I can’t write to the science of Postpartum Depression. I am not a scientist. I can’t write about the chemicals in your brain when you have it. I am not a chemist. I can’t tell you what a shrink would say. I am not a shrink. I can not tell you about anyone else’s PPD or how they should deal with it.

What I can tell you, is about me. My story. How postpartum depression changed my life. That I can tell you.

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We named her the night we had the ultrasound. Saw her little butter bean self swimming along all cute and peanut looking. It’s a girl I said, we obviously don’t make boys. Yeah, but been there done that, was his response, we need a boy name and a girl name. Piper Isabelle. Tristan Gabriel. We came up with those names in an hour. It was simple. It was easy. No name decision, prior or since has been easy.

We’d just moved to Colorado. We’d been here literally a week. 12 week ultrasound. Three little peanut pictures to take home.

Few weeks later, I was hanging a picture. I was up on a ladder. I was being impatient. Logan had said he’d do it when he got home. I hadn’t felt that great in the morning. I did it anyway. I HATE walls with no pictures up on them. I was also afraid of the girls running into them and breaking glass and yeah. Anyway.

I woke up in the ER. I have no idea why. I have no idea why I didn’t have to feel it. But it may have been easier if I’d…I don’t even know. I woke up and it was already done. D&C. She was gone and they removed her parts I guess. Whatever else. I try not to think about it. I was in some form of shock and they don’t know why. They don’t know why I passed out. My blood pressure was through the roof. But still it was all a guess. All I knew, was I woke up and Logan was there and he had to tell me she was gone. (They did generic test her. Gotta love doctors. Trying to find an answer for everything. Guess they thought it would be easier on me, if something had been wrong with her. Sadly, there was no answer. Just that I was right. She’d been a girl.) I knew it though, that she was gone. I felt so empty. When I looked at him, I knew it. I know he told me then, but I don’t think I heard anything. She’s gone, I said. Yes, he answered. That was it. That’s all I remember. I couldn’t even tell you how much longer I was there.

Went home with a prescription for pain killers, a shattered heart and no hope in the world.

I couldn’t understand. I don’t know that I do now. No one I knew at the time had ever had a miscarriage…or that was what I thought then. People tend to come out of the wood works later with their own stories.

I couldn’t understand how the world could keep moving. I could barely breath, yet the world kept moving. Logan asked me on the way home if I wanted to stop and get dinner for the girls. I couldn’t even answer him. The world moved on. People kept breathing. My cell phone rang. My children had to eat. The dog wanted to go for a walk. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered.  Nothing ever would again. She was gone. I was dead inside. That was all I knew.

One of my first regrets…I destroyed the ultrasound photos. I walked in the door and went to the fridge to get water to take more pills. I hurt. Physically I hurt. It’s painful, a D&C. Not as painful as having a miscarriage and having pieces pass, but still it hurts. Anyway, I went to the fridge and saw her photo and I remember screaming. I put it in the drain and hit the button on the disposal. I went to bed after that. I didn’t even say a word to the girls. I just walked away and went to bed.

I stayed in bed for three months. I tried to will myself to die. To stop breathing. To just die. I didn’t want anything except her. The first month my mom came to stay, she took care of me. She took care of the girls and Logan. She tried. Oh man did she try. At first she  made the girls come in and try talking to me. After about a week she stopped, because I couldn’t handle it. Because they couldn’t handle it. I ignored my own daughters. All i did was cry. I cried for three weeks straight. Then I just stopped. The girls would come and go. If they got in bed with me, I’d cuddle with them. Couldn’t make myself talk though. Logan would come and go. I barely ate. I only showered maybe once a week and only then because my mom threatened me.

I shut down. I completely shut down. I basically stopped living. Ii was there but I wasn’t there.

At some point, my husband and mother made me see a doctor. I thought it was after two months, my mom says it was only about three weeks. The meds didn’t help. Not at first.

After a month, my MIL came to switch places with my mom. She babied me a bit more. Made me every sweet she could think of. Force fed me cake. I started eating again.

The third month my mom came back. At that point, she made me get on new meds. She told me if I didn’t, she’d have me committed. That she had the power to put me on a psych hold and don’t think she wouldn’t do it.  tTruth is, a lot of it I don’t remember. I shut down. I folded into myself.

So I took the new meds. Not because I wanted too, or cared really, but because they forced me too. She made me get up. Made me at least do some of the day to day stuff with the kids. After a while I got used to it. A while after that, I started enjoy my girls again. I remember the day I found myself laughing again. I laughed until I cried. A bit more time passed and my mom went home.

I regret a lot of things about that time. So much so. It pains me to write this out. It physically exhausts me. I feel so broken. So damaged.

The things I thought are bad. I will be completely honest with you guys, I wanted to die. They suspected it. I wasn’t left alone for months. Logan took my meds with him to work every day. For months and months. Heck, there probably wasn’t anything stronger than baby Advil in my home for months.

Would I have done something. Nah. I don’t think so. I was too something for that. Numb maybe.  I just didn’t think I could ever be happy again. I didn’t think I could ever breath again.  I didn’t know that I wanted too.

I know how this sounds. Trust me I do. Is why I haven’t talked about it. I think it’s time though. Time to say it. Time to deal with it.

I abandoned my kids for nearly three months. Someone else made their meals, changed their clothes, bathed them, sang them to sleep. Someone else read to them, kissed their boo boos, bought them school clothes, took them to school, took them to the doctor for three months. I was there. But I wasn’t there.

