After a ridiculously long absence from writing, I have written an essay for a friends blog. She has many more readers than I am used to so I am feeling a lot of pressure. I was hoping that I could get some feed back on this rough draft that I just finished. (Dare I admit this is the 5th try in tow weeks and the only one that seemed any good.) The beginning and the end feel weak to me. Any help would be wonderful!
Long before I had babies of my own I had friends who had
experienced postpartum depression. They struggled with the sadness and loneliness. So after my Millie was born and the emptiness crept in, I
knew to get help. The doctor gave me some short term medication that would help
me “get through the worst of it.” It helped take away the deep sadness I felt
but I still felt different than what I had once been. I felt full of anger,
resentment and loneliness. And the anxiety, oh the anxiety. It was like a dark
cloud filled my mind and body and I hated this new me.
Eventually the cloud dissolved and my body cleared of all
the muck and I felt like myself again. But it took eleven months. Eleven months
that ate away at my marriage and my self-esteem. It clouded my memories of
those first months of Millie’s life. But at the time, I didn’t know to get
help. Only after it had cleared did I understand that it wasn’t who I was but
the hormones and chemicals that had been out of balance.
When I was pregnant with my second baby, I made plans that
would help if the same nothingness took over. I made lists full of exercise expectations,
healthy meals, and plans of writing my way through emotional changes. Knowing
what was happening to me would give me the upper hand. And it did. But it didn’t
stop the darkness from creeping in. Every night as I went to bed I would cry,
dreading the coming day. I set alarms and made plans for daily exercise but
could only will myself to turn on a cartoon for my toddler and crumble into bed
until the baby woke up. I told myself it was the hormones when I would have an
anxiety attack after a conversation with friend or when I would hate myself for
being a terrible writer, mom, and wife, but the darkness never seemed to loosen
its hold.
Oh and the writing; the essays and blog posts that were
going to help me clear my brain and work through it all. Nothing came. The
words were gone. They were choked out, deprived of oxygen so that even the
thought of writing made me curl under heavy blankets and berate myself for ever
thinking I could be a writer.
My husband suggested therapy. Friends gave me names of
therapists and phone numbers to call. But I diligently piled the excuses high
on my night stand. Some were silly and some were deeper fears that I was too
afraid to face. Anytime I thought to call one of those numbers, I would reach
for my phone but instead grab a reason not to. Money, distance, insurance,
time. What if they told me nothing was really wrong? What if I was just a
terrible, lazy mom?
In the end I was just scared to admit how lost and hollow I
felt. How could I explain that I was overflowing with love for my daughters and
yet there was a heaviness that pressed on my heart and nibbled away at my soul.
I didn’t want to admit that I felt disconnected to my husband who gave of himself
and loved so fully. No one would understand. They would question my love for my
family. If you loved your family enough,
you could overcome the sadness. You just have to try.
One night I was wandering through photos of the past months:
Millie running down the sidewalk, cape flapping in the wind, Lottie swaddled
tight, smiling as she dreamed, and Billy tenderly holding both our daughters
tight. I realized that I didn’t want to miss out on those moments. I had been
present physically but there had been a haze that separated me from being there
fully. Maybe that dark haze would dissipate by itself just like it did last
time. Maybe this time it wouldn’t even take eleven months. But I didn’t want to
miss out on enjoying these little moments that made up the beginning of my children’s
lives with us. I wanted to be a part of it, body and heart. I knew that if that is what I wanted then I would need
help beyond what I could offer myself.
That is when I took the steps to see a therapist. I was
terrified when I first walked through those doors but now I relish the hour I
get to spend there. The moment I walk into the office, my senses come alive and
I am enveloped in kindness and acceptance. I have learned so much and feel more capable, hopeful
and content.
And I have remembered that I deserve to be happy. My
children and husband are wonderful, perfect reasons for me to seek help. But so
am I. My serenity and my happiness alone are reason enough to seek support and guidance.
I am worth the time and the money and the effort.
