Surviving Postpartum Depression
When my son was about four weeks old, it was Christmas day and I had a 19-month old, too, and we were getting ready to go to my mom’s house for dinner. I was running back and forth trying on clothes that were sort of dressy and festive—and I say running back and forth because there was a full-length mirror in the guest bedroom, and I would try the clothes on in my room and run across the house to see what they looked like.
It wasn’t good.
I was more than 50 pounds overweight, and I was lumpy and nothing fit. The more I tried on clothes, the sweatier I got. The sweatier I got trying to stuff myself in festive Christmaswear, the more upset I got. Meanwhile, I was trying to make the yams that I said I would bring. We are now rushing around because it is almost time to leave and I haven’t found anything to wear, and I read the directions wrong on my yams recipe on the back of the can. Also, I was trying to double the recipe, so I did the math wrong, too.
My husband yells from the kitchen stove after checking them: “ARE THEY SUPPOSED TO BE THIS WATERY STILL?”
They had been in there for half an hour.
Shoot. No. They’re not. I don’t know what to do. I ruined the yams. I don’t know what to wear. I have to get the kids dressed. We have to leave. I can’t take this anymore. I’m sweating and nothing fits!
I begin to cry.
I cry all the way to my mom’s house, which is an hour drive while wearing the red maternity shirt which was the only thing festive(ish) and the only thing that fit.
I spend most of Christmas in my mom’s guest bedroom nursing the baby and crying in between.
I couldn’t get it together.
If you would have told me it was postpartum depression, I would have said, no, I am just having a rough day.
The thing is, they all just feel like “rough days.”