Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Saved By Grace {PPD Part 7}

Previous posts on postpartum depression:

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

The following is the second-to-last bit and I cannot tell you how excited I am to be done hashing and rehashing and hashing some more. I do think it's brought me (forgive the buzzwording) "closure", though, and my greatest hope is that all this soul-baring and life sharing might help someone else ... and not just make you think I'm in serious need of a straight jacket and some Valium.

I'm not sure you're wrong about that.


There was no "reason" for me to be depressed, no "reason" for me to want to commit suicide.

And you know what? There doesn't have to be a reason.

You don't have to justify. You don't have to rationalize. You don't have to make excuses. 

But you do have to tell someone. 

They won't know unless you do. They can't help unless you let them. 

I didn't say anything because of guilt, shame, pride, fear and a variety of other assorted stupidity. DON'T DO THIS. IT SUCKS. I barely made it. The only reason I did, in fact, was because I got pregnant again. As pregnancy hormones took over, the nasty imbalance wreaking havoc in my brain resolved. It was almost as if someone had flipped a switch.

Coming out of the fog, I realized a few things. Like how the whole, “It's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” thing was not just poetic BS. It was TRUE. It didn't matter if I had another six days or sixteen years or a whole lifetime with my daughter. It was worth it. Loving her was worth it. The paralyzing fear of losing my child lost all power in light of this little epiphany.

I also realized the God I really believed in would never give me a child just to take it from me. The God who required me to pray x number of hours per day, read through a list of scriptures morning, noon and night, go to church every time the doors were open, tithe, abstain from “unholy things,” never EVER say “shit,” and make sure I didn't have too many square inches of skin showing at once was a god of my own making.

Not God at all.

The God I really believed in was Love. He saw all of my disgustingness. He knew how screwed up I was and still, He loved me.

These realizations and the happy hormones looping through my system made me shove the problem into a mental box and try to forget about it. It worked ... for a while. 

Which is why, if any of this resonates with you, please, please, please don't stay miserable. You don't have to live with this. Call in the professionals. Tell somebody. Do it now.

It's wayyy more awkward/messy/embarrassing/painful if you wait two years for the monster to circle 'round and take a bite out of your ass.

Kind of like doing this:

Or this:

Seriously. Don't wait.
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