Why I Chose to Bottle Feed My Second Son

When I had my first son six years ago, I suffered from debilitating postpartum depression. I found my brain telling me horrible stories about my abilities to mother a child. It was like living in a different reality. I thought I was a bad mom. I believed I was a bad mom.

My son was cluster feeding and it was so hard to nurse him. Then pump. Then nurse again. Then try to sleep.

Sleeping was challenging because my brain was working overtime. It kept telling me that a good mom would not spend the day laying in bed, crying, feeling sorry for herself. But I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t force myself to re-enter the human world. It seemed impossible. I remember laying in my bedroom in the dark with my baby, willing myself to get out of bed. My husband would check on me. He was worried. I would give him the baby and cry myself to sleep. I would sleep for about thirty minutes before I would have sore boobs ready to nurse again. I remember constantly having a throbbing headache. One of the ones that you cannot shake. It lasted three weeks before I gave into the help everyone was begging me to get.

When I was pregnant with my second son, I knew that I had to do something differently than I did with my first. I was absolutely terrified that I would end up back in the same deep, dark, pit of sadness I had experienced before. And I knew my baby needed me to be happy. He needed a mommy that could show him how much he was loved. My toddler needed a mommy that could love him and cuddle him and reassure him that he wasn’t being replaced. And I needed to be me. I needed my own good mental health so I could be present, for the good and the bad. I needed to be in a place that wasn’t a dark room with dark thoughts.

So, I decided that I would exclusively formula feed my son after his birth. 

Normally when I say that I get a collective gasp. Many women clutch their pearls, but I am at peace with this decision and won’t allow anyone to shame me for it. 

Why formula feeding for my second son? Because I was on an antidepressant. And it was not a medicine that would allow me to breastfeed. That’s all. This antidepressant would allow me to have the stability I needed postpartum while I had raging hormones. And as a woman that already experienced depression, I knew I had a higher chance of developing postpartum depression.

I chose my mental health over breastfeeding my child. Some might say that I’m selfish. I have heard that time and time again. But in the deepest part of my soul, I know that bottle feeding my baby is the least selfish thing I could do. I had been off my antidepressant before, and it was bad, really, really bad. I had tried multiple times to get off it. I thought that since I was feeling good, that I didn’t need it anymore. But that was so wrong. It meant that my medicine was working. And proved that I needed it.

I didn’t want to be on medicine for my mental health. I didn’t want to have to choose between breastfeeding and bottle feeding for my son. But it was a choice that I had to make. And I did.

In the back of my head, I still have a small nagging feeling that I should have tried nursing my second son. And if I started feeling bad, I could switch to a bottle. But the problem with that is this – when you get to a point where you realize you are depressed, you are too deep to climb out of the hole without help. And I didn’t want that to happen.

I am proud of myself for making the decision to bottle feed. I know I never chose myself over my baby. I chose myself for my baby. And I will continue to embrace women that bottle feed their children, no matter the reason. Only you know what is best for you, your body, and your child.

My 22 Year History with Anxiety and Depression | Mental Health

When I was fourteen years old, I was put on my first antidepressant. My parents were going through a long, extremely drawn out divorce and it rocked my middle school world. I moved with my mom and my sister from a very large, upper middle-class suburban home into a two-bedroom apartment. I was in shock and confused and needed some help. I thought the help would be temporary.

But I never got off the medicine. I tried a few times, thinking maybe I didn’t need it anymore. That I could handle this on my own. That always led to a downward spiral of sadness and extreme anxiety. That’s how I learned this is a true illness and I can’t just “kick it” with good habits and yoga and green juice and meditation. 

When I was 29, I was pregnant with my first son. I was so excited to bring my sweet boy into the world and I knew that being a mom would be hard, but manageable. Reading that now just makes me laugh. Because for the second time, my world was literally rocked.

No medical professionals spoke with me before I gave birth about the higher possibility of postpartum depression because I had a history of depression and anxiety. They mentioned the “Baby Blues” but those would go away with time. 

Fast forward three weeks and I was laying in my dark bedroom with my baby boy crying all day and trying to get him to nurse. It was the loneliest moment of my entire life. I didn’t answer my phone. I didn’t respond to texts. I didn’t talk to my husband who was trying hard to help. I made sure my child’s basic needs were being met and that was all. 

