Más allá de la melancolía: Una guía para comprender y tratar la depresión y la ansiedad prenatal y posparto

Por Shoshana Bennett y Pec Indman

Más allá de la melancolía contiene la información más actualizada acerca de los factores de riesgo, el diagnóstico, el tratamiento y la prevención de los trastornos del ánimo y de ansiedad durante el embarazo y el posparto. Se trata de un libro escrito en tono directo pero compasivo, y es de lectura obligatoria para todos los que trabajan con mujeres embarazadas o mujeres en etapa posparto, así como para quienes sufren antes o después del nacimiento del bebé.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Untreed Reads
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 8 nov 2019
• ISBN: 9781945447822

Vista previa del libro

978-0-9679514-6-1

PART I

Accusations & Lies

CHAPTER 1

Nothing Sacred

Damn reporters! the bright-haired woman spits as she slams down the phone. Pulling a slinky dress over dancing breasts and wiggling her hips like only certain women can do, she moans, All those lies!

Who was it now? the man in her bed asks. "The Enquirer? The Times?"

"That trashy news show of yours, Counter Attack."

But, Sidney, darling, he says with a hint of patient amusement, I’ve been trying to reach them all week.

She replies with the come-hither look of a born survivor. Forget that bitch on TV. Why don’t you walk over here and play with MY buttons? He knows it isn’t the pink dress she’s talking about.

Easing out from under their bedsheets, he approaches her with a hungry body showing a life of its own. "Counter Attack, he explains as she instinctively lowers her gaze, completely missing his face, is the one and only Diane Wallace. I’ve been playing phone tag with her all week, Sidney," he says, confidently taking his place behind her, pulling up her skirt and rubbing himself side-to-side against her cheeks as she presses against him.

He smiles, snuggles his face into her hair and nibbles the back of her neck. It’s music to her ears. It’s their music. And she feels the Tango of it. Mine, she says, reaching her hand around and squeezing him with just the right amount of hold and pull. Their eyes shine for a long and thoughtful moment; the two of them. Just the two of them against the world. About the dress, she reminds him. Is pink my color?

That depends on who you’re showing it to, he reassures her, enjoying the hidden meaning as he finishes the last of her buttons. There she is, he sings with a grin, Miss America!

Pleased, but fretting over curves more ample now than she likes, Sidney Leigh Hoover jokes, Miss America is a lot more than she used to be, Ben. It’s their own kind of love.

I love everything about you, he says, holding her in his arms. "Every thought, every laugh and every frustrating minute, he says, knowing he’s got one thing on his mind, but she has another. She teases him with a playful bump of her hip and they know there will be music and candles tonight. Benjamin Hoover, you mean the world to me, She puts on a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses and spins for the mirror. The whole, wide world."

They hug good-bye.

They kiss for luck.

He’s on the phone for Diane Wallace.

May I tell her who’s calling? a slightly nasal male voice asks.

Ben Hoover. Returning her call.

Just a minute, please.

Sooner than that, he hears a cool, smooth Ben! What a surprise. I assume there’s a reason for breaking your mysterious silence?

I’ve been watching you fight the gossip mill on your show. I like it.

A grin filters through her. Thanks, Ben. Surely you don’t have time for my show, when the press is keeping you so busy.

You’ve been following the story, he laughs.

Front page news, she admits, glancing at an open tabloid on her desk.

He doesn’t laugh. "Counter Attack, he says. Good name for a show, Diane. I’ll bet you thought of it."

Pleased with his compliment, she smiles. Prime spot. Big-name guests. Guaranteed viewership. It was an easy sell to the network. Especially in this day of reality TV.

Celebrities fall apart and you put ’em right back together again, he said.

It’s funny, Ben. We open up a whole new market for them. This is a nation with the highest percentage of prisoners and law-breakers in the world. That’s a big audience. And, thanks to the flaws and idiosyncrasies of human nature, there’s never a shortage of new material.

This is bigger, he says.

She smiles, perhaps at a distant memory only they share. It’s big for everybody when they’re doing the talking.

