that, causing each of us to put walls up and seek comfort within ourselves.  He was a great dad, and I was an okay mom, but the two of us began slowly drifting apart like continents.  It wasn't noticeable at first, but after several months, the slight separation became a chasm that neither of us had the resources to bridge.  This part was not specific to adoption, but it played a part in my depression nonetheless.  (Counseling helps.)

• "You got that thing you wanted, aren't you happy?  Isn't motherhood wonderful?"  I came to dread these two questions, or any variation of them, and they bombarded me constantly.  All I could do when asked them was to nod weakly and give the response that people wanted to hear.  The real answers, "Yes, but I still feel empty," and, "Yes, but motherhood is plain hard 90% of the time," were too messy, and I began to believe that my most genuine, raw emotions needed to be hidden from the world.  I especially felt that I could not share any of these thoughts with our adoption case worker.  During our home study preceding Piper's birth, nearly every aspect of our lives had been opened up for outsiders to scrutinize.  Even the most miniscule of offenses, such as a traffic violation from high school, could have been used to determine that we were unfit parents.  We had both spent weeks upon weeks trying to prove that we were worthy of raising a child, and even after we brought our daughter home, there was still a period of six months during which Piper belonged to our agency and we were not her legal guardians.  I was always careful to portray the "right" image to everyone out of fear that someone would realize that there were better moms out there for my baby.  Y'all, it is exhausting to constantly have to feign perfection.       

• "What did you most consistently feel throughout the adoption process?" a friend recently asked.  Fear and anxiety.  Those were persistent.  There were moments of joy and excitement, but I'm convinced that even people with complete trust in the good providence of God experience doubt about the unknown.  Will I be able to handle an open adoption?  Even after the baby is born, the birth mom can decide that she wants to parent.  Will we get to keep our baby?  Is someone ever going to look at our profile and think that we are enough?  Will I bond with this little person?  These people know more about me than my husband does.  How will this child fit into our family?  What if...what if...what if...?  Adoption is risky, and the anxiety surrounding all of these unknowns kept me up at night, which certainly did not help with my mental state.

• When Piper was born, we had struggled with infertility for almost three years, and then we endured for another year and a half before we were blessed with the miracle of pregnancy.  (Doctors had said that IVF was our only option.)  Four and a half years.  In the grand scheme of life, I know that this is truly the blink of an eye, but infertility feels like an eternity when you're wading through it.  I thought that becoming a parent for the first time would take away the pain of not being able to have biological children.  Don't get me wrong: I loved Piper immensely from the moment she was born, and she could not have felt any more "ours" than if I had carried her and given birth to her.  I know this because the feelings for our adopted newborn were exactly the same as the ones for our biological one born two years later.  Piper was and is the most precious girl on earth.  But she didn't take away the sadness and anger that we had experienced leading up to her birth or the questions afterward.  What is still wrong with us?    

November is National Adoption Awareness Month.  I love adoption, and I think that everyone should be aware of the need for it.  But people also need to know that depression is a very real possibility that could come with adoption.  I hadn't expected this, and I've never felt more alone than I did after we brought Piper home.  If you're an adoptive parent reading this blog and wondering if you're crazy because no one told you how hard and isolating this whole experience could be, you're not.  You're not crazy, you're not alone, and this really will pass (with lots of help).  If you know someone who is adopting or has adopted, keep walking with them.  Ask the tough questions, and listen to the real answers, not just the ones that are easy to hear.  Postpartum depression after adoption is, I would guess, far more common than most people realize, but the fog does lift.  There is hope.

On Telling My Child That She Is Adopted

"Henry is going to have a baby sister!" Piper announced to her dad at bedtime several nights ago as I folded clothes in the hallway.  "I have a baby sister, too!"

"Yes, Piper, you do."

"Henry's baby sister is still in Ms. Brooke's tummy.  Like Caroline was in Mom's tummy.  Was I in Mom's tummy?"  

Piper knows the answer to this question, but sometimes I think she asks simply because she wants to hear the answer again and again.  So I got to listen as the father of my children repeated to my precious firstborn, perhaps for the 300th time in her little life, the story of her adoption.  

