*Deep breath*
Writing about PPD is....difficult. It's scary because it leaves you vulnerable. Not the mild, cute sort of vulnerable, but naked-in-a-crowd vulnerable.
It's telling your friends, relatives, and strangers that all was not as it appeared. It's admitting to and describing the agonizing thought process of a PPD sufferer. It's hoping and praying that your audience will understand that your illness was just that--an illness. That your illness was not your fault, and that you are not a bad mom. It's reliving those dark, crushing days so that others can comprehend that it's real. It's retelling those agonizing, silent moments so that others will know they are not alone. It's baring your soul to a world that will never fully understand. Writing and talking about PPD? It's terrifying stuff. Every time we tell a tragic story, it's the first time someone else has heard it. And when it's someone's first time, they process it. They often come to storyteller to process, making the storyteller comfort the listener. It's not anyone's fault. It's just the way humans process grief.
So when another relative or family friend reads a blog post and looks at me with sympathetic eyes, I know. I know that it's shocking and horrifying, and those that know me just want to comfort me. But what they've read in the comfort of their own time, in their own space, is a story I've pulled from my heart. It's a story I've written while tears fell between the keys of my keyboard. It's a story I wrote by living it, not knowing if I would live to see the ending. I want to comfort my readers, to remind them I made it out. But sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just listen and let them talk. I made it out, but other women didn't. Other women couldn't find the tiniest glimmer of light in the suffocating darkness. It's not just my story I'm telling, but countless others.
But that's why I have to tell the story.
"Hi, I'm Susie. I had PPD. It was bad, so bad. It stole my happiness and motherhood from me. It stole my last few months of undergrad. It stole my health and my body from me. It almost stole my life. I made it out, but others didn't. Please listen."
And when I tell my story, when I write about the awful things experienced. When I admit that I STILL struggle with the overeating habits I worsened in my PPD days--when I tell all to anyone who will listen, my fellow survivors tumble out.
"Me, too. Me, too."
Because someone has to take the first step and cry salty tears as she tells her story. Someone has to be the voice for the women who didn't make it to the other side. Someone has to remind the world to check up on moms. Look your friends in the eyes and ask them how they're feeling. Encourage your friends to fill out the PPD/PPA forms at the pediatrician. If their pediatrician doesn't have those forms, click here and encourage your friends to take this quiz. {This quiz is not a substitution for a medical professional. It is merely the first step on the path towards help.}
But most importantly? Listen. Listen to what they cannot say, for the words they cannot form. Listen to the questions they ask. Look into their eyes and see behind the exhaustion. Ignore the perky Instagram posts. That might be the only way she can survive her day. That might be the only record she'll have of her child's first year because PPD has robbed her of her memory. And most importantly? Love her. Love her enough to tell her to go to the doctor for an Rx. Love her enough to drag her out of the house. Love her enough to be her village. Love her enough to tell your story.
We're not alone. You are not alone.
Writing about PPD is....difficult. It's scary because it leaves you vulnerable. Not the mild, cute sort of vulnerable, but naked-in-a-crowd vulnerable.
It's telling your friends, relatives, and strangers that all was not as it appeared. It's admitting to and describing the agonizing thought process of a PPD sufferer. It's hoping and praying that your audience will understand that your illness was just that--an illness. That your illness was not your fault, and that you are not a bad mom. It's reliving those dark, crushing days so that others can comprehend that it's real. It's retelling those agonizing, silent moments so that others will know they are not alone. It's baring your soul to a world that will never fully understand. Writing and talking about PPD? It's terrifying stuff. Every time we tell a tragic story, it's the first time someone else has heard it. And when it's someone's first time, they process it. They often come to storyteller to process, making the storyteller comfort the listener. It's not anyone's fault. It's just the way humans process grief.
So when another relative or family friend reads a blog post and looks at me with sympathetic eyes, I know. I know that it's shocking and horrifying, and those that know me just want to comfort me. But what they've read in the comfort of their own time, in their own space, is a story I've pulled from my heart. It's a story I've written while tears fell between the keys of my keyboard. It's a story I wrote by living it, not knowing if I would live to see the ending. I want to comfort my readers, to remind them I made it out. But sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just listen and let them talk. I made it out, but other women didn't. Other women couldn't find the tiniest glimmer of light in the suffocating darkness. It's not just my story I'm telling, but countless others.
But that's why I have to tell the story.
"Hi, I'm Susie. I had PPD. It was bad, so bad. It stole my happiness and motherhood from me. It stole my last few months of undergrad. It stole my health and my body from me. It almost stole my life. I made it out, but others didn't. Please listen."
And when I tell my story, when I write about the awful things experienced. When I admit that I STILL struggle with the overeating habits I worsened in my PPD days--when I tell all to anyone who will listen, my fellow survivors tumble out.
"Me, too. Me, too."
Because someone has to take the first step and cry salty tears as she tells her story. Someone has to be the voice for the women who didn't make it to the other side. Someone has to remind the world to check up on moms. Look your friends in the eyes and ask them how they're feeling. Encourage your friends to fill out the PPD/PPA forms at the pediatrician. If their pediatrician doesn't have those forms, click here and encourage your friends to take this quiz. {This quiz is not a substitution for a medical professional. It is merely the first step on the path towards help.}
But most importantly? Listen. Listen to what they cannot say, for the words they cannot form. Listen to the questions they ask. Look into their eyes and see behind the exhaustion. Ignore the perky Instagram posts. That might be the only way she can survive her day. That might be the only record she'll have of her child's first year because PPD has robbed her of her memory. And most importantly? Love her. Love her enough to tell her to go to the doctor for an Rx. Love her enough to drag her out of the house. Love her enough to be her village. Love her enough to tell your story.
We're not alone. You are not alone.
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