[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”-5%||||false|false” hover_enabled=”0″ locked=”off” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n
(Originally appeared April 2018 in <\/em>Motherwell. To check it out and more, click here<\/a>.)<\/em><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ custom_margin=”-2%||||false|false” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n In a quiet, distant voice I tell my husband Mark that I want to die. Not exactly dead, I clarify, but not this. I tell him not to worry. I tell him love, guilt, duty will always matter more. I promise. But he has to understand, he has to reconcile what I\u2019m saying with the fact that I love him, that I love our life together and our beautiful daughter. \u201cMark, do you know what I\u2019m saying?\u201d<\/p>\n Before breakfast I sing our daughter to sleep, rhyming her name with nonsensical Seuss-y words. I smile. The real kind, reflexive, above the sadness.<\/p>\n Mark listens as I describe my half death wish. I need him to know this about me. I need him to know becoming a mother was a big mistake.<\/p>\n Somehow he manages to bring me back for a moment, to remember the woman he married, to prop me up with his words.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_testimonial _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_testimonial][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” use_background_color_gradient=”on” background_color_gradient_start=”rgba(11,22,13,0.5)” background_color_gradient_end=”rgba(77,198,176,0.27)” background_color_gradient_overlays_image=”on” background_image=”https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/pexels-pixabay-415824-scaled.jpg”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.7.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” text_text_color=”#ffffff” custom_padding=”|2%||2%|false|false” border_color_right=”#e09900″ border_width_all_tablet=”0px” border_width_all_phone=”” border_width_all_last_edited=”on|tablet” border_width_right_tablet=”0px” border_width_right_phone=”” border_width_right_last_edited=”on|desktop”]<\/p>\n He knows how I craved our child, a longing made even more insatiable after a series of fertility tests, surgery, hormone shots he gave me at home, ultrasound disappointments and finally, hope.<\/p>\n I try to explain between sobbing, breastfeeding and searing exhaustion why I am sad. I fiercely advocate for our child. I tell my husband he\u2019s the better parent. Good parents don\u2019t want to \u201cfade to black.\u201d He looks terrified but reassures me yet again, that this, that I, will get better. I nod but don\u2019t believe him. Depression is a wild animal, it can\u2019t be tamed with gentle coaxing.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” text_font=”Times New Roman||||||||” text_text_color=”#ffffff” text_font_size=”25px” text_line_height=”1.4em” background_enable_image=”off” custom_padding=”2%|15%|2%|10%|false|false”]<\/p>\n “. . . ultrasound disappointments and finally, hope.”<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n [\/et_pb_text][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” text_text_color=”#ffffff” custom_padding=”|2%||2%|false|false” border_color_right=”#e09900″][\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ custom_margin=”4%||4%||false|false” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n Our daughter Taylor was born at 37 weeks, two days after my doctor sent me straight to the hospital because my borderline preeclampsia tipped and my blood pressure spiked to a life-threatening level. My child emerged flawless and unscathed, despite a long, grueling drug-induced labor, despite a dangerous forceps and vacuum delivery.<\/p>\n So to beg for my own death was the ultimate selfish betrayal to gratitude. It is this no man\u2019s land inside the mind that is impossible to describe about postpartum depression. An involuntary vacillation between immense joy and unexpected misery.<\/p>\n As I snapped a thousand pictures of our new baby, propping her against the giant Paddington bear we bought for her room, I marveled at this little person that Mark and I made. Made. But in the evening sometimes I begged God that I wouldn\u2019t wake up, fully aware of my irrational mind, yet unable to stop the dark thoughts from spinning. I pictured Mark trying to shake me, his scream, the sobs, and the thought of his pain pulled me back.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_2,1_2″ admin_label=”row” _builder_version=”3.25″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat”][et_pb_column type=”1_2″ _builder_version=”3.25″ custom_padding=”|||” custom_padding__hover=”|||”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/pexels-benjamin-suter-3733269-scaled.jpg” title_text=”pexels-benjamin-suter-3733269″ _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ box_shadow_style=”preset1″ box_shadow_blur=”27px” box_shadow_spread=”16px” sticky_enabled=”0″][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_2″ _builder_version=”3.25″ custom_padding=”|||” custom_padding__hover=”|||”][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text” _builder_version=”4.9.2″ text_text_color=”#ffffff” background_color=”rgba(4,28,56,0.49)” background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” custom_margin=”10%|0%|2%|-15%|false|false” custom_padding=”5%|5%|5%|5%|false|false” hover_enabled=”0″ box_shadow_style=”preset6″ box_shadow_spread=”8px” sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n For a few weeks we managed to move through the worst of it. A time when, if I could go back, I\u2019d listen to my husband and ask family and friends for help. I\u2019d take the antidepressants I was afraid to ask my doctor for because I worried about the side effects.<\/p>\n After about two or three months I gradually came out from under the suffocating sadness, not quite happy, but with a sense I was meant to mother, despite the constant feeling that I was broken.