As I entered my OB-GYN’s office, tears threatened to spill from my eyes, and dark thoughts clouded my mind. I couldn’t help but question why I had delayed seeking help. Why had I waited until I felt so lost and desperate to consult the very doctor who understood my history with depression? The man who had taken the time during my third trimester to discuss postpartum depression with me, who had handed me a pamphlet and a list of support groups before my daughter arrived.
Honestly, I don’t have the answers; I feel adrift in uncertainty. The only certainty I have as I sit in the waiting room, the chill of autumn creeping down my back, is that my choice of flip-flops was unwise. Not only do my feet feel cold, but the polish on my nails is nearly nonexistent—just a few chips of seafoam green remain: one on my big toe and two scattered on the middle one. I question my decision to wear sandals and wonder why I haven’t taken the two minutes to remove the remnants of the pedicure I got just days before my now three-month-old daughter was born. But deep down, I realize I don’t care about my appearance; I am indifferent about myself and my life.
Time has become distorted since my daughter’s birth. Motherhood and sleep deprivation have altered my perception; some days feel endless, while others slip away in a blur. I exist in a state of motion—eating, breathing, talking—yet I am unaware of the substance of those actions. I simply drift from one moment to the next.
“Are you sure?” His voice, smooth and steady, draws me back to the present. I remember arriving, smiling at the nurse who cooed at my sleeping daughter in her car seat, and exchanging glances with other mothers in the waiting room. Yet, the specifics of this visit feel hazy, blurred by a routine that has become second nature.
He asks again, “Are you absolutely certain you’re okay?”
I hesitate. Deep down, I know I’m not okay. But somewhere between entering and now, I feel my resolve crack. I fear that if I admit to my suicidal thoughts—if I disclose that I have made actual plans—they might take my daughter away. I dread appearing vulnerable, fearing that I would be seen as weak.
So, instead of confessing the truth, I nod. I force a smile, lying through clenched teeth. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
My doctor gives a slight nod, placing his large hand on my shoulder with a firm yet gentle squeeze before excusing himself. As he leaves, I exhale a long, deep breath. Exhaling is the easy part; breathing in feels like a daunting challenge. It terrifies me to take that next breath.
I sit for a moment that feels both fleeting and agonizingly long. I force myself to stay, to remain seated, my gaze shifting from my ill-fitting pants to the red sharps container on the wall beside me. Alone in silence—my greatest adversary—I attempt to breathe. I promise myself that once I’m in his office, I will admit that I’m not okay; I will be honest about the lie I’ve told.
But when I sink into the oversized leather chair in his office, he asks again if I’m okay, if I’m suicidal.
Is it that obvious? I remind myself to stay composed; he can only know what I choose to reveal. So, I deny it. I deny the darkness, the thoughts that haunt me, and I deny myself the chance for help. I reassure him, and myself, of my sanity.
He offers supportive words, scribbles a referral on his prescription pad, and we part ways. I promise to call him if things worsen—if I need to talk.
Eventually, I do reach out, but only after discovering that my psychiatry appointment is six weeks away. He prescribes a 60-day supply of Wellbutrin to help me through the interim and reminds me to return in two weeks for a follow-up. Again, he urges me to call if I need support.
But I don’t.
As the seasons change from flip-flops to slipper socks, I only get worse. I don’t reach out as I find myself withering away, stripped bare like the trees, engulfed in a grey fog that matches the wintry sky. I don’t ask for help as the temperatures drop and I remain stagnant. Instead, I freeze, like the icy streets of Brooklyn. I cry more and move less.
I find myself wishing for an end, contemplating ways to escape.
Understanding Postpartum Depression
Depression is a complex foe, and postpartum depression is no exception. It is as much about feeling as it is about feeling utterly empty. You go through the motions of living—eating, breathing, moving—but often feel numb or confused by your emotions. It’s a bewildering experience, rooted deeply within, paralyzing you repeatedly.
Now, my daughter is three and it’s flip-flop season again. My toes remain a mess, not from neglect but because I’m too busy chasing after her to care about drying polish. I’m consumed by motherhood, prioritizing her over trivial matters like manicures. I’m too engaged in living to fret over things like chipped nail polish.
Seeking Help and Resources
If you think you might be experiencing postpartum depression or need additional support, I encourage you to visit resources such as WomensHealth.gov for information on pregnancy and home insemination. For more support, check out IntracervicalInsemination.com as they provide authoritative insights on this topic. And if you’re considering ways to boost your fertility, take a look at MakeAMom.com for helpful information.
In summary, the journey through postpartum depression can feel isolating and overwhelming, but acknowledging your feelings and seeking help is crucial.