My Postpartum Depression Story – Emerging on the Other Side

Jan 28, 2015 by

It’s been almost four years since that June morning and I am no longer depressed.  I have a second son now and didn’t have postpartum depression with him.  I have since bonded with and love both of my boys more than anything in my life.  My bond is strong and secure with my sons. 


I am happy.


My sons are happy.


So when did my PPD go away?  I’m not exactly sure.  I suppose it gradually got better with time and antidepressants.  By my son’s first birthday I guess I felt “better” or at least better adjusted.  By this, I mean I looked forward to spending time with him, I felt a connection with him, and that “mother/son” bond had been formed.  I was able to sleep again, and I wasn’t constantly obsessed with thoughts and worries.  I (somewhat) came to terms with the fact that I will never again feel the kind of “normal” I did pre-children and this was my new normal.

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My Postpartum Depression Story – The Biggest Mistake of My Life

Jan 20, 2015 by

(My story …continued)


Like all forms of depression, there are varying degrees of postpartum depression. It can fluctuate from of a mild case of the “baby blues” to a crippling case of serious depression, or a million situations in between.  To be honest, I don’t know where my case fell on that spectrum as it’s difficult to objectively diagnose one’s self.   I can tell you this: I never wanted to physically hurt my baby or myself.  But I did regret having a baby.  I felt no connection to him.  Only regret.  And hopelessness. I made the biggest mistake of my life and there was no way out.  I wanted someone to take my baby away and take care of him.

When I got home from the hospital, I was still physically a mess.  But that was nothing compared to the paralyzing fear I had of this tiny little person.

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My Postpartum Depression Story – It Wasn’t Supposed To Be Like This

Jan 14, 2015 by


It was mid-June, a little before 6:00am.  I didn’t know the exact time because I stopped looking at the clock by then, but I knew the approximate time by the amount of sunlight coming through the window.  It must have been a Tuesday because it was Garbage Day.  I watched the garbage truck thump up the street and screech to a stop in front of my house.  A frowning, middle-aged man hunkered out of the truck and carelessly tossed my garbage in the back of his truck.  I looked longingly at him and thought to myself: I bet he doesn’t have a newborn.  I bet he is free of the shackles associated with a needy little person that never allows him to rest, never allows him to close his eyes, never allows him to exhale.  God, what I wouldn’t give to trade places with him.  I looked reluctantly down to my baby and thought for the hundredth time that day (day? night?), what have I done?

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The Worst Thanksgiving

Dec 1, 2014 by

This Thanksgiving was a whirlwind of low-level drama.  It started with the terrible weather on Wednesday and a slow, slick drive up to my parents’ place.  Thursday my daughter woke up in super-crank mode.  She was crying at nothing and everything, alternately refusing and demanding food, and wanting constantly to be held – but only by one of the two cooks, her Mama and Grammy.  There were lots of tears, followed by vomit at the dinner table, followed by a fever…  Don’t get me wrong, it was still a joyful (and delicious!) Thanksgiving, but it was also an event that screamed, “HI YOU’RE A PARENT NOW,” as though I’d forgotten.

Still, this was a vast improvement over last year.

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My Post PPD Fears

Nov 14, 2013 by

Overwhelming sadness. Alone. Irritable. Ashamed.

These are the words that come to mind when I think back to my struggle with postpartum depression three years ago. During those dark days I remember feeling so confused. I knew how lucky I was to have this beautiful baby, and how happy I should be, yet I began feeling the exact opposite as time went by. Feelings of hopelessness, despair, and even anger began taking over my brain. I felt so alone, whether I was sitting by myself at home or in a room filled with other people. No matter how hard I tried to force my emotions to match the fake smile I plastered on my face, it didn’t work. I convinced myself it wouldn’t be that much longer before I “snapped out of it.” I was so wrong. Days turned to weeks which turned into months of depression.


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