I read the following on Dooce, a "mommy blog":
"Sometimes I worry that the most vivid memory you are going to have of me from this time is the scowl on my face. Often I am ashamed that I am not the mother I thought I was going to be.
I have become depressed again. Almost as depressed as I was two years ago when I had to check myself into the hospital, and it has everything to do with stress, recent stress that has threatened to change and devastate our lives. I have often described depression as the complete inability to cope with stress, and although I think my own depression is manageable with medication — medication that I am still taking every day — it tends to flare up in a debilitating way when I’m thrust into very stressful situations. I keep trying to claw my way up out of this, but for the last month I have found it almost impossible to make it through the day without putting my face into a pillow and screaming until I cannot sense the world around me.
You deserve better than this, better than the look of absolute desperation I carry in my eyes all day long. I should be more playful, should sing more songs, color more pictures, but I’m sometimes afraid that if I attempt any of these things you will see through it and know that I am lying. Right now I can’t see the world in anything but shades of very pale gray. I had hoped that I would never find myself this low again — I would not wish this crushing emptiness on my worst enemy — but now that I am here I’m not quite sure what to do this time, except trust that you and your father will stick by me, will be here when I do feel better."
I cry because Abigail deserves a better mom. She deserves a mom who can handle life- who can enrich her life- who can be a role model for her- who can have a heart full of genuine joy. I cry because I know what that depression feels like; I know how lonely it is and how much it hurts. And I cry because I fear that is where I am headed. I don't want that. I am fighting against that grayness with everything I have, and with a lot I don't have. But I see it happening. I see myself crying over commercials. I feel my eyes well over passing thoughts. I feel the stress in my neck and my back and the back of my throat and my stomach every time I try to swallow.
Like Dooce, I am good at appearing happy. I am good at making other people laugh. I am good at hiding the hurting and confusion and anger. I am good at flying under the "concern radar." But I am choosing to tell you because I feel it getting more and more real every day, and I don't want to end up where I was last November... or where I was in the 8 months following Abigail's birth. I am scared that is where I will end up, so tomorrow I will fill my prescription.