People often ask us if Piper knows that she is adopted or if we plan to tell her that she is.  Though the conversation has gone differently at various ages, we've been telling her every day since she was born.  During her first year of life, we prayed for Piper's birth mom aloud with Piper before bed and always named "Ms. Anna" among the lengthy list of "People Who Love Piper".  When Piper began to talk, I often asked her why she is special and taught her to answer, "Because God made me.  And I'm adopted!"  Now, she is at the age of obsession with baby dolls and actual babies, so we discuss whose tummy held which infant for nine months.  Always, we've celebrated "Gotcha Day".  I have no idea if we're doing any of this "the right way," but we're telling her because we think it's important that she know.  If we want her to trust us down the road, we are committed to building trust now.

"Don't ever tell her that she's adopted," advised the ten-year-old during one of my afternoon tutoring sessions.  "Kids are mean," he said.  "They'll make fun of her."

Oh, how I wish this wasn't true!  Nate was right.  Kids are mean.  Adults are mean.  Kids don't learn The Golden Rule early in life, and the adults who have learned it forget.  But, kids are mean about anything.  They're mean about adoption, but they're also mean about wearing glasses, having the wrong haircut, and bringing lunch from home instead of buying a school lunch.  I'm hoping that we can teach Piper to choose friends who will love her for exactly the adopted Piper she is.

People have also recommended that we wait until Piper is older to talk to her about adoption because it is too painful and messy to deal with now.  And, like Nate, they are right in their argument.  It is painful and messy.  The truth is, in a perfect world, there would be no need for adoptions.  There would be no abortions, infertility, miscarriages, abuse, or poverty.  We are not in a perfect world, though; we are in a broken one, so there are messes everywhere.  Like an open wound, painful situations do not disappear when they are ignored.  They might keep from worsening for a time, but eventually, wounds fester and ooze out even more gunk than there would have been if they were properly treated initially.  So we will tell her.  Now.  As much as her little mind can handle.  We will tell her until she can tell it, too, and then keep telling her after that.  

We will tell her about how God used years of infertility, tests, and surgeries to mold our hearts and bring her into our family.

We will tell her about a brave 17-year-old who chose life and chose us.  From the Internet.  Because she loved her growing baby more than she loved herself.

We will tell her about the envelopes with money that anonymously appeared on our doorstep or under the windshield wiper to help finance her adoption.

We will tell her about my coworkers bursting into tears in the office when I got the phone call that we had been picked to be her parents.

We will tell her about the many people who walked with us and prayed for her for months before she was born.

We will tell her about the overwhelming love we felt from the moment she appeared in the delivery room.  And the overwhelming hurt we experienced when her biological parents left the hospital the following day, empty-handed.

We will tell her about how every detail of our lives was laid bare before the adoption agency and the judge, and somebody decided that we "passed inspection".

We will tell her about the day that her entire "new" extended family came to court and watched her take our last name.

We will tell her why her middle name is Anna and the significance of the fact that Anna means "Grace," the name she was called on her original birth certificate. 

We will tell her how she got her awesome hair and her amazing brain that memorizes entire books after reading them only a couple of times.

We will tell her about her biological half-sister, who is Caroline's age and lives with Anna.  

We will tell her about how her adoption has opened doors for us to tell others of the goodness of God, and how her life has made us believe in his goodness again, too.

We will tell her all of these things because they make her who she is.  Because she deserves to know.  And quite frankly, we'll tell her because the story of her adoption is a good, good story to tell.

     

The day Piper met Anna (January 1, 2016)

  

Sidelined.

One of the first things that many people learn about me is that I am a runner.

I ran cross country in high school and completed my first half marathon during my sophomore year of college.  Since then (2008), I have run four to five times per week, including a nine mile run the day that I went into labor and a two mile run only ten days after giving birth.  (Ladies, that is NOT a good idea!  I had read all of these blogs about runner moms hitting the pavement again after bringing a baby into the world only a few days prior, but that ended VERY badly for me.  Don't buy into everything you read.)

All of that to say: This is my first significant period of time without running in over eight years.  Plantar fasciitis and a soft tissue stress injury have me sidelined indefinitely.

"You can try running in 14 days, but realistically, you might not be healed for 6-8 more weeks," said the doctor.
"When is your marathon?"
November 6.
"Yeah, I don't know if I would go for that."

I briefly thought about attempting a half marathon instead of the full for which I had registered, but I decided against it.  I know myself well enough to know that, if I planned to run a half, I would push through 13 miles in excruciating pain instead of letting my foot heal completely.  When I set my mind to something, I am typically so stubborn that I will complete it regardless of the cost to myself or others around me.  That's how I got hurt in the first place.  My friend made me a marathon training schedule a few months ago, and I was determined to stick with it.  She is amazing and accidentally qualified for the Boston Marathon after not running a marathon for 14 years (who does that?!), so I think she overestimated my abilities.  I made it a goal, though, to run every mile on the schedule at the paces she prescribed.  This was stupid.

