Dear postpartum depression,
You and I have things to say to each other. Quite a few, actually.
I thought I was good, beautiful, strong, and capable—and you proved to me that I really was. You won’t succeed in extinguishing my flame.
You arrived so subtly, so sneakily. I wasn’t expecting you. I was grieving (my beloved grandpa) and then going through the process of getting a diagnosis and adjusting my medication for my little one’s silent reflux. And you saw that wide-open window and jumped at the chance.
You crept into my nighttime awakenings; I quietly began to hate those midnight bottle-feeding sessions. Reluctantly, grumbling, and sometimes even crying, I’d get up, praying for longer nights of sleep.
Then you meddled in my relationship. You challenge the man I love to love me even more. Often, I mishear his message and he mishears mine; the tone rises and rises… and I can’t control my emotions. You’ve turned me into “the Incredible Hulk,” and I hate myself more and more. How can he possibly love me?? And what about me—am I capable of giving him all the love he deserves?? I constantly doubt myself.
You couldn’t have stopped there, could you?? No, ma’am, you just had to keep going. I, who love to go for walks, go out… I mostly stay home now. I isolate myself; I’m digging myself into an even deeper hole. So many shows to watch, so much coffee to drink… I stay home.
And to top it all off… oh, the misery: my self-esteem. Couldn’t you have left it intact?? I spent so much time and effort building it up. No, you barreled in like a high-speed train and put a mom in front of the mirror who can only see flaws in her body, dark circles under her eyes, and who heads out every morning telling herself, “There’s nothing better to do.” You crushed my motivation and destroyed my love for working out. But all that is in the past now.
Looking back, I still want to thank you. Yes, thank you. I’ve often questioned my maternal instincts, but you didn’t let me do anything irreparable or physically hurt my children.
I cover the remaining scars with ointment. I do my best to make the marks almost invisible. I know my children—especially my oldest—will remember this impatient, hot-tempered mom, but they’ll also remember the mom who asked for forgiveness and showed that in life, through the ups and downs, a fault confessed is half forgiven.
But above all, I’ve forgiven myself. It’s not my fault. I’m going to win this battle; now I’m coming back up for air.
Véronique Langevin