***Before I start this post I want to make a few things clear, I'm not sharing this for sympathy or attention. I'm sharing this because it was others sharing their experiences that gave me the push I needed to get help and I hope that by sharing my story I can help someone else. And most importantly I feel that by keeping quiet about my struggles I would be feeding into the problem our society faces with this issue.***
I am fighting Postpartum Depression.
Wow, it's amazing how hard that is to admit. I mean if I had a broken arm, the flu, cancer, or Ebola it would be easier to put out there for the world. Which is sad, and is the reason that I feel like I need to share this part of my personal life. Because it needs to be something that we remove the stigma from. So here I am, admitting it.
I never felt a desire to hurt my children, I know that is commonly associated with PPD but for me that was not the case. For me I became 100% convinced that my family would be better off if I wasn't there. That I was such a complete and utter failure as a wife and mother that there was no way for be to improve. I was sure that if I was out of the picture David could find a woman who would be a better wife to him and mother to my kids than I was, and even if he didn't, the damage from not having a mom at all would be less than if I was to stick around. It got so bad that one night I found myself standing in the bathroom with the entire medicine cabinet out on the sink. Thankfully David walked in and that was enough to bring me back from the edge, but it was incredibly close.
I tried to be tough. I tried to shake it off, put my shoulders back and muscle through it. I prayed and read my scriptures. I put on a happy face whenever people were around and I never admitted out side of my home just how overwhelmed I was. I did everything I could to get better and I just kept getting worse. I didn't want to get help because I was convinced if I could just "adjust my attitude" that everything would be all right.
After the bathroom incident David wanted me to go to the Dr but I still wasn't ready. Then a friend of mine posted about her struggle on Facebook and it was like I was reading my own story, I reached out to her and got advice. Finally, at a late night party I opened up to some friends about what was going on. The next thing I knew I had babysitters and rides to the Dr, accompanied by a "If you don't call your Dr I will."
That was almost 3 weeks ago and I'm getting better. In fact it only took a few days of medicine to begin going back to my old self. I'm taking medicine and talking to a counselor. I'm doing everything I can to take care of myself and get better. Just like a person with allergies I'm trying to figure out my triggers and make it so I can avoid getting sick again in the future and get better faster.
Because, I'm sick.
Instead of a virus attacking my body or my cells mutating, my brain is misfiring. And that doesn't make me week, unstable, or less of a person. Mental illness, is just that. An illness. It's not something you just get over or shake off. It can take you deeper into yourself than you ever wanted to go and make you do things you never thought you would.
I have been so blessed as I have been dealing with this. Blessed that it didn't get worse, that my husband loved me through it and never blamed me or told me to just "suck it up", that I have insurance that makes it possible for me to go to the doctor and get the treatment I need without stressing the money issue, that I have such good friends, and that I have a doctor who took what was happening to me seriously.
There are a lot of people who are not that lucky. There are a lot of people who are too afraid to admit they need help. There are people who when they do admit it are told to pray it away or to keep a stiff upper lip. There are people who don't have access to the health care they need or are pushed aside by doctors who don't really know how to help them.
Mental illness is an illness. Let's start talking about it, admitting it, and treating it.
