Postpartum depression (PPD) is a force unlike any other I've been faced with. It grabs you by the throat and holds your head under water until you feel like every ounce of air left in your lungs is about to give way. Then one day, like a light switch being turned off, it's gone. Just like that.
Postpartum depression isn't an illness that eases you through stages. You actually start out at rock bottom and then it gets worse. It's horrifying.
A few days ago, I had an ordinary post up on my blog. I fully mention in my "About Me" section of my blog that I am a PPD survivor. One of my followers left a comment at this ordinary post with a P.S.
She writes: "P.S. I'm right there with ya on the PPD. I had SEVERE PPD after my
second daughter. I had a doctor tell me not to have any more kids
because I was guaranteed to have PPD with next one. Well, after my son,
no PPD! So glad I didn't listen to that quack!"
This got me really thinking. I have three children. My oldest is fifteen, my middle child is eleven and the youngest is fifteen months. Lots of space between (I'm a little crazy, I know!). I didn't have a lick of PPD with either of the first two. After my last son, I felt as though my emotions had crawled into a dark cave and remained in the shadows for months. Even a hint of sunlight on my emotions had them creeping backward, scraping fingernails against the wall, to reach back into the darkness. It was really bad.