Post-Partum De(com)pression

So as you might have guessed, I finally had the baby. Alexander Paul. Alex for short. And I sailed through the first couple of post-surgical weeks, piece of cake, wondering why people get so worked up over this c-section thing. I was mobile, I was lifting my toddler, I was off the pain meds completely. Yay, me! Aren't I great? And then, when I least expected it, when I practically couldn't stop bragging about how quickly I was recovering, about how great, how optimistic I was feeling...Wham-o! There it be.

I knew I needed help when I was no longer able to employ my internal filter. You know, the one that, when people ask, "How are you?" allows you to answer, "Fine, thanks," on even your worst day? Let's just say I was having a lot of worst days. For instance, during one of my first shifts back at Barnes & Noble, a well-intentioned co-worker gleefully asked, "So, how's that new baby of yours?"

"Crabby and LOUD," I said, with no hint of irony. You should have seen the look on her face. And I continued to answer this question honestly, sometimes with a laundry list of Alex issues: the Pavlik harness, invasive thrush, the possibility of reflux, the "not so much with the sleeping thing"...should I go on? I could, you know. For awhile.

Anyway, I decided that perhaps this is not normal. I understand the frustrations of the early days with a little one (I had those with Lucas), but it seemed to me I should care enough to keep that pesky filter switched on. And there are other things. Some of the time Alex is my precious angel. I can't get enough of his smell. He is cute and sweet and working on his first smile. And some of the time, when I'm preoccupied, when Ron is here or my parents are here or when Alex suddenly squawks awake from a previously peaceful, if brief, slumber, I'm like, "Oh right...A baby."

Of course there have been other times in my life when I've crept near the alluring edge of that Batshit precipice and looked down. Long way down, there (if you haven't been), though I've always managed to turn away in time. In my life B.C. (Before Children), I would have considered this latest low merely a tempermental artistic funk, nothing a few bloody mary's, half a pack of cigarettes, and some kind of body piercing wouldn't fix. But now that I'm in charge of two babies under two, such self-destructive behavior is a luxury I can no longer afford (see also "Britney").

So as of last Thursday I'm taking a low dose of Zoloft, which on some level feels like an admission of defeat, a white flag. I mean, shouldn't I be able to cope with all of this on my own? Last time I checked, being Super Mommy wasn't supposed to involve any kind of serotonin imbalance. But at the moment, this morning, I seem to be over the hump. I mean, overall I'm doing well (filter unemployed). It was a huge step for me to actually ask my doctor for help, since that doesn't fit in with my general DIY M.O. To me it suggests weakness, a vulnerability with which I'm not entirely comfortable. A fact which, even under the best circumstances, might threaten to send me into some kind of depression. Good thing I'm taking something for that.