One woman’s struggle with postpartum depression that took her to the brink

Sad, hopeless, futile. These were the words that came to mind when I regained consciousness after the doctors pumped my stomach. I had intentionally overdosed, hoping it would all end, and that I’d be free from the painful weight of postpartum depression on my chest. I believed my family would be better off without me—someone whose moods couldn’t be predicted; a mother who took little interest in her daughter’s upbringing; a wife and daughter who was never truly present with her family.

When my now six-year-old was born in 2018, she stared at me like she already knew me. Taking her home felt breezy—feed, sleep for three to four hours, feed, repeat. But I kept referring to her as “baby”. At first I thought it was just because I was a first-time mother, and that eventually I would come to think of her as “my daughter”.

Per Malayalee traditions, my husband and I were at my mom’s apartment. The house soon got crowded—my maternal aunt and uncle came over to ‘see the baby’. Frustration started to brew in my chest for many reasons: my mother insisted on Ayurvedic medicines to help with milk production; my aunt popped in every time the baby cried to offer help; and my conveniently visiting grandmother wanted to give the baby honey (a major no-no).

The first two years were a blur–mostly of crying and wailing on my part. There were times I didn’t want to wake up when she cried and, petty as it may sound, it felt like my family, husband included, was tending to my daughter, while abandoning me to my mood swings. I turned to alcohol as a coping mechanism for the postpartum depression, stashing bottles in a cupboard I knew no one would open. Shouting matches between my mom and me became a norm, and she once indicated that I wasn’t capable of being a mother. It broke me. Then, Covid-19 hit.

The lockdowns were hard on everyone. As the rest of the world made Dalgona coffee and raved over sourdough, millet dosas, and whatnot, I stared into an abyss. Being a journalist meant there were no days without work. My mom was living with us, too. My husband insisted on this, and she agreed, thinking I’d need help caring for the baby—I mean, our daughter—as I worked from home.

Still, there was no respite. Sometimes it felt like my mother was just waiting for me to finish for the day. I felt pressured to cook and document it, to use the lockdown to reinvent myself and get back to my pre-wedding svelte self, to read quality books like everyone else, to reclaim my time – just like everyone was doing on social media. When I felt emotionally low, I would binge-eat pizzas, burgers and fried chicken, which led to me putting on six kilos. This was particularly hard as so many people posted images of how they used the lockdown to lose weight. I became hyper-aware of how I was starting to look and avoided mirrors.

Then one day, my almost 2-year-old wailed, and nothing I did would calm her down. That’s when I did it because…well, there’s no one way to explain the ‘because’. Why did I try to take my own life? I hoped things would end for the better. That my family could live without me weighing them down. My daughter wouldn’t have to witness a mother experiencing psychotic episodes; my husband wouldn’t be scared to leave my daughter alone with me when he had to go to work (I knew it came from a place of affection, but it felt like he was questioning my abilities).

I am grateful to have a partner who has been understanding and supportive through my postpartum depression. A partner who was livid for the first time in the 14 years I’ve known him. He scolded me as tears streamed down his face and asked if I felt the love wasn’t enough; he asked why I didn’t call him the moment I felt the urge to end things. Lastly, he said, how did you expect me to go on without you? “I would go on for our daughter’s sake, but I’d be a hollow man.” This shook me.

I hope those who are going through a tough time read this and know they aren’t alone. Suffering from any kind of depression is nothing to be ashamed of. Acknowledging the proverbial elephant in the room shows how strong you are. Help is not far away and there’s no shame in seeking it, both personally and professionally. Not wanting to hold or cuddle your baby doesn’t make you a bad mom; you’re fighting a larger monster inside your head. Feeling the urge to drink, even if it sabotages breast milk? Heinous, but not your fault. Simply reach out for help.

I am here today not just because of an understanding partner and family, but because of medication, numerous counselling sessions, utilising tools like journaling and getting sober. It gave me the clarity to leave my job and become a freelance writer. Clichéd as it sounds, there were times when I truly felt hopeless, that no matter what I did, I wouldn’t be able to defeat the monster in my head. But with time, I did—and so can you.

The author is starting a forum for women to share their mental health journeys to create a community of understanding and support. If you wish to participate, you can email her at sumitranair787@gmail.com or reach out via Instagram.