Not this time, Diane. Something in the way he says it sends a shiver through her. Ben Hoover, international philanthropist and businessman, isn’t a lightweight.

I’m listening, she says in a way that means she understands he wouldn’t be calling if he didn’t want something and let’s get on with it.

Exclusive, he says.

Wouldn’t touch it otherwise, is her reply.

Final approval, he pushes. For me.

Come on, Ben. You know I’d have to run that by the producers.

He skips a beat before saying, Am I talking to the most powerful journalist on TV? Am I talking to my friend who interviews tycoons? Generals? Presidents?

She weighs the odds with the kind of insight that took her all the way from weather girl at a cheap Baltimore station to queen of a major network. Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it? she says. Her fingers are rolling a pearl earring and his intimate silence is her answer.

I have to clear the family name, he says. Or die trying.

She hesitates, then takes the plunge. If we do this, Ben, I get to bring up everything the press is saying. Nothing sacred.

She can feel his warmth. You got it, he says.

Accusations. Innuendos. Rumors. All of it, she says. She feels him shudder, but he doesn’t pull out. She presses for more. You might not like this—but, I can’t see a story without digging up the past. I want all the dirt, Ben. And I want to throw it right out there.

He smiles. Can you bring a dump truck?

* * *

New York City. Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts

Just picture the mob of reporters if you had been the one accusing Michael Jackson of crimes that would stain him to the end of his life.

Think about the nasty power of choking Judy Garland’s inspiring voice by threatening to tell her adoring public how she ran out on hotel bills when she was broke.

Consider the looks you’d get in the office tomorrow if people suddenly believed you were special: You were the secret love child of a glamorous movie star like Marilyn Monroe. And just imagine all the mileage you’d get by accusing someone beloved and dignified like Walt Disney of cruelty to animals. Welcome to the age of character assassination. Hide yourself behind vicious rumors and cowardly lies. Get drunk on mediocrity. Cannibalize real talent and splash yourself in blood. In the sport of slander, anonymous laughing nobodies are king and public accusations get you Googled. That’s what happened to Benjamin Hoover when the court of public opinion decided to stone him, hang him and damn his name forever.

Never mind that Ben, himself, wasn’t around when the big ride was over for America. Pay no attention to the fact that he wasn’t even born yet. Crazy stalkers, trolls and hate-mongers don’t want details when they mark a target. They want dirt. The more it stinks, the more they dig. If they dig deep enough, they’ll end up in a place called Steitzburg.

Don’t bother looking up Steitzburg on the map. You won’t see it. You won’t see any of these towns on the map except the ones too big to lie about. You won’t find cell phones in this story either, because they weren’t invented yet and nobody called people on the street hearing voices in their heads very smart. It was naughty parties, glittery fashions and dandy schemes we were into. Oh, yes, dear children. Your grand-mommies and grand-daddies were naughty and we had our ways to show it. After all, it was the Roaring 20s.

Our suits were sharp in the 20s. Suspenders were snappy and shirts were pressed and ironed. Dresses were slinky by night, and by day, they were innocent. Cars were shiny and brand new, and loud-mouthed, polka-dot-bow-tied salesmen weren’t around yet to scream at us on commercials because we didn’t have television. The American Dream was precious and bright and beautiful. It was as big and bright and shiny as our cars were. And the money tree on a roller-coaster called Wall Street was bigger than any skyscraper in Manhattan.

Back then, we had teachers and store clerks and farmers all playing the stock market. Anybody with a few bucks could make money and they could make lots of it. We laughed and drank champagne when we could get it. Dance, America! Dance! We danced so crazy we couldn’t hear a thousand cries from a thousand cities when the money tree fell off that roller-coaster. All we could feel was the music still playing on our skin.

*

What Ezra Hoover felt on his skin that fateful night in October, 1929, at Steitzburg Bank & Trust wasn’t music unless the drum-pounding of fists and the wailing clarinet of a police siren are what you call a song. The heat of steel-grey metal filing cabinets was boiling over him, hissing through him and burning his heart right into the floor. Open the windows, can you? he said, loosening his tie.

