Drop The Baby Weight

“..take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ….” (2nd Corinthians 10:5)

I can’t remember exactly how this verse in 2nd Corinthians crossed my path last week, but I’ve been thinking about it ever since. The context is spiritual warfare, and I’ve always thought of this in what I call “high and mighty” terms, regarding the pitched battle between the church and the evil powers of Satan and sin. But I don’t think I’m over-reaching if I apply it in a more humble way to my own daily walk as a Christian. 

Anyone who’s lived with depression for any length of time knows how insidious it is. There’s a uniform grayness to your life, punctuated by a ray of light here and there that keeps you going — a wedding, the birth of a child, a long-looked-for event, a surprise visit by a dear friend. And yet even in joyful moments it’s easy to feel as if you’re walking on the edge of a cliff, with a chasm at your feet, just waiting for you to stumble on a stone or root and pitch headlong into it.

Sometimes it’s the smallest and most mundane roots that reach out to grab my ankles. A baby who won’t stop crying. A snappish morning with my husband. My worries about family members and their own struggles. A desperate attempt to get out the door on time that keeps getting foiled by one thing or another. [Poopy diaper, or snare of Satan? Discuss.] One thought leads to another hopeless thought, spiraling out of control until my entire life seems unprofitable and useless, worthy only to be labeled with a sign reading “Why bother?”

Therapy often helps people get back on track, but what about the days when you don’t have a trained guide back up to the path? Therapy helped me see that it’s nearly always that one difficult moment that triggers a stream of self-hating thoughts. This was a landmark moment for me. But recognizing the problem is one thing; solving it is another — I’ve been trying to stop the cycle for years, with varying success. But this week, “taking captive every thought” leaped out at me. It’s about as far away as you can get from the phrase “helpless spiraling out of control.” 

And it’s given me a new prayer, especially in those 4am wakeup moments. Not just “God, please help me” or even “Please give me rest.” But now, “Take these thoughts and hold them captive, Lord.” It’s a subtle shift. Maybe to a non-Christian it seems passive — and yet we do have one responsiblity, that of handing over. It is we who must first lay hold of these insidious thoughts and in turn give them to the One who can bear all our burdens. Who promises to give us rest. 

I’m writing this just before bedtime, and I think I can promise that this won’t ever be a rote prayer for me. It will never not be needed. Depression is something I think I’ll live with forever, but I’m thankful that another Life is able to be lived out in me. Handing over my anxieties, my fears, my burdens to be taken captive — it works for me.

(For more WFMW posts, visit We Are That Family.)

With my next pregnancy (with Toot), things were difficult. I was one of those people who threw up all the time, every day, for 9 full months. I could hardly leave the house. I’d walk into Publix and could smell the lettuce in the opposite corner of the store and throw up. Or (shudder) the cantaloupe rind! It wasn’t the usual suspects that got me going, like the fish department. For some reason the produce section was worse. And in case that wasn’t bad enough: I’d throw up so violently that I’d wet my pants. Just about every time. It didnt’ matter if my bladder was empty — the force was so strong, it would happen no matter what. Loads of fun. Because throwing up in public isn’t bad enough.

The hormones threw me into a deep depression, so deep that medication and therapy didn’t make a dent. I spent my days either throwing up or willing myself not to throw myself off a bridge. I fantasized continually about dying and “freeing” my husband to marry a better woman who could parent our daughter the way she needed. I’d sit in church and look at friends and think “she’d be a great wife for him, she’s so much better than I am at everything.” (Never mind that some of these women were married — it was krazy sense to me.)

Somewhere around 6 months in, something just… broke inside. I found myself in the library parking lot arguing with my husband, and I punched him in the stomach. (Anyone who knows us thinks this is supremely funny, since he’s the nicest guy ever and I’m just not an arguing kind of person.) I started crying hysterically and saying “I want to go home, I just want to die, take me home.” So we drove home. I cried and cried. I really did want to die. And I couldn’t make sense of it — wasn’t depression supposed to happen *after* a baby came? What was wrong with me?

Long story short, 2 things saved me: I signed up with the Emory Clinic for a longterm study on maternal-fetal anxiety and depression, giving me access to some wonderful doctors who could help me manage the depression. They also prescribed Zofran, an anti-nausea medication originally for chemo patients. I was still anxious and depressed but it was manageable. I was able to get off the couch and actually host a large Thanksgiving dinner! (Although I did end up in the hospital a few days later for preterm labor.) The last couple of months were the usual 3rd-trimester difficulties: getting up a zillion times during the night to pee, difficulties sleeping, and a big belly that kept getting in the way. Like, I went to brunch and parked my minivan and then got stuck getting out of it because the parking spaces were too tight. Stuff like that.

What surprised me was how little information there is about antenatal depression. Thank goodness for Brooke Shields and other celebs like Gwyneth Paltrow who have confessed to PPD. But not enough is told about other forms of depression surrounding pregnancy. So I’m not sure exactly what really worked for me here — should I say “Zofran worked for me!” or “enrolling in a study localized in my city worked for me”…? Maybe it’s as simple as sharing my story. I wish I’d known of anyone else with the same problem, so that instead of going quietly crazy alone I could have surfaced long enough to get help earlier in my pregnancy. It’s not easy to find resources for antenatal depression, so if you have some good ones, please share in the comments. Helping each other out — it works for me.

For more Works For Me Wednesday ideas, visit Shannon at Rocks In My Dryer.

Having Bug, my first baby was a shock. The initial lack of sleep, coupled with the constant demands of a completely helpless, totally dependent person, turned my world upside down. And it was several months before I felt okay again. It helped immensely that my near neighbor had just had a baby, too, and we would throw them into our respective strollers and walk around the neighborhood or up to the nearest coffee shop. I went to a weekly Bible study, where there were tons of other moms who could give me advice or a shoulder to cry on. When he could, my husband would come home early from work or literally push me out of the door with my car keys to spend an hour or two alone at Borders or to hang out with my sister or a friend. The trapped-panic feelings began — very slowly — to subside. But you know what? Those were still just “baby blues.” And here’s how I know: because it got so much worse the next time.

Just over two years ago I was pregnant again, just in time for a space of 2 years between baby #1 and baby #2. Three months of constant morning sickness. We told everyone we were having another. And the very next day we found out that I’d miscarried over the weekend.

I plunged into a dark time. I took on a consulting job that had me traveling for a few weeks. Not easy for our little family, but I needed to get out, away. Somehow being the next state over for a few days every week for a month helped me work through the feelings of bitterness and loss. But what really helped me was exercising — every morning I woke up at 5:30 and hit the hotel gym for a half hour of running on the treadmill. Every night after leaving the office I’d jump on the treadmill again before going out to dinner with my team. I ran in anger and frustration, but the body has its ways of working through anguish, and after a few weeks I felt renewed (and about 10 lbs lighter). The loss still hurt, but I felt capable of starting over.

Then I got pregnant with Toot. (to be continued)