“I feel like I could throw up.”
That’s the title I found as I scrolled through the notes on my phone. Curious, I tapped on it and read.
“We’re at 9 weeks. And about 4 days into a sleep regression and 2 days into sleepless nights. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.”
According to the American Psychological Association, one in seven women experience postpartum depression. And now, you’re reading the blog of that "one". And it felt like one.
“I can’t be alone. I can’t even put my kid to bed without waking her up. When she cries, my stomach lurches. I can’t do this.”
My postpartum depression made me feel like I was the only one struggling. The only mom who felt this way. The only one.
“I ask, and I ask, and I ask God to help. To help her sleep. To help me sleep. And it doesn’t come.”
It didn’t matter if Will was by my side. It didn’t matter if I knew my mom was almost to my house. It didn’t matter if I read that God was always faithful. I had never felt so alone.
“I’m alone. I feel so alone. I’m just so goddamn tired.”
I don’t cuss in my blog, I barely swear out loud, but I didn’t want to edit anything out. Because this was real. This was the mom I was just ten weeks ago. I was sitting on the bathroom floor listening to Zara cry through a closed door wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again. I had happy moments, but moments are moments. And moments don’t last. My depression and anxiety were eating me from the inside out, a parasite I couldn’t shake. Just when I would think I was doing better something new would set me back.
And then I got help. I was already receiving counseling, but it wasn’t enough. I needed medication and that was hard to stomach. But now, two months later, I feel like me again, and a new me because now I’m a mom. I was a mom before, but just the shell of one. Now I don’t cry on the bathroom floor (or the kitchen, or living room floor). Instead, I fall asleep on the landing and laugh about it later.
I’m not the mom I was ten weeks ago. I’m not the Molly I was ten weeks ago. She was smothered in sadness and uncertainty. Now I’m smothered in baby drool and breast-milk and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
That’s the title I found as I scrolled through the notes on my phone. Curious, I tapped on it and read.
“We’re at 9 weeks. And about 4 days into a sleep regression and 2 days into sleepless nights. I can’t do this. I can’t be a mom.”
According to the American Psychological Association, one in seven women experience postpartum depression. And now, you’re reading the blog of that "one". And it felt like one.
“I can’t be alone. I can’t even put my kid to bed without waking her up. When she cries, my stomach lurches. I can’t do this.”
My postpartum depression made me feel like I was the only one struggling. The only mom who felt this way. The only one.
“I ask, and I ask, and I ask God to help. To help her sleep. To help me sleep. And it doesn’t come.”
It didn’t matter if Will was by my side. It didn’t matter if I knew my mom was almost to my house. It didn’t matter if I read that God was always faithful. I had never felt so alone.
“I’m alone. I feel so alone. I’m just so goddamn tired.”
I don’t cuss in my blog, I barely swear out loud, but I didn’t want to edit anything out. Because this was real. This was the mom I was just ten weeks ago. I was sitting on the bathroom floor listening to Zara cry through a closed door wondering if life would ever be enjoyable again. I had happy moments, but moments are moments. And moments don’t last. My depression and anxiety were eating me from the inside out, a parasite I couldn’t shake. Just when I would think I was doing better something new would set me back.
And then I got help. I was already receiving counseling, but it wasn’t enough. I needed medication and that was hard to stomach. But now, two months later, I feel like me again, and a new me because now I’m a mom. I was a mom before, but just the shell of one. Now I don’t cry on the bathroom floor (or the kitchen, or living room floor). Instead, I fall asleep on the landing and laugh about it later.
I’m not the mom I was ten weeks ago. I’m not the Molly I was ten weeks ago. She was smothered in sadness and uncertainty. Now I’m smothered in baby drool and breast-milk and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