This? Is my reality of PPD. This is what it did to me. To my family. To my babies.

When I am sad and Bailey makes jokes I know this is why. She remembers that only she could make me laugh for months. When I’m stressed and Morgan steps in and takes over small things with the little kids. I know this is why. I forced her to grow up too much without even wanting too. I can’t undo these things. I would if I could. They worry if I stay in bed or don’t shower. So unless I am sick I always shower. I always get out of bed. For them. But I hate that they remember it.

Truth? Harrison was not planned. It was too soon. I’d only lost Piper six months earlier, when I got pregnant.

I didn’t believe he’d make it. That I was being punished. That I’d loose him. Until I was seven months pregnant I tried to ignore the fact that I was pregnant. I talked to him. I took care of him. I even talked normally about him to everyone else. But I felt like I was carrying an alien. I felt none of the joy that I had with the girls. I wanted him more than anything but I didn’t believe in him. I’m sure that it did him harm. To not feel wanted in utero. I love him more than life itself but I can’t undo any damage I caused him.

I blamed me for the loss of Piper. If I just not done this, if I’d done this, if I’d been better, been more something. I blamed Logan. For moving us across the country. For telling me it would be okay. For stressing me out so much that I lost her. Do I know neither of us are to blame? Yes. Now.  But I hated him. I hated him and he stopped loving me. I am to blame for that. I am the reason my marriage failed. That whole time I pushed Logan away. I didn’t let him near me. I didn’t let him sleep in our bed. I wouldn’t talk to him. I wouldn’t look at him. Afterwords when I got better a bit, I knew he didn’t trust me fully. He didn’t. Not for months. Maybe never. I don’t blame him for that. I can’t blame him for that. That is on me. That is on my disease. Not him.

I lost my friends. For awhile I lost my sanity. I lost my husband. I lost a piece of myself. My innocence. My heart maybe.

Some called it a nervous breakdown due to PPD. Due to stress. Due to PTSD of loosing the baby. Some say, I’m just crazy. There has been a lot of talk this week, that PPD isn’t really a chemical thing. That it’s not real. That it’s just new mom’s not liking their new role in life. That the act of creating a child, is just plain too much for some women. Mine came from losing a child. That doesn’t make it any less real. Postpartum Depression is real. I had it while pregnant with Harrison as well, and after. However I was under constant watch and on continuous meds. The words being tossed around this week, feel judgmental. But reality is no one can judge me as much as I judge myself.

Postpartum Depression wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I’d never had any depression issues prior to it. I’d already had two children. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I also, had no control over it. It was real. My PPD was real.

***This post was written, because of an article on AOL. If you want more specifics on that, Her Bad Mother wrote a great post on PPD as well.

I woke up this morning in a fog. Part of it is that I’ve not been sleeping. Last night I actually slept all night. For possibly the first time in weeks. I’m not sure why it means I woke up more tired, but I did. I’ve had coffee and it’s 10:30am and I still could just sleep. For a week. Please and thank you.

Part of it is me. My head. I’m just in a funk today. I haven’t managed to shake it yet. I’m not depressed. Not really. Maybe not yet. But it’s there. I feel it. Hanging out. Trying to get cozy and comfy. I’m trying to shake it off, but so far no go. I feel uber-sensitive. I feel like I shouldn’t even talk to my best friends, because I’m likely to say something stupid. Likely to be too needy and god knows none of them need that right now. That nothing I say is going to be worthwhile. See: questioning everything.

It’s been a few decent weeks. A few weeks of sun. Of weekend trips out of town. Of mini-golf with Morgan, kite flying with Bailey and finding polly-pollys with Harrison. Weeks of watermelon and ice cream. Weeks of my head being less crazy.

The depression though? Sucks. I wish I could turn it off. I wish it wasn’t here, as a constant reminder that I’m not strong enough. Sometimes I think it’s just me. That I’m too much of a drama queen. That I’m getting caught up in the crazy in my own head. But hey, that’s part of it too.

I get up every single day and do everything I need to do. Without fail. I work. I take care of my kids. I play Frisbee with my dog. My house is mostly clean. My bills get paid on time. Laundry gets done. Maybe not put away, but whatever. It’s there and clean and folded.

It never goes away though. Never fully. I have great days, great hours, great moments. Then it’s back. Making me sad and lonely and wanting to curl up in a ball and sleep. Of course, when I’m like this, I stop being able to sleep, which makes it worse.

When I feel like this, I question everything I say. Or do. For fear of seeming crazy. Or unstable. Which you all may think, I have no idea. I’m not, I promise. I’m just a person whose life has changed drastically. I’m still flailing around in the water, so to speak. I haven’t learned to swim yet. Maybe I need floaties?

I start apologizing for everything. I said in someones comments this morning, that I apologize for apologizing for something that I only thought. My friend Liz is constantly telling me that I don’t need to say I’m sorry for things I NEVER EVEN SAID. That no one can read my thoughts.

I’m a really awesome friend, I assure you.

My best friends. Man they are amazing. They won’t let me go. They hold me up, let me cry, hold my hand and let me say everything that is in my head no matter how crazy it is.  They make jokes, help me remember to breath and distract me. Then one of them carefully re-applies the duct tape that had slipped off.

I try. I try so dam hard. But it comes back. No matter what I do, it always comes back. It’s never enough.