Post Partum

The beginnings of a project on Post Partum Depression. A friend's daughter is going through it, and as I was speaking to another friend about my own experience with PPD, I started left-handed painting. I chose gold and black plum, and as I was painting and talking, I realized I was painting about my experience. I was painting about the grief involved with not being able to enjoy motherhood the way I expected to, the shame of being human and not being able to "do it all" and being so. damn. tired. and. irritable. I was painting for the years of being medicated incorrectly, to the point where I lost years of my life to the void. For all the little joys I should have experienced, but didn't. For all the times I asked myself what was wrong with me that, after so many miscarriages, I couldn't be happy now that I had a healthy little baby. For all the times other people gave well-meaning advice but didn't see the darkness swallowing me whole. For the judgment rained down on me by outsiders. For the thousands of faked smiles in public and millions of tears shed in private. For the choked back screams of pain and frustration and fear and anger. For the fights with Ryan where he told me I wasn't doing my best when I swear I was, I really was! For the sweet baby boy I wanted so badly to connect to the way everyone else seemed to connect to their babies. For the fog I walked through every day as I tried to navigate being a new mom. For the traumatic start of having to have an emergency C-section after a near-deadly reaction to the epidural. For the late nights I'd sit breastfeeding by the light of our Christmas tree lights, looking down at Caleb's tiny clenched fists, wondering if I'd produced enough milk to last him until morning this time or if I'd be back up with a bottle in an hour. For the mommy groups who helped me figure out I was drowning and GOT ME HELP.