They’re open, Theodore Trimble, a dark-eyed foreign student working part-time for college credits said. And I’m finished with the names and addresses.

Then start copying the deposit records, Ezra told him. "Account numbers, dates, balances. Everything. Every cent of cash in the drawers and everything we owe—down to the penny. Check it. Double-check it. Hurry!"

This is going to take all night! the young man said. The bank had never wanted him to work this late before. He had never been trusted with such confidential information.

It can’t, Ezra mumbled, taking off his glasses and rubbing brown eyes that had seen too much. We don’t have time. The mention of time reminded the young man of curfew at his dorm in Lancaster, but Ezra wouldn’t care that his Ford had a flat and he had hitched a ride to work. Ezra was saying, The markets are following Europe! as if, being from a Swiss banking family, the young man could understand the urgency. Can’t you feel it?

Why not just take the files and hide them? Why copy everything? Theodore said, but that wasn’t what Ezra Hoover had in mind. If stock brokers on Wall Street were going to destroy his town, he wasn’t going to help them. No! We’re not robbing the bank. We’re saving it! He would remember this night for as long as he lived. Theodore Trimble majoring in law would remember it, too.

Scanning the list, Ezra studied the names of all the friends, relatives and neighbors he and his wife, Mary, had talked into depositing their life savings. He couldn’t forget their faces, their hopes and their dreams, no matter what he said, thought or did. Carefully now, he put every file and document back in its place. As for any cash in the safe, it was already gone.

It’s late, he finally said, I’ll take you back to the dorm. When they reached the campus of the private college with its stately brick buildings trimmed in white, where influential families sent their sons, Ezra handed over an envelope. Look it up in your law books, will you? I want to know the consequences of what we’ve done, he said, before returning to the office alone. Crimes can start with the best of intentions.

It was after midnight when Ezra finished sorting through the rest of the documents. He could still feel the chill in the bank president’s voice from that afternoon: You’ll do what I tell you! Mr. Fenstamacher had said, calling from the stock exchange. Then, go home. And wait.

He was ready now, he decided. He would take the list of information, do what he had been told, and he would pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He would pretend it was just another late night at work. Mary would be waiting there and she would believe him. She would have something delicious waiting for him to eat: chicken noodle soup or roast beef or ham and green bean stew. Maybe, then, his breath would come easier. Maybe then his hands would stop shaking. The stock market crashing? It couldn’t be. Stock markets don’t crash. Stocks are how you make money!

As the proud building on Steitzburg Square became smaller behind him, the names on Ezra’s list and money owed to them became heavier on his conscience, and his rented house on Main Street never seemed so far away. Across America, how many other bankers were doing the very same thing tonight, he wondered. How long were they planning this and where would the money go from here?

*

Ezra? The big woman waiting for him in her cotton nightgown switched on the light. How long he had been sitting in the darkness of their kitchen, he didn’t know.

Mary! he said, shutting tight his eyes.

Oh! she said, flicking the light switch on and off a few times to pester him as he blinked to see. I’m sorry! she said, not meaning it. There’s chicken corn soup if you want. Are you hungry? He loved chicken corn soup, but shook his head, no, and invited her to a chair beside him while moonlight covered them with a lover’s glow. There was something different about him tonight, she thought, and, anything troubling her Ez troubled her, too. What’s wrong? she said, to the man she loved more than anything else she had ever known.

I hope, nothing, he said, without smiling as he pulled her close and rubbed her belly like a man hoping for good fortune. How’s our baby?

Fine, she smiled. I was thinking today, won’t it be fun if we have twins?

Briefly wondering if there would ever be a time when such things could be known before a baby was born, he kissed her breasts. One baby? Two? How unpredictable the future could be, he thought. How much he wished the moonlight could show him what more he could do for friends and neighbors sleeping in their homes tonight; innocent of the dangerous waters ahead for them all.

Only if they’re good kids, he said, before asking, Mary? in the wondering way lovers do sometimes when it’s just the two of them. If you could do it all over again, would you still marry me?

