Thick layers of dust collected on the leaves that wrapped themselves along the walls of my home. Shelves of well-loved books now forgotten. Only the sheets knew the touch of my skin as they dragged me deeper in the world of colorless embrace. Nothing ever felt right. Like an out-of-place puzzle piece, except I never belonged to begin with.

People whose love only stood on the tips of their tongue watched as I melted away, never to find myself again. Skin heavy, soul mourning, judgments always found themselves stuck to me as I cried into the abyss for help. Only my deep, unnamed sadness held me.

Word around the dinner table and online discussions have been revolving around the topic of depression. Particularly postpartum depression (PPD)… and boy do people have a whole lot of something to say about a topic that so many struggle with but even more misunderstand. A true social fissure between how different groups of people view the topic of mental health. From generational gaps, to religion, to the nailing itself to the battle between the sexes. No matter how much science and empathy coats the truth, we still stand in the divide.

Long before I had my first child, the roots of depression had grown deep within my veins. Waiting to plant me to the ground. My life was an endless roulette of self-sacrifice wedged between the thin-versed lined pages of what womanhood should be and my desire to be myself. The vile tongue of a father built the cobbled road I was “supposed” to walk on. My feelings were none unless they were his. So when I did feel, my mistakes were my own to deal with too, and shame was always attached.

When my daughter was born, the labor of my shame only stuck to the soft layers of my brain, rooting themselves into my heart. Every cry from her tiny being pulled on the frays of my imperfections. Every call to be held became my moral failings. My mother watched her baby struggle to be a mother to her baby. A shell of a person no one understood.

People came anointing the baby and questioned my sorrow. How lucky was I to have such a beautiful baby, wasting it on my own selfishness. Yet when I looked at her, I knew her beauty more than anyone. From her tiny nose to her little toes. Her perfection only outlined my unworthiness of her. Lies from the brain, but real all the same.

But “Mental illness is just a state of mind.”

Every misunderstood phrase uttered in my direction was like a dagger torn into my flesh. Nights stretch into the length of days. Expected to be a whole person, my bed was my prison. The only ease to my sadness was the dinner plate.

If I didn’t have my moms, I don’t know where I would have been.

It took me years to dig myself from that hole. A hole everyone tried to fill up with medicine that wasn’t right for me, prescribed by the wrong kind of doctors, taken with complete inconsistency and zero kindness from most people around me. Taken advantage of, but unable to advocate for myself—because how do you do that when you can’t even brush your own hair? I relied on food for even a slight burst of serotonin, but even then it was tasteless. Gaining weight, but never happiness. And in this society, a woman with meat on her bones is always a burden, lest we forget the depression.

But every time I looked at my daughter, something in me stirred. She deserved more, even if I felt that I didn’t. And I fought hard for her to have that. Every demon, every late night full of agonizing tears just to find my joy again… it cost me things and people I never regret paying. Just to be the mother my child deserved.

It was just over a year ago, after five passing years, a divorce, a marriage, a second baby, a therapist, an actual psychiatrist, Zoloft, and now a third pregnancy… to fall in love with myself again.

But maybe it’s one of those things you can’t understand unless you’ve been there… When it comes to facing one’s self, discomfort is the biggest enemy.

Love,

Shay

Disclaimer: I am not a mental health professional just a woman who was able, with help of others and actual professionals, to pull myself through depression. If you or anyone needs help with depression or ppd I will list resources below 

If you or anyone you love is suffering from a similar situation please contact:

1-833-852-6262

Or

Use these online resources:

https://mchb.hrsa.gov/programs-impact/national-maternal-mental-health-hotline

https://postpartum.net/get-help/psi-helpline

Remember you are NOT alone. And if you have the ability, please advocate for others who don’t have an ability to use their voice.