Author’s Note: This essay was written more than a year ago, the situation described happened over two years ago, and since then the scars have continued to fade. It is a long process, but I have found the road to healing and is filled with love and light. If you suffer from (or have suffered from) postpartum depression, please know that you are not alone, things do get better, and there are a lot of resources available to help. If you know someone who has or did have some type of PPD, please know that your patience, kindness, and support help shine a light on that road to recovery and healing.
The sun was bright—almost too bright—that late October afternoon. I pulled up to the curb in front of the hospital. My husband strode toward the car, and I shifted into park. When he got to the driver’s side, I opened the door and stepped out so that he could climb in.
“How long do you think you’ll be?” he asked.
“I don’t know, maybe 20 minutes,” I replied. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way down.”
“Okay. The boys and I will just drive around for a little while,” he said, tossing a sideways glance toward the backseat. With the exception of immediate family members, children aren’t allowed in this part of the hospital, so my husband and I had to make our visit in shifts.
I walked into the cavernous lobby. Even though I had been there before, when I’d given birth to my youngest son three years earlier, nothing felt familiar. I met my brother-in-law, gave him a quick hug, and followed him to the elevator bank. We chatted about family, the hospital, and how strange it was to be there. I talked more than necessary, trying to fill the space with words, and I willed myself not to cry. I willed myself not to fall off the cliff.
You can read the rest of this essay on Scary Mommy.