Today was the first day of the mom's group that meets annually in town. Some of the girls know all the grisly details pertaining to my PPD after the boy's birth, but most only have a vague understanding that I "wasn't feeling well or something". A few asked how I'm doing, but one girl looked right into my eyes when she asked, "Are you doing better, now?". She has a son only a few months older than mine. I knew by the look on her face, the intensity of her question: she needed to hear my story, to hear that it can be all right again.
I told her that it was terrible at first. I didn't know what was going on with me. I honestly, through-and-through believed - no, I knew - that my husband, my kids, everyone, would be better off without me. I was the problem. I was messing everything up simply by existing. Taking me out of the equation would fix everything. It wasn't a pity party. It was my secret - my secret gift that I would give to my family - me gone. I told her how my husband realized something was wrong, very wrong. He called a good friend who has dealt with depression and anxiety. She urged my husband to take me to the doctor. I balked, thinking how I was messing things up even more. He ignored his wife and listened to the friend - probably the only time that will fly in our marriage. : )
Then I got help. I got medicine. My brain wasn't making enough of the hormone known as serotonin. It took about 5 weeks, but I began to steadily feel the effects of my hormones balancing out.
When a person's pancreas doesn't make enough of the hormone known as insulin, people take medicine to get back in balance. And no one looks down upon them for doing that. No one says, "What's wrong with you? Just make more insulin!"
The girl from mom's group thanked me for sharing. She promised to make an appointment today.
If my story helps even just one mom, then telling it is worth it.