After the baby came home

The past four months have been rough at my home. In my home. In my skin. In my soul.

Let me preface this by saying that I don't want to over share, but I also feel compelled to be honest. To make sure I am not making too little out of my experience, because I want a record of how I have survived. And it is no hyperbole to use the term "survive."

Honest: Once Jojo came home I shut down. I stopped getting out of bed, going downstairs, talking, thinking, eating. Buster was my reason for functioning at all, the only light in my life.

Honest: I didn't feel anything at all for my new baby, once the adrenaline wore off and he was safe at home. I seriously debated giving him up for adoption, because it was not fair to him to grow up in a home with a mother who did not feel anything for her son. I had the conversation with my husband in all seriousness. I felt relief at the idea.

Honest: I made a list of things that would need to happen in order for me to feel comfortable with killing myself. I made a tentative plan.

Honest: I knew that these thoughts were not right, but I could not escape them, not even in sleep--which I did a lot. A LOT.

Honest: I didn't tell anyone about this. Not anyone. Not even W, not the bad stuff. Not until I started to feel a little braver and better. Because you know what is worse than the fear of being crazy? Knowing that you are crazy. And truly believing that no one will be able to help. There is a difference between "baby blues" and postpartum depression. Every time the doctors asked me about how I was doing, I didn't just gloss over what was going on, I flat-out lied.

I have been writing this post in my head for three months. Off and on. Every time I would get a minute of peace, I would start composing this mentally.

I never expected to actually be in a place where I would send the words to my fingertips to my keyboard. I never expected to get here. I honestly don't expect to stay here, I feel a jinxy nervousness admitting it. I still don't have all the words I need, but I will keep typing until I have to stop. Pretty sure that the stopping will hit me hard.

It has been almost four months. And I still feel the waves of depression. But I started to love the baby last month. And I got out of bed full-time about six weeks ago. And I have a new mantra:

"Depression is a liar. Nothing depression says is true. Never believe what it tells you."