text: TW: suicidal ideation Warning: This is not a tale for children or sweet old ladies from a bygone era. I don’t know if it’s even a story, more like a blip on the line of history. But for me, it was everything. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut to the heart of it. holy shit I’m in the pit This was my first poem about my postpartum depression- pretty epic, right?! No, I’ll be the first to admit it was completely depressing, but you’ve gotta admire its brevity and unambiguous message- I was stuck. While my daughter cheered “Paw Patrol is on a roll!” I laid in bed silently chanting my poem like a mantra. The bitter words flowed through my veins until they seeped from my pores and funneled out my nostrils with each tedious exhalation. It was my self-fulfilling truth. My bleak reality. I totally could have used a techy, English speaking pup to rescue me, but from what? My bed? I was more confused than Mayor Goodway, more helpless than Chickaletta. Please forgive my post recovery humor when broaching such a serious topic. I’m like a one year old with a smash cake, gorging myself on giggles and the sweet things in life. I just can’t stop. But I’ll do it- I’ll swim against the currents of my brain to access those memories locked away in the murky depths. So cold down there... Welcome to my world. SEPTEMBER “I’m hungwy, Mommy!” She bounces around my head, which is already pounding with a headache, and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet. I tuck under my pillow and press it tightly against my ears, desperate to muffle her high pitched voice. “Pwease, Mommy?” I open my eyes and peek out. Her round blue eyes sparkle and watch me curiously. Frick. She’s so cute, but I hate her so much. I used up all my patience when she came into our bedroom six times during the night. I drag myself out of bed like I’m an old woman- the weight of the night heavy, the drudgery of the coming day oppressive. Another day to get through. Then another tortuous night... just like every other night of the past two years. I used to play tennis. I used to paint. I used to smile freely, especially at strangers or when I didn’t know what else to do. I was a naïve idiot. Wall, tell me- Who am I? My head still spins from revolving roles: teacher, nurse, referee to the crazy blonde creatures now sleeping in peace. Finally, I am free to just be me, and yet- I find myself here, staring at the wall. OCTOBER I sit on the bench at the end of my bed and tie my shoes. We’re going to a pumpkin patch, woohoo. Wait, what day is it? I snatch my phone from my purse and hit the home button, and the truth glows green. The anniversary of my dad’s death. I don’t usually think about it, but today it steals my breath. I stare at my shoes and think about sitting on the front porch with him. His body was already withered from cancer, literally eaten up with it from the inside out. It will never feel fair... I took a picture of our feet together, the rolling pastures in the background. His leather loafers. My bare feet. Our matching ankles. you left this world and you left a hole in my heart (in my heart) so I left this town walking backward clutching flowers now I travel to a new place with this same face (but I don’t even know who I am anymore) these eyes look at the mirror and they’re sure that it’s a mask please don’t ask (because I don’t even know who I am anymore) do you think I could be someone else something new is it true that I’m me cuz I’m not free I’m walking backward (backward) NOVEMBER I hobble across the bedroom, the mysterious pain slicing under my kneecap again. I grimace as I put minimal weight on it, and my husband frowns at me. “Aren’t you meeting someone at the park for a play date today?” “Yeah, but I just canceled. I can’t walk that far.” She won’t care; she hardly knows me. And my daughter won’t know the difference because I didn’t tell her the plan in case it fell through. Secretly, I’m relieved. Small talk in the preschool hallways is so draining, no, painful . We moved cross country three months ago with a two year old and a three month old baby. No one else is a military family like ours, and they all know we’re moving again in less than a year so they have little incentive to be my friend. I don’t blame them. I grieve the loss of my friends of four years in Georgia, our church, and my family that lived around the state. And all the ones in South Carolina, for that matter, where we lived for three years before that. This place feels cold and foreign. I don’t have the energy to start over. Yesterday or a lifetime ago? I can’t reach it, so there’s the answer. Fragments are all that I can find. Throw them into order, but they scramble again. Colors, enough to make me smile. Pain, that cuts me anew. Fragments, floating around, that I bump into occasionally. Long ago won’t let go. DECEMBER Thin gray light slants through the blinds. I know I should get out some play dough for her or set up a tea party or something fabulous like good moms do. Instead, she’s watching tv while I lay in bed. I’ve never felt this tired in my whole life. It’s like I just ran a marathon and no one gave me a banana after. Those jerks. The baby is napping, thank goodness. At least one of them likes to sleep. I lay here for episode after episode after episode. she stares through the mist motionless JANUARY A bit of sun peeked through this afternoon. I should have seized the opportunity to get outside with the kids. I could have pushed them in the stroller and walked to the park, but I started shaking and got dizzy as another fever came on. I keep getting infections. I’m falling apart. The world outside, so far from reach- an invisible barrier between. If I were to walk to the window and place palm upon cool glass, I would experience, at least touch, the last partition that separates me from endless motion, from life and color and change. But I can’t move beyond that which holds me hostage with cords and tethers that burn my consciousness, searing stripes on my soul that remind me- I am trapped in this scorched wasteland. The barrier is ME. FEBRUARY “Babe, you gotta talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how,” he says. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know. I don’t know. You break the silence when you clear your throat, shifting nervously in your chair. I should say something, but the words stick in my mouth- no, they never even made it that far. Half ideas slowly swirl in the dark recesses of my mind, out of reach. I try to look at you, but the distance is too great, the connection too painful. I stare at your feet. MARCH Wooden blinds. Giant dressers. A soft bench at the end of the bed. They’re more real than I am. Definitely have more purpose. My life is pure misery. I just want it to stop. I don’t know what that means. But I want it to stop. I want to be gone. I want this to end. We’re talking in circles, you and I. These words, conflicting words, cut me like a knife. I know I drew first blood, but you, YOU thrust the blade in to the hilt and pull it out for sport, cheering wildly as my blood surges onto the sand. I’m losing it... The arena closes in on me, and I know I’ve lost the battle with my mind. APRIL Everyone else is asleep, except me. I stare at the ceiling in terror as muscle spasms dance across my body. Toe. Cheek. Knee. Bicep. Throat. Calf. Lip. Quad. What the fuck is wrong with me? Do I have ALS or some strange degenerative disease coming on? They say to new moms, “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” But I never sleep anymore. I just lay here and endure each incredibly long moment. Darkness swallows light until the full moon rises, promising a change. MAY I’ve been quietly struggling to breathe for the past two hours, but now I’m scared for my life, which is ironic. I dig my fingernails into my husband’s arm as air wheezes through my constricted throat. He turns over and looks at me in alarm. My head throbs from straining to get air, and my arms hang limp and numb at my sides. He tries to help me, and together we panic. Can I just cry now to make it all better? No. The tears won’t come, and they couldn’t cleanse my mind of its distress, anyways. The serrated edges of my hopelessness have already done too much damage. This knowledge adds another weight to my heart. It sags deeper within me, inky black and constricted. I feel the toxic bitterness seeping out of it into every fiber of my being. Immobilization takes hold. I CAN’T DO THIS ANY MORE JUNE “Have you thought about harming yourself?” asks my online counselor. We’re propped against pillows in bed, my husband sitting in on this session. I guess you could call this intervention. I’m a coward, scared to admit the horrors that play on repeat through my mind, so I beat around the bush. “I mean, not exactly. But I don’t want to be here... I want to be somewhere else.” But it’s enough. She says there’s no shame in getting help. She gives us numbers to call. A suicide hotline. Her number. She makes me write an escape plan so I can follow those steps when I’m thinking about IT. I’m raging inside, but my lips press tightly shut. Breaking News: DAM BROKE. The words spill forth rapidly til energy ebbs to peace. JULY I flop on the most comfortable bed in the whole world and let out a gusty sigh. I can’t believe it. I made it out of the psych ward in one piece. It felt like jail for irresponsible, albeit mentally disturbed children, but they gave me medicine. I can already feel it working. It flows through my veins and smoothes the rough edges of my mind. My room is warm and quiet. I know I will sleep in peace. Gray ash flutters past, enticed to dance on the breeze. There’s hope in motion. AUGUST “Good morning, Mommy!” a little voice chirps. I peek up at her and smile. What a beautiful little munchkin. I climb out of bed and follow her to the window where she’s watching a flock of black birds in our yard. The coolness of the glass seeps into my palms, and I relish the sensation. “Should we go out and chase them?” She squeals with delight, and for the first time in ages, I leave the bedroom willingly. What once was trapped beneath the doughy mud for winter upon winter until eons passed, has been unearthed with utmost care. Experts consulted and plotted the course, giving delicate attention with pick and brush until a Mammoth emerged, tusks raised to the sky. She trumpeted FREEDOM! Glorious freedom at last and filled her lungs with fluid air that gave and gave, oh generous Mother Earth. Unwilling to waste another moment, she shook off the crusty mud and trotted across a verdant land where others of her kind laid entombed. *Author’s Note: I wasn’t instantly “fixed,” but I began to climb a positive, incline slope toward a healthier me. With the exception of the first poem, the rest were all written in the months following my time in the psych ward, when the words came back to me. It felt incredibly cathartic to write about what I couldn’t express while trapped within my mind, so I decided to share them on my blog, Evening Poetry, to help others as well. My turning point came when I gave up control, threw up my hands, and said “I can’t do this anymore!” I had tried so hard to be okay, but my chemically imbalanced brain needed medicine. With Zoloft and the patience of my family, I made it through to the other side. My hope for those of you out there who struggle with depression is that you will also push through the darkness and into the light by seeking help. It was a scary step for me, but it made all the difference. I realize that medicine is not the answer for everyone, and it could be as simple as sharing your struggles with a friend who can help shoulder the burden. Don’t give up the fight.