<\/p>\n When I tell other moms about my depression, inevitably a few share that they have also struggled. Most whisper their story. The happy moms must never overhear. Because even now, as we collectively and bravely confess that parenting isn\u2019t all giggles and glow, most parents reassure women that mother-love is their pre-ordained superpower. Our innate shield against the darkest moments.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n I think about my dear friend Lisa, and her warmth, her wicked sense of humor. Only she and I are worlds apart about what \u201cgood\u201d mothers are allowed to feel.<\/p>\n In her mind, \u201cgood\u201d mothers don\u2019t crumble. They suck it up. They get mad but never depressed. If they\u2019re sad, it\u2019s because the kids are grown and the house is too quiet without them. Sadness may only come because you love your children too much, not because you didn\u2019t love them enough.<\/p>\n The few times I mentioned postpartum depression\u2014mine, a friend\u2019s, a celebrity\u2019s\u2014Lisa said, \u201cI really don\u2019t get it. I loved being a mom from day one.\u201d<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_testimonial portrait_width=”1px” portrait_height=”1px” _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” border_radii_portrait=”on|89px|89px|89px|89px”]<\/p>\n \u201cDepression has nothing to do with how much moms love their kids,\u201d I told her. \u201cIt\u2019s a treatable illness. A cruel mix of ping ponging hormones, brain chemistry, exhaustion and feeling totally overwhelmed.\u201d<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_testimonial][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Essentially I force fed empathy to a mother who refused to believe that maternal love, the real kind, would ever succumb to the weakness of depression. After that day, we never talked about postpartum depression again.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_2,1_2″ make_equal=”on” _builder_version=”4.7.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”1_2″ _builder_version=”4.7.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” text_text_color=”#ffffff” background_color=”rgba(104,74,0,0.64)” use_background_color_gradient=”on” background_color_gradient_end=”#2b1d09″ module_alignment=”left” custom_margin=”-3%||||false|false” custom_padding=”5%|5%|5%|5%|false|false” border_color_left=”#e09900″ border_width_left_tablet=”0px” border_width_left_phone=”” border_width_left_last_edited=”on|phone”]<\/p>\n Maybe I stopped her from inflicting unintentional harm on another mother suffering the agony of two embattled minds. Someone who loves her child so deeply she can\u2019t imagine a life without her, and someone who believes she wants to die, if only to slip into the sweet relief of nothingness. And then return.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve had a few bouts of depression since, nothing as dark and all-consuming as the weeks after my daughter was born. I was reminded, haunted really, how quickly and tortured my mind can become from drastic swings in my sleep and brain chemistry. It is a narrow and terrifying turn, but something I understand now, something I\u2019m finally able to tame.<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_2″ _builder_version=”4.7.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/blue-sky-1869297_1280.jpg” title_text=”blue-sky-1869297_1280″ _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” custom_margin=”5%||-7%||false|false” custom_padding=”|2%|||false|false” hover_enabled=”0″ box_shadow_style=”preset3″ box_shadow_horizontal=”23px” sticky_enabled=”0″][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.2″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ custom_margin=”6%||||false|false” sticky_enabled=”0″][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.0″ _module_preset=”default” text_line_height=”1.2em” border_width_all=”1px” border_color_all=”#0C71C3″]<\/p>\n \n Like what you are reading from Motherwell<\/em>? Please consider supporting them\u00a0here<\/a>.<\/p>\n Keep up with <\/span>Motherwell<\/em> on\u00a0<\/span>Facebook<\/a>,\u00a0<\/span>Twitter<\/a>,\u00a0<\/span>Instagram<\/a>\u00a0and via their\u00a0<\/span>newsletter<\/a>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][\/et_pb_section]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" (Originally appeared April 2018 in Motherwell. To check it out and more, click here.)In a quiet, distant voice I tell my husband Mark that I want to die. Not exactly dead, I clarify, but not this. I tell him not to worry. I tell him love, guilt, duty will always matter more. I promise. But […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":65,"featured_media":236406,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[9,10,12],"tags":[252,257,256],"class_list":["post-236405","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-let-there-be-light","category-stranger-than-fiction","category-theme-park","tag-motherhood","tag-parenthood","tag-post-partum-depression"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/236405","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/65"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=236405"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/236405\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/236406"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=236405"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=236405"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/writersatlarge.com\/riff\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=236405"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}\u201cI don\u2019t know what to say. But it will be okay babe, I promise.<\/h6>\n
You\u2019re an incredible mother.\u201d<\/h6>\n
\n