What? She slapped him on the arm as if surely he was kidding. What kinda dumb talk is that, when I’m right here at your side, like I’m always gonna be. She pulled away and took his face in her hands. Who else would I love, Ez, but you? Who else in this whole world is there for the beautiful and grand Mary Weaver, who could have her pick of any man all the way from here to Philadelphia? She smiled.

As delicate and soft as the downy feathers of empty goose nests they found on their walks together along Phantom Creek, she said it. As flowing as the cold waters where they splashed barefoot beside the church, past the school and right through town, he remembered their summer so long ago. I was putting up tobacco for your parents, he said to her now. And, they just ‘forgot’ to say how many acres it was. Or how many days of your lemonade and pies it would take. His eyes looked into hers. They forgot to tell me their kingdom had a princess.

She pinched his cheek playfully. "Maybe they forgot on purpose, she laughed. You weren’t so good workin’ in that field, Ez. But, you were good enough for me. She smacked his hand playfully. Maybe, he’s no farmer, I said. But, that one’s gonna be president of the bank one day, and I’ll be standin’ right there beside him for the whole town to see! I’m so proud of my husband! Yes, Mr. Hoover, I’d do it all over again. Should I call Mother and see if they need any more help in the kingdom? she joked. He wanted to smile, but he felt her rough hands now, chapped sore from taking in laundry and cleaning houses for anybody she could. Let’s go to bed and close the door, Mary. It’s cold."

Under the covers, he said, I’m not going to work tomorrow, as if someone might be listening.

Ezra? How was it possible for one word, one little word, to hold so much emotion? What’s wrong? Were you fired? Wondering why he wouldn’t go to work on a Friday—payday, of all days—she asked the obvious.

No, he didn’t fire me, Ezra reassured her, placing his hand over hers. "But depending on what happens, what he did—or made me do—it isn’t much different. If he could have seen the furrow between her eyebrows starting to show, he might have stopped before saying, Remember what I told you about banking and how it works?"

Wanting to say something else; fighting back a burst of sudden questions; she matched his calm tone of voice and said, A bank takes money from everybody and puts it all together. Then, it gives the money to good people who deserve to buy houses and farms and such, and nobody knows who the money belonged to, because now the town is sharing it. And it’s not a gift because you always end up paying more back than what you get.

You’ve been listening, he said, though her interpretation had a slant to it that his business mind wasn’t a hundred percent sure about.

I always listen to what you say, Ezra, she said, going on. The bank makes you work and slave for a long time. Maybe even twenty years for a house or your whole life. Then, if you made all your payments on time, they finally believe you’re good enough to have the house you worked for. And they give you the deed. But they don’t really give it. They trade you the deed for all that hard work you did. She looked around their tidy home and said, Just like this place, here, is gonna be ours when we’re old and gray, she tried getting him to smile, if we do things how they want.

That’s one way of looking at it, he said, knowing he could never change her point of view. Everybody puts their faith in the bank. We put our money together and we build a town. He wasn’t smiling as they lay together in the dark and he pulled the blankets around his neck. "At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be."

He couldn’t see it, but at the word supposed both of her eyebrows went up, along with a slight sucking in of her cheeks and a twist to her mouth. Fenstamacher? she said.

He wanted things to go faster, Ezra explained. He knew the bank could make more money on the Exchange. So he was buying up stocks. Lots of them, Mary.

In New York? she asked, sitting up now. Although Philadelphia was the biggest city she had ever seen, she knew of a greater world of commodity trading beyond the farmers market where her friends and neighbors sold garden vegetables, fruits, baked goods, quilts and handmade furniture.

Ezra said, Yes, at the New York stock exchange, although he suspected there were investments in Chicago’s livestock and grain futures as well. I’m sure it was for everybody’s good, he said. And, we’re not the only ones doing it. He got a call from the bank over in Bellville yesterday. He tried hiding it from me, but I could tell it was bad news. After that, he went to the safe.

What happened? she asked. Did he say?

Not at first, Ezra said, in a way that she knew meant there was more to the story. But we talked before he left.

She took in a quick breath. What did you find out?

