Postpartum depression is rough. I thought I knew what depression was. I’ve had times where I’ve been able to acknowledge that I’m depressed but it never seemed to get to the point of being a problem that needed dealt with. But I don’t know that I’ve ever truly grasped what full on depression can be like until being hit with PPD.
Some days I’m just trying to make it through the day. Others are bright silver linings in the big picture, days when I feel more like myself and things are going well and I’m happy and am doing the things I love. And then there are times where I just can’t. I can’t think, I can’t make decisions, I can’t be bothered to make dinner or knit or force myself to pretend to be okay.
I don’t ever know whether I should write these feelings out here or not. It’s so… public. And dealing with this seems so personal. There’s this nagging voice in my head telling me no one cares. I’m just another person in the world with money to spend on a domain and hosting and I’m not special. And there’s this tiny whisper of the voice of reason saying that, damn it, it’s my place to do whatever I wish. And that maybe others need to read that they’re not alone, and that they’re not the only one feeling this way. This internal struggle gnaws at me.
Ultimately, I want to put it here, so this is what you get to read. It’s not pretty, nor is it very interesting. But it’s also not fake, which is something I try to avoid. My life isn’t a magazine to be perfectly styled in photos with inspiring articles. My blog is not my business like it is for others. It’s real. And it’s painful. But it’s also beautiful and happy and wonderful (just at different times). Authentic.
