The war in my head

Credit: Darilyn Jeter Photography

Dear Friends,

I feel like I should be super grossed out by how I'm looking in this picture (and honestly, I kind of am...but that's just because #vanity). It was really humid that day, and post partum hormones have NOT been kind to my hairs. Not even a little bit. My hair and I aren't really getting along these days, and most of the time I hate how it looks.

However, I think this picture is positively dreamy.

When I look at it, I see my struggles. They are written in every single detail of my appearance. I see how hard I tried to make my hair look like "me". I see that I took the time to put on some make-up, despite my current lack of enthusiasm for putting forth that kind of effort. I see my puffy cheeks and my sad and tired eyes. Honestly, I see pain, and it hurts my heart that the woman in this picture doesn't even know that she is hurting. She hasn't yet realized that she has lost control. She feels every emotion a hundred times deeper and harder than ever before, but she isn't really noticing. She doesn't even know that I'm looking at her and feeling sorry for her.

But I also see my baby curled up against my body, like she was made for that spot. Like that spot was made for her. I see a soft smile on my face. I see that I'm trying. I see a love that radiates from me and back from the baby. I see a baby that needs me. That baby loves me. I need that baby. I literally need that baby. She has been my constant link to unconditional love and sanity since she was born. She literally could not care less what kind of shortcomings I have--she always hugs me like this. Objectively, I know my other kids and husband feel the same way, but it isn't always as obvious because they are old enough to make the kind of choices that sometimes leave a person as vulnerable as myself questioning everything. She has honestly only been inconsolable once or twice EVER, and it was due to tummy pains. She cries when she needs to be held, when she's sick of the car seat, or when her brother mauls her, and that's pretty much it. She loves to be held and played with. She loves to snuggle.
I have post partum depression, and it. has. been. a. struggle.
Like, I can't even deal. And I mean that with all the sincerity that current millennials usually lack whenever they use that phrase. Except I have to deal. I have children to care for and a husband to serve. I have a future to plan for, and a future me who wants to be able to look back. Though getting my hands on a solid treatment plan from the medical community has been a circus, I am doing everything I can to learn what I need from the other corners of my life. I am learning what I need from my husband and family. I am learning how to communicate my feelings. I am learning how to rearrange my priorities every other hour so that I can stay afloat. And by "stay afloat", I mean, keep my emotions topside. It takes very little to send them sliding down, so I do everything in my power to manipulate my circumstances and emotions. As you might imagine, success is spotty, but I'll take whatever I can get.

When the world turns dark, it's as though I am under water. I lose orientation and am frantically slapping my arms around, hoping to make contact with the one thing that will bring relief. My "air" is hard to identify, and sometimes I just have to cry. It doesn't actually make me feel better, but that doesn't make it any less compelling. Sometimes, it's all I can do to just keep the tears in my eyelids. And sometimes, the trigger is nothing more aggressive than a person at Wal-Mart not smiling and acknowledging my apology after my kid ran in front of her basket. Nobody owes that to me, but that extra kindness would be so appreciated on those days. Other days, I don't care. But that just makes me hard to please, doesn't it? Being under water brings a heavy darkness that overwhelms me. It's a darkness that completely disorients me. A darkness that is always nearby, even when I'm not actually feeling it. It is ready to be involved at a moment's notice, and it manages to suck the fun out of nearly everything. That isn't to say that I don't enjoy life. Some days are good, and some days are bad. The bad days are usually terrible, but I'm learning more how to cherish the good days, especially since I never know when things will become dark again. I never know when I'll need to return to full-fledged Survival Mode. Anyway. I've always wanted newborn pictures of my babies. I was so unbelievably thrilled when my talented sister-in-law said that she would take these pictures when she was in town. I wanted to catch the wonder that is a new baby. I had no idea that she could capture so much more. I want to hate this picture, but the truth is that I love it. I love it so much. This trial will be a defining experience in my life, I can guarantee it. I'm certain that I will never forget these trenches that I am so eager to leave behind. One day I will look back at this picture, and I promise that I will be able to identify every scrap of strength in my image. I will see my fight, and I will know my strength, because by then, I will have completely overcome the challenge. I love this picture because I am trying so hard to love myself. Like no other time in my life (except, perhaps, 7th grade) I struggle to accept who I am and what I am worth. Since today is Valentine's Day, I am trying to be mindful of myself. I hope my meager offering to my husband and children were and are acceptable to them. I know I sincerely appreciated the opportunity to sleep in this morning (thank you, Darren!). I think negative self-talk is something a lot of people struggle with, but right now it is one of my greatest enemies. In the spirit of Valentine's Day, I am recommitting to loving myself by not speaking ugly to myself or about myself.

Also, feel free to discuss it with me. The truth about trying to end the stigma around PPD is that when you have it (in my case anyway), the fear of drawing attention to myself and appearing dramatic is crippling. I want it to be talked about, because no mother should be afraid to reach out for help. And no friend should be afraid to offer it. But I don't want anybody to think I am a helpless victim. In some ways I believe that I am a victim, but that's where the challenge lies. There are legitimate struggles that, to an outsider, might look pathetic. Some weeks, it is all I can do to keep the hotdogs thawed out so that my kids don't starve. The strength I have today isn't up for debate with anyone, but once I've turned those tables, I'll no longer be a victim. Thanks for your support. XOXOXOXOXO

Love, Emily P.S. This song has been one of my personal anthems through these past few months. If you can tolerate contemporary Christian rock (13 year old me would so roll her eyes if she knew I listened to that stuff now...), give it a listen. P.S.S. This song too.