I dragged myself out of bed after what seemed like the millionth night in a row with insomnia. I walked to the bathroom sink and as I mustered up the strength to support myself with my tired arms leaning on the counter, I slowly looked up at the mirror.

I couldn’t see the person staring back at me. It’s not that I didn’t recognize myself, it’s that I couldn’t see through my tears.

It was uncontrollable. I couldn’t stop. I was full blown sobbing. Every heaving breath I took became more difficult and I realized I was having a panic attack.

Nothing significant happened. I didn’t wake up to bad news. Nothing terrible occurred throughout the night.

I woke up with postpartum depression.

“What is wrong with me?” I would ask myself angrily. “Why am I so sad?!”

I had everything I ever wanted yet I was going about my days with this dark cloud hanging over my head.

Internally I was screaming. “Why can’t I just be happy? JUST BE FUCKING HAPPY!”

———

I was not diagnosed with postpartum depression. I never saw a doctor but the signs were obvious as my mental health deteriorated. Looking back, I should have seen someone because if I had, I would have been a much better mother and just as important, a much better wife.

It was minor in my case. At least a lot more minor than other cases. I never had thoughts of self harm and I never thought of harming my children. I got out of bed every day and was capable of putting myself together. I managed to complete everyday tasks. Feed my kids, get them to school on time. But I was miserable.

I wasn’t struggling with a newborn. I was struggling with the chaos of having three kids who were all under the age of four.

I was struggling with trying to build a career for myself while also staying home with my children.

I was struggling with a massive sense of guilt. I wanted a third baby so badly when my husband swore we didn’t have the energy for it. I caused a rift in our marriage with how badly I needed a third, and now here I was after he had given me everything I longed for, barely able to make it through a single day. This guilt had me feeling like I wasn’t allowed to ask for help.

I struggled with tiny inconveniences that normally wouldn’t get the best of me. But it felt like everything was being thrown on me at once. These difficulties were snowballing and I couldn’t deal with my emotions.

I cried every single day. I screamed at my kids. A voice that can only be described as demonic. Because I didn’t ask for help, my kids went through hell. They had to watch me breakdown on multiple occasions. They were innocent children and they didn’t know to handle me. I would curl up in a ball and cry and my babies would climb up next to me and hold me. They would hold me.

I should have been holding them.

I needed to take better care of them. I needed to be their safe place. I needed to let them know they were loved. But at the time, all I thought I needed was to be left alone.

I couldn’t remember what it was like to be alone with my thoughts. I longed for peace and quiet which seemed like an impossible thing to ask for. I spent all of my time with my kids so I was never alone.

But oh my God, was I ever lonely.

I didn’t have family around so they had no idea how much I was struggling. I was so depressed that I quit hanging out with my friends. I pushed them away. Maintaining friendships just felt like another thing to do and I didn’t have the energy.

My days were a long, dark blur and I would count down the minutes until my husband got home from work just so I could be miserable in front of him. He would walk through the door to find me sobbing over the stove while trying to prepare supper. I wouldn’t speak to him and there was nothing he could say to make me feel better, so he would barely speak to me. I wanted nothing more than for him to come home to relieve me of my parenting duties.

But then he quit wanting to come home to me. He always did, but I was putting him through hell. It was unfair for everyone. My feelings of unhappiness were being felt so deeply by the ones I loved. I was creating an unstable environment.

I never got professional help. I did open up to my husband and tried to explain how I was feeling.

You see, my depression was like an out of body experience. It’s like I was walking around floating above myself and looking down on situations I could not control. From above, my mind was clear. From below, everything was foggy and I was mean. I KNEW I was acting crazy! I had logical thinking, but my actions didn’t portray that. Happy me was in there somewhere and I couldn’t get her out.

I was aware of my blessings, but couldn’t shake the overwhelming sadness weighing on me. The logical side of my brain kept telling me to snap out of it, but the other side of me would cloud over and a storm would come, the same way you can’t control the rain.

That’s the thing with depression. It’s evil and it can take over you in ugly ways.

Over time I have been managing better. The kids grow up a little and become more independent. I can work more because I don’t have a newborn. I can leave them for extended periods of time without having to rush back and stuff a boob in their mouths.

Motherhood is hard. Parenthood is hard. It’s understandable to feel bad. Sad. Unhappy. But there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. You will come out of the darkness.

Please don’t be afraid to ask for help. Sometimes you don’t see how badly you needed it until you look back, and things would have been so much better.

And I beg you, please check on your friends and the ones you love. No one checked on me.

And I really needed help.