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, but I always knew that I would seriously struggle if God ever took away my ability to run.  "It would be one of the greatest losses," I've admitted on more than one occasion.  Running does help me clear my head, but it is also wrapped up in the struggle I've had with an eating disorder since my gymnastics days, and I can easily find my sole identity in being a runner.  These past two weeks without running have been challenging but also a gift.  I never thought I would say that.  I've learned so much by resting:

-Nobody cares how much I run except for me.

-It is not a waste of time to do yoga or work out in the living room.  Running is a good workout, but it is not the only good workout.  

-It is not a waste of time to go out and run for a mile or two instead of 5+.  

-I will not gain 10 pounds if I don't run for awhile.  I haven't run for two weeks, and I haven't gained even five pounds.  I haven't gained any pounds!  And even if I had, probably no one would care except for me.

-Sometimes, there are legitimate excuses for not working out.  There comes a point when pushing through pain is idiotic.  For me, it takes greater mental strength to say "no" to a race than to complete it and jeopardize my health and sanity.

-I don't have to qualify for the Boston Marathon before I turn 30.  Or ever.  No one will care about that except for me.  

-I should like to go run!  In the weeks preceding the doctor visit when I was told that I wasn't allowed to run, I hated running.  Stabbing pains shot through my foot and up my leg with every step, and I dreaded putting in my daily miles.  Life is too short to waste on activities that aren't pleasant!  Now that I have had some time off and the weather is nice, I think that I could enjoy running again. 

-I am a runner, but I am also a billion other things apart from being a runner, most of which are far more important. 

Finding Freedom is the name of this blog, and I feel like I have found freedom in so many areas of my life lately, except for running...until now.  I guess my ability to run had to be taken away in order for me to see that I don't need it to define me.  Through this injury, God has made one of my greatest fears, however irrational, become a reality...and I'm okay.

Best running buddy ever.  Miss you, JZ!

My favorite cheerleader (and a 24-week Baby Caroline).

Second best running buddy ever ;).

I take showers.

The nine of us sat in a circle in her family room, most with hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee, all with the cares of being a young mom written in the lines of our tired faces.  We had met together to pray for our kids, a discipline which I don't practice nearly often enough, though it is some of the only advice that my mom has ever given me about being a mom.  "Mary Rachel, always pray for your children."

Toward the end of the evening, we began to share ideas with each other about how we find time to think intentionally about and pray for our kids.  I suggested praying in the shower, because my shower currently looks like this:

Yes.  Yes, those are science notes.  And a Bible verse.  Somewhere (not pictured) is soap and shampoo and a razor, too.  When I stumbled across a waterproof notepad on Pinterest several months ago, I knew that my life was changed forever.  I really love hot showers, and I really love not wasting time.  For only $8.12, I could do both simultaneously.  (You're welcome for the advertising, Amazon.  I just did that for free.)  Depending on the day, I might study for an exam, memorize Scripture, or pray while washing my hair.  But, if we're being honest, I suppose that I mostly review chemistry.

Anyway, my suggestion to pray in the shower was almost immediately met with, "I can't remember the last time I took a shower," and, "It must be nice to be able to bathe for that long."

I get it.  I really do.  It is hard to find time to do anything for yourself as a mom.  More often than not, my few moments of quiet bliss under the running water are interrupted by a toddler pushing open the bathroom door to come play in the toilet or by the preschooler barging in with the announcement, "Mom, I have to POOP!"  Good morning, Piper and Caroline.  End shower now.

I don't really care when people take showers, unless I can smell them from across the room.  If you can go a week without showering and no one notices, rock on.  That's impressive and I'm slightly jealous.  But y'all, motherhood is NOT a competition to see who has the least amount of time to themselves, who is the most tired, or whose kids require the most attention, as if those things are the standard by which one's abilities as a mom are judged.  We're all on the same team here!  When I was a teacher, some of my coworkers would constantly compare who stayed up at the school to work later the previous night, as if staying later equated to better teaching.  It doesn't matter.  Nobody gets extra points for dirty hair in the case of moms or late nights in the case of teachers.  The opposite is true, as well.  I'm certainly not earning any bonus points for bathing.  It just doesn't matter.  

I am a mom of littles, and I take showers.