A year ago this week I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
I want to say something profound about this anniversary, but I’m at a loss for the right words. I’m a little overcome reading that entry, to be honest. Some of it is a reminder too painful of what a dark place I was in (“I can’t begin to explain how life-altering it was to realize that the handful of times I’ve left the house by myself since she was born, I never once really wanted to go back. “) but most serves a strong reminder to me just how important our respective villages are, how none of us can solider on without making ourselves vulnerable to the people who love us most.
The world is so different now. I could have never imagined it. I relied on my faith – and that I am innately a faithful person – to keep putting one foot in front of the other so that I’d get here. To a place where I get a regular seven-to-eight hours of sleep a night. Where my family has a routine. Where my husband and I spend Sunday morning flipping through magazines while our daughter happily plays with her books and toys at our feet. Where my daughter stands up from where she’s sitting to give me a big, open-mouthed, slobbery kiss goodbye.
Abigail did this this morning and my heart melted into a puddle of goo.
If you’ve stumbled upon this, and suspect even remotely that you might be suffering from PPD, get help. Talk to your midwife, OB-GYN or your kid’s pediatrician. Lean on your partner and loved ones. Reach out to Postpartum Support International. If you were like me, and mothering a colicky, fussy baby, the Fussy Baby Network may be a great resource for you. Remember, though, that you’re a great parent and you’ll get through this.
It gets easier. It does. There is immeasurable joy on the other side of all of this. Promise.
