The year I lost myself to postpartum depression

I didn’t admit I had postpartum depression until long after it was over.

After our daughter was born, I was consumed with guilt that I felt anything other than joyous. After all, I finally had the baby girl I’d always wanted — ruffles, headbands, lacy dresses, Mary Jane socks and all.

I also had an amazing toddler who made me laugh and planted sloppy kisses on his new baby sister. I had a husband who loved me and worked hard at two jobs. I wasn’t racing against the clock at the end of a maternity leave because I didn’t have one — I was lucky enough to work from home. What did I have to be sad about, exactly?

It all sounded great, in theory.

Except for the fact that my baby girl screamed for hours every single evening unless I held a soother firmly plugged into her cry-hole, draped her over my sweaty forearm and walked the floors wishing I could just go to sleep.

My toddler destroyed his room daily, required numerous ER visits for his daring antics, and don’t get me started on the stressful ear surgeries and speech therapy visits because, right, he didn’t speak … at all.

My husband was never home because of his two jobs and we only had one vehicle, which means he had a vehicle — always — and I was stuck at home — always. We fought too much. We didn’t understand what the other person was going through because we were worlds apart …

Continue reading in my weekly parenting column, The Mom Scene …

So what do you think?

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