Eight years ago I was in a fight for my life. Postpartum depression, anxiety, and psychosis had taken hold of me after Patrice was born.
It is much too easy to remember the desperation of those days…being busy with the girls non-stop because I knew if I stopped or slowed down I would fall apart and I was just as certain that if that happened I would not be able to pick up the pieces.
I remember looking at my newborn sleeping–so jealous that she could sleep and I could not–knowing that in a few short hours my other girls would be awake and there would be no time to rest–and yet, I couldn’t sleep.
There was the day I took a very new baby and her two older sisters across town to a play place. Our A/C was out, it was hot and I could not stay home. I could not sit. Hubby was home that day, what if he saw what a mess I had become, I could not bear to have that happen, so away we went.
Daily, I reached out to my midwife for one reason or another. She was a friend and I instinctively knew she was safe. She was so patient. She talked me through my desire to disappear, she passed on recipes for butternut squash. She helped me find help when the inevitable came and I did fall apart and I couldn’t pick up all the pieces.
Eight years ago, many doctors, medications, a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and a few hospitalizations later, and here I am. Is it easy–nope, each day is a balance. Is it possible, yes. Am I thankful–more than you will ever know.
The Lord has brought me through so much. He has brought a calling into my life–a couple of them really, and He has brought me my tribe–those women who love me, reach out, and help me take care of myself. I am so thankful to Him and all of them.
Eight years ago. Eight years ago.