The Post in Partum (Part II)

There's a whisper (but quite frankly, it's like a damn bull horn),

"Mommy, I want to cuddle you."

Crap. My damn mom ears physically respond like there's been an earthquake but as the hairs on my arm standing on end retract, I smile,

"I want to cuddle YOU!"

He crawls in bed and fits in the arch of my arm but his legs are longer now. I feel his freezing toes and warm them between my knees. It's damn early. Physically, I'm so over this but my heart knows: this won't last forever.

We stay avoiding truth as long as we can, Daddy/Husband sleeping soundly beside us, & then the cries come. Unintelligible sounds that I understand: "I'm 6 months old! I want my bottle!" So the little Mr. and I leave Daddy/Husband in the warmth. We rattle the bed enough for him to turn over. Physically, he knows we're gone but mentally, he's nowhere to be found.

The carpet touches my feet and alerts me: Here we go. I grab my ugly socks (the ones that are too warm to stop wearing-the ones my little mr. steals from my that go up to his knees--his "mommy socks"). I'm tired, hungry but before any of that I make a stop at the counter: Friday-pop the lid- throw the pink pill back in my mouth- close the lid/swallow simultaneously. Ok. If I don't do anything else for myself that day, I do that. Take that pill that has leveled me out, been one in a series of things that have helped bring me back--back to the land of the living.

Here's the thing about post partum depression for me: it felt fictional, it felt fake but I knew better. It also felt like unbelievable failure...until I got so damn desperate to be better that I could admit: I need help, this isn't forever, this is going to be a fight and I'm going to win.

Step 1: The hotline, the doctors, the stabilizing. Step 2: Swallow, Sleep, Wake, Repeat. Step 3: Talk. TALK. T A L K. Step 4 : Look yourself in the mirror and see my face, feel alive (and now it feels good!), seek God, JOY.

I'm back.

The Post in Partum (Part I)

The clock ticks and I can hear it. I can hear every bloody tic-toc...tic-toc and I stare out losing myself again. It's dark inside, cold to the point of curling in on myself, and the echo aches...rattles my soul (if it's still there.)

The tears come and I can't stop them. I'm angry inside. No one cares, no one hears me, everyone needs from me, takes from me, depletes me. I give-and give-and give but there's nothing left but a shallow pool of blood that pulses; it's the only thing telling me I'm alive.

He finds me--hiding, sobbing uncontrollably, behind a glass door that holds every article that covers me, labeling me as "together" or "tired" or "SAHM" or "professional" and all I can do is tell myself to keep breathing. I have to keep breathing.

It's the day before it all changes and while my world moves around me, I stand still just hoping I can hang on a little longer (because I'm not far 'nuff gone to want to leave it forever....right??) The ocean crashes, the planks below our feet keep us staring down---hand in hand---and I say, "I need help. I know this scares you, but I can't do this anymore."

We stop, he admits, "It does scare me. I don't understand it," and I know it does...because it's been seven years...and it's okay but it doesn't change where I am.

We reach out and we hear from someone who knows what they're talking about: "You can't go back to work. We need to take care of you." I crumble inside--like soft cheese--I just needed that final push and I could break down so I could rebuild.

That was the day that I was reborn to myself....again.

(to be continued)