|Comic created @ www.bitstrips.com|
I’ve dealt with a lot in life and have survived a ton in 34 years. I have faced all sorts of things head on and held on, some times with my knuckles, until these things have worked themselves out in time. I like to think of myself as a strong person and I like to help other people to a fault and often give until the well is dry.
For some reason I suck at asking for help and accepting it on the off chance that I do. If I see you out and about I will reply with my standard “I’m well, and you?” mostly because I’m aware that most people say “How are you?” to be polite and aren’t really invested in the response. The other reason for the standard yada yada is that I am terrified to tell you the truth.
I will chat you up about the weather and about the latest story in the news or reality tv, but what I won’t tell you is that the weather hasn’t affected me much lately because I haven’t been out of the house a whole lot. I won’t tell you that watching the news some days is the most interaction I have with the world outside of dropping Nicholas off at preschool or picking Corinne up from practice. I will keep this to myself out of fear that you will judge, or even worse, try to help me.
I will tell you that I will call you and then I’ll shoot a text instead. I will send you to voicemail when you call me. If I do answer, it will be accidental, but I won’t tell you that. I will fake inflection in my voice or listen in hopes that you’ll have a problem we can talk about. I will not tell you that I’m suffocating over here and wishing that I wanted to talk to or see you. I won’t tell you that if it weren’t for a relationship with God and my amazing husband, I might be sitting in a rubber room somewhere, rocking back and forth, drooling.
I’ve done so much work on myself over the years, and I feel embarrassed that I am struggling like this with all of the tools I have at my feet. I feel pathetic. Don’t worry, I won’t tell you that. I’m much too vulnerable to risk it. Being hyper-vulnerable is awesome.
If we talk, I will joke with you about the “joys of motherhood” and the lack of sleep I’m getting due to nursing through Jordan’s growth spurts or teething. What I won’t tell you is that my postpartum depression is causing terrible insomnia and I’m having trouble sleeping through the night anyway. I won’t tell you this because I don’t want you to think I don’t have my shit together.
I will make plans with you and then act surprised when something suddenly comes up and I can’t show. What I won’t tell you that my postpartum depression has turned me into someone I wouldn’t want to be friends with if I was you. Bringing this chic along to our date is out of the question because she’s a mess and full of fear. This girl takes so long to get ready to leave the house that sometimes we decide it will be easier to just stay home; so I do.
Postpartum depression is a bitch and some days, most days, I feel trapped. I won’t tell you how often I choke down tears or bawl my eyes out on the floor of the shower. I won’t tell you how overwhelmed I feel every day by the most mondane and simple tasks like laundry, or God forbid, shopping. When I fail to do everything I feel like a terrible wife and mother and the guilt feeds the depression, which leads to more isolation etc, etc. Blah blah blah.
I am doing my best, I know that, and I know that you will understand. I know that if I called you right now and let it out that you would listen and I would feel better for a moment. I just won’t. For some reason I can’t bring myself to. I’m dragging myself to therapy every week and sometimes it helps. Other times I just feel worse and it makes the day after (Wednesdays) even more unbearable.
I’m blogging, which seems to help a lot. It allows me to reach out without actually having to, which is awesome. It makes me feel connected to you without fear of being immediately rejected, which is also awesome. Everything is process and I know that this is no different. I know that this too shall pass and that someday I will look back and feel grateful that I got through this too.
Poo on postpartum depression.
P.S. One more thing I won’t tell you is how long it took me to work up the courage to actually post this.
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