I’m sitting in the bathroom, again. Hiding, crying, avoiding the faces waiting for my attention in the other room. How can this be my life? What is wrong with me?
Nothing, nothing is wrong. Except it is. My life feels like it’s spinning out of control, and I want off this ride.
This is not normal; I need help. My husband finally comes upstairs after several minutes (maybe hours) of me avoiding life. He looks me in the eye and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t know the answer. I have no idea how I became this person. I was the mom that went out with her kids everyday, even if it was just a mall walk to make sure we got out of the house. I was the person inviting people for dinner every week. I was not this person sitting in bed hiding under the covers. I couldn’t be. But I was; I am.
I have Postpartum Depression. Just saying the words makes my stomach turn. How could this have happened to me? I have hobbies. I have an incredible support system of family and friends. I am not your typical sad mom. So then why am I handing my kids over to my husband as he walks in the door and announce that I quit. I just quit. What I’m quitting, I have no idea; I just know that I need to walk away and hide. Again.
It happened because my body chemistry failed me. My body didn’t care about all the amazing mom things I was trying to do. I was being dealt a losing hand.
Even scarier then having PPD is saying you have PPD. My logical brain is telling me that there is nothing I could have done differently. This is not my fault. So then why is my emotional brain telling me I failed? I’ve failed my husband, my kids, my friends who think I have it going on. We don’t want to admit failure. But PPD is not failure, no matter how much it may feel like it is.
Being a failure would be not admitting that I need help. Things were getting hard, and I needed help. I went to my family doctor, broke down into a blithering mess and asked for help.
PPD doesn’t just go away. It’s something that I fight everyday, but I’m also accepting that it isn’t something I did or didn’t do. There is no shame in admitting you’re overwhelmed, tired and just plain done. I may not have gotten to those muffins I promised today, but I survived another day.
My kids will not remember the bad days when daddy took them to the park by himself because mommy was too tired to get out of bed. They will remember that mommy loves them and did everything she could to make sure they fell that love. Years will pass, and hopefully one day the fog will lift.
I may not be doing “all the things,” but since when did that become the standard for parenting? The reason so many of us feel like we can’t tell our story is because we are surrounded by the “Pinterest Moms” who make it look easy. I want to hide–most of us do–but I read something the other day that made me feel I had to share my story. I want other moms that may be dealing with PPD to know that its OK. It’s OK to admit something is wrong, it’s OK to ask for help, and it’s OK to tell your story too.
This piece was previously published on Parentdish.