Only that he had to get to the station and catch the train.

Did he say where he was going? she asked.

New York, he told me. And, then, today… Ezra put a hand to his head as if to help himself think, to understand. "This afternoon he called. He was scared, Mary. Real scared. He even told me to close the bank. Right away."

Well, I can’t believe that! she said, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. The world was entering another ice age instead of saying good-bye to October. "You can’t do that…can you? Is anybody even allowed to close a bank?"

I don’t know, Ezra said, truthfully, feeling again like he was standing on a cliff and his legs were shaking. I don’t know what the rules are about this kind of thing. But he’s the president isn’t he?

"Well, Ezra James Hoover, no matter who he is—you didn’t listen! she said, before adding in a small voice, Did you?" His look was her answer.

He knew cash was hard to come by and not just for them. Managing carefully every dime and every dollar was not only tough, it was the underlying creed and silent religion of everything Pennsylvania Dutch. Cash was the rock foundation on which everything permanent, lasting and forever was built. Money was more than that. It was the very glue that held the dirt together that made the rock.

"Please don’t tell me you’re closing the bank on market day, she said, looking toward the kitchen and their cookie jar. What am I going to tell everybody? What are people going to say?!"

Mary pinched the edge of her nightgown and ran it through fingers that seemed to have a mind of their own. "Their money! she said, trying her best to get a grip on things. If the bank’s closed—how can people get their money out?!"

More silence—the kind of silence that meant he was asking himself the same thing.

Our money, too, Ezra! She glanced again toward the kitchen. "I emptied the cookie jar and put all of it in the bank—just this morning!"

"Allll of it? he asked, with an emptiness going through his chest and down to his toes. Her look was his answer. Well, he said, struggling for the right tone, we just have to wait, then, don’t we. Like everybody else. But it won’t be for long, he said, hoping he was right. It can’t be," he heard himself saying, his arms around her, his body rocking hers gently side-to-side.

Why hadn’t he said something to her, he asked himself now. He could have done that. Knowing how important their financial security was to Mary, knowing how hard she worked for the money in that cookie jar, why hadn’t he told the one person in this whole world who counted on him the most? The market’s falling! Fenstamacher had said from New York. "I can’t cover the losses—I’m here and I can’t find the broker! They’re jumping out of buildings, Ezra! There’s blood and guts all over the street! Close down the bank—I’m telling you! Close it! Lock the doors and board up the windows if you have to! It’s a mob!" he hollered into the phone over screams all around him. The country’s on fire!

When’s the bank gonna open again? Does anybody know? Mary was leaving their bed now, checking the kitchen cupboards for rice, flour, potatoes, sugar, eggs. Maybe enough for a day or two, she figured. Meat and vegetables, she could get from her parents’ farm if they had to. We’ll be OK, she said to him. "But, Ezra. We both know I have to tell the family something!"

It was exactly what Fenstamacher had warned him against. Mary’s family and the rest of the town would want their money, and the bank didn’t have it. Let’s wait and see, Mary.

How long?

I don’t know yet. Please, God, he said to himself, help me find the way to say this. As soon as it gets out, there’s going to be a lot of questions. People are going to be scared, Mary. Just like us.

Not scared. Mad! she said.

Then we have to be ready, he said. "Don’t we? We have to set an example. We have to be calm for everybody until we know more. He’s going to call, Mary. He has to! He has to tell us what to do next. He’s going to explain how this happened and how to fix it. We’ve got a good bank in this town. Good people! I don’t know what’s ahead now—for you or me or any of us. I don’t know what any of this means or what can happen. But, if a bank like ours is in trouble—and if people are jumping out of buildings and killing themselves like Fenstamacher said they are—it can only mean everybody’s running out of money. Everywhere!" As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t.

Not much in this world matches the fear of doing wrong or making mistakes that a bona fide Pennsylvania Dutch woman grows up with. And Mary Weaver was no exception. Raised on the farm by strict, hard-working Mennonites, it was Mary—not Ezra—who had convinced her suspicious parents, aunts, uncles and half the town into pulling hard-earned cash out from under their mattresses and handing it over to him at the bank. What she would tell them now was anybody’s guess—and Ezra knew it wouldn’t be good. "You should have told me, Ezra! I’m your wife! Of all the people in the world, you should have told me!"

