Honesty

I said something on Twitter the other day and realized that was the first time I had mentioned it to social media. I just threw it out there and within minutes there was a response from a friend thanking me for my honesty and asking me if I could be a sounding board for her if/when she might feel similarly. Then I realized my words have weight and meaning (sometimes, ha) and could possibly be a resource/help to someone else. Or even just a quiet voice that says "me too" and makes someone feel less alone.

I have post-partum depression.

I'm not sure when it started. I do know it went on FAR too long before I finally said "enough!" and sought help.

I thought quitting my job would fix it. It didn't. Although it did help.

I thought staying at home like everyone wanted me to would fix it. It didn't. In fact, it made me so angry it almost ended my marriage.

I thought going back to work would fix it. It didn't. It just gave me something to lose myself in. Another excuse to not feel. To not participate in family life.

Oh, I participated, of course. I cooked dinner, I did laundry, I went through the motions. I did all the things a *good* mom does. Birthday parties, Halloween, Christmas, Thanksgiving. But underneath all of that there was anger. Fear. A nagging desire to run away. A wish I could postmark "return to sender" and get my life back.

Finally, last August, I had enough. I called a professional and through tears told her I wasn't feeling attached to my daughter. Or anyone else for that matter.

And it helped. For a while.

Then February came and things got harder. Then I turned 30 which I thought would be the beginning of great  year. And then April 9th came. In that one day I lost so much. My dad had cancer, my work support system was leaving, and I sucked. Later that month I sat in a staff meeting, trying my hardest not to let the tears flow. I sent out an SOS to E.

Me: I need help. I feel like I'm dying. I can't handle this anymore.

To his credit, he didn't call the men in white coats. He encouraged me to ask my therapist to recommend additional help. I tried the talking. It helped. I felt attached. I felt engaged. It just wasn't enough.

I needed a little white pill. 300mg once a day.

I'm not saying that I'm perfect.

I'm not.

I'm not saying there aren't bad days.

There are.

I'm saying that they are less and less severe.

I just wish it didn't take me 2.5 years to get here.