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 told myself three years is too long to still remember. I told myself I wouldn’t say anything this year. I’d just ignore it. I’d stop thinking about it. I’ve put out too many depressing posts this year. There doesn’t need to be any more. For that, I apologize. I can’t seem to stop myself today.

Last year I tried to ignore it. I fretted before hand that I’d fall apart, like the years prior. I didn’t though. I didn’t fall apart. I also didn’t not remember. A lot of you saw me on this day last year. Twenty or so of us even had dinner on this date last year. See, last year I was at BlogHer, so it was easy to shove it to the back of my head. I cried a bit in a bathroom, but I didn’t say anything. Save for the four amazing people at my table that night who let me cry in public for a minute, and the one person who already knew, who squeezed my hand each time she saw me, I kept it quiet.

It made it easy to not think about the What-If’s all day.

It feels wrong though to not say something. To not remember. She was my baby after all. For 14 weeks, three years ago she was my baby. Until she wasn’t.

I have spent all day wondering. Wondering what she’d look like. What she’d be like. If she’d be girly, or more tom boy-ish. If she’d be a mama’s girl, or a daddy’s girl. Wondering if we still would have had Harrison. Wondering if we’d still be together if I hadn’t lost my shit. None of that is her fault, it just is.

They don’t prepare you for that, you know? Loss. Heartache. There is no rule book. No, how to, for dummies.

I have to remember. Till the day I die, I will always remember her, even when I one day, learn to stop mentioning it out loud. Because even though, she was never more than a few little plastic sticks with two lines and one ultrasound picture, she was still my daughter. My Piper.

There are days when I think I won’t make it through the pain. That its just too much for me. That I’m not strong enough for it. I wish I could turn back time. I wish I could turn back time to the day I let my secrets show and take it all back. I wonder if I’d of been happier just keeping it quiet forever.

Each day, something comes to mind, that makes me think, I was better not thinking about it. It doesn’t help me to realize the small things in my life that could have been different, if it weren’t for what all happened to me as a kid.

It’s been a long, really hard, very dark grey winter. I need spring. I need summer. I need sunshine. I don’t need more weeks of cold and rain and snow in fucking May. I can’t handle more grey. My head is so grey some days, I could really use the outside world to be bright.

I got a phone call from my brother. Just to talk about the trip I’m taking to his house next month. I said, hey, you know what, keep this between us okay? I don’t really want dad knowing I’m coming. Oh shit sis, he said. You are about two days two late.

I am spazzing out tonight. I unfortunately am gifted at this part. I can’t let it go. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop wishing that I could be happy to go see my dad.

It only matters that my dad knows, if he tells his wife, who may then tell her children. Shouldn’t matter, but it does. It does matter. I don’t have to see them. Honestly I won’t have time. If I did, I’d make sure I didn’t. But I don’t. That doesn’t make me feel any better though.

All I want to do is cry. I want to curl up in a ball and disappear. I want to run away to that island my friends and I talk about on shitty days. We talk about it, like it’s the island Kenny Chesney does his music videos on. Right now? I’d take the island that Tom Hanks talked to a volleyball on for years.

I am 30 years old and I’m scared of a phone call. From someone who can’t hurt me anymore. From someone who wouldn’t bother to show up where I was even if he knew where I was, because he could care less. That knowledge, doesn’t make me any less terrified.

He called me on my birthday. Because the next day was his birthday, we were born in the same year