I did attend a few social obligations with the baby. And I put on my biggest smile and flowest dress and talked to everyone about how beautiful motherhood was. How it was changing my life. Along with the large glass of wine I would be drinking. Then I would go home and cry in my bedroom again.  

I really knew how to put on a show. I ended up getting help a few weeks later, but if I hadn’t reached out, would anyone but my husband know I wasn’t okay?

I doubt it. I became a master of disguise far before postpartum depression. I woke up so many days and dreaded what was before me. But that didn’t matter. I had to do life. I had to go to school. I had to go to work. I had to be productive and succeed because when you have anxiety there is no other option. 

I would shower and get ready and my makeup and hair would always be done. I was always put together and brought a smile and a jovial laugh to any party. I loved to drink. Which didn’t mix well with my anti-anxiety medication. I found myself at the age of 24, living in Nashville, swinging a full-time job while drinking to my hearts content every single night. At the time, the mixture of Xanax and alcohol were the only things that made me feel okay about life. 

This was the first time I hit rock bottom. I was broke, hungover, miserable, and pulling off my 9-5 with top marks. I don’t know how I did it, but I’m guessing the pills I popped every now and then helped. 

The moral of this story is Women need to learn it’s okay to ask for help. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness. It is the strongest but hardest thing you can do. I don’t know if I would be writing these words today if I hadn’t reached out for help so many times. And you aren’t the only person with anxiety or depression or a drinking problem. You aren’t the only Master of Disguise out there. 

You can and will get better. I promise. GET. THE. HELP. YOU. NEED. SO. BADLY.

Working Moms, A Pandemic, and Mental Health

A few months ago, I woke up with a feeling of dread and deep sadness in my chest. My alarm had gone off at its usual time, 4:30 am, so I could have some alone time before my husband and the kids woke up. Even my alone time felt sad, and it’s usually the part of my day that energizes me the most. I cried on the couch as I drank my coffee and did my morning scroll, planning the day and answering emails. I couldn’t kick the feeling of dread in my body.

I did my morning workout, but the endorphins just didn’t help. I listened to my favorite song in the shower, but it didn’t make me want to sing. I simply made it through the motions of the morning. I made my way to work, got my temp taken at the front desk and headed into my office. Later that morning, something happened that was a slight inconvenience to me and I felt white hot rage running through my veins. It was almost like my brain was on fire. I couldn’t see straight. And this was happening a lot. Almost daily. I was angry. 

Was it the global pandemic? The civil unrest? The dumpster fire of an election year? The innocent people being killed in the streets?

It was all of that. Every. Single. Thing.

But it was also something else that the world seemed to be missing out on. I was a full-time working mom. With a full-time working husband. And soon we would need to figure out how to school our six-year-old kindergartener virtually while we both worked our 8-5 jobs. And, yes, we are very grateful to still have jobs right now. But thinking about it made me sweat and my heart beat faster. I became overwhelmed and panicked. But this panic looked different. 

I sat at my desk in a catatonic state, with tunnel vision and a ringing in my ears. My chest felt like there was an elephant on it and I was trying not to sob.

“Crying at work is unprofessional.”

“You can’t leave right now, you have work to do.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t done any real work yet, you slacker.”

“You have to be at the office from 8-5. It’s too early to take a lunch break.”

I ended up bolting from my desk at 11 am, when I felt it was appropriate to leave, and had a panic attack on my living room floor. I have spent the last three months seeing a new primary care doctor, a therapist and a psychiatrist. My medicine has been changed three times. And it has been the most stressful three months of my life. I have blisters in my mouth and cysts in my armpits. 

I’m not asking for a break. I’m not asking for sympathy. I am trying to use my voice to tell our business leaders and our government and those in power that are making the decisions, that we are struggling. And that struggle has created a historic rise in mental health problems and a rise in suicides. We are stressed, tired, struggling, anxious, lost, and some are suicidal. If that doesn’t make you realize we need your help, I don’t know what will. 

So what do we need? 

We need flexibility. We need to be allowed to be late. We need to be allowed to leave early. We need to be able to work the hours we need from home so we can help our children with their school work. We should be allowed to take a day off to try and figure it all out. We need help financially. We need you to treat us like you would expect to be treated. I know we are working for you and your bottom line, but you have to think about us. We are your employees, your constituents, your friends, your neighbors, the people passing you on the street. And we are tired. We are struggling. We are barely making it day to day. And some of us aren’t making it at all.