That night, he tried forgetting the fear, anger, accusations in her voice. He tried not to hear the calls she made to parents and relatives while thinking he was asleep. He tried not hearing Mary’s angry slam of the phone when somebody called back that night. How he managed to get any sleep at all was a mystery. The lurch in his stomach would have splattered Mary’s soup on the ceiling if he had been able to eat any.

Strange how empty a house can be when the one you love walks out. By morning, she was gone, and he was an autumn leaf clinging to its last hope; shriveling in the wind across the fields at Phantom Creek, where birch trees and lilac bushes grew; the creek that ran through town where he and Mary dreamed of so many things; the creek by the church where wild geese were leaving their nests, gathering their wits and spreading their wings for Canada. Take me with you this time, he thought; take me as far away as you can go, no matter how much we shiver and shake. Even wrapped in soft, downy goose feathers now, Ezra Hoover couldn’t have felt more naked and alone.

*

Being alone isn’t always so bad. Most of us can be alone for a while, but—if we really miss someone—being alone can be a bitch. It can be like Ezra’s clinging autumn leaf finally letting go without a net or a shoulder or a passing breeze to break the fall.

If Mary had stayed just a while longer, he might have told her. He might have taken her in his arms, kissed her again and again for staying with him. For believing in him. But she didn’t. And he didn’t. No matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he had pretended to sleep, knowing she was leaving him and knowing exactly where she was going. Mary was running out of the movie of their dreams, off the stage of their show, and she was going back to the safety of a mother who said in a thousand different ways, If things don’t work out with him, you can always come back to us and the bakery.

It wasn’t like it sounded. On the surface, it sounded nice. It sounded loving. But underneath, like so many secrets in families, communities, organizations—even governments—it could be completely, and violently, ugly. In a socially acceptable way, of course.

What it meant, was, We’ll be here when he fails.

Failure is a dirty word. For those trying to better themselves, it’s more sinister and demoralizing than any profanity invented by the most ignorant and soul-destroying bullies in any workplace or school yard. It’s more disrespectful of achievement or self-worth than any insult to the human body and more incinerating to the mind than any flame.

When he fails is not the same as if he does. And when it’s the one you love they’re talking about—the one you’ve hitched your star to—the one you chose for the rest of your life with all your thinking mind and feeling heart…it’s you they’re doubting just as much.

If Mary understood such things, Ezra didn’t know. For now, all he could know is that the one he counted on had left him. She had cried, and become hopeless right in front of him. She hadn’t even taken a change of clothes with her, which might have told him she would be back the next day. She hadn’t packed a suitcase, which would have meant, You’re not going to see me for a while. She had just taken her coat, a woolen hat and a scarf. She had run off into the night, and with her, she had taken their unborn child.

He did not want—he would not allow—their child to be raised believing a person is worthless. He would not allow anyone, no matter who they were, to erode the inner beauty and confidence of their child the way they had done to Mary and so many others in a culture that valued material productivity above all else. Didn’t they know the spirit is worth something? Didn’t they believe it? Didn’t they understand how everything ever made in this world came from a thought, an impulse, an idea? Didn’t they know—to bring those ideas to life—a person has to feel worth getting up in the morning?

In the empty bed now, he didn’t know if he would ever open his eyes again. He didn’t know if he would try to believe it wasn’t true, and reach over to feel her gone just to be sure. Would he walk again to the bathroom or just lay there and soak the sheets? Without Mary and all she meant, what was left to care about? He thought again of his work. He thought again about their baby. He thought about coffee.

Mostly, he thought about her and their real story. The truth was, they hadn’t just met for the first time in her parents’ tobacco field. Like everybody else in town, they had gone to school together, and she was the only one who caught his eye. Her intelligent questions when the teacher said how things had to be, and she wanted to know why…her almost-royal posture stirring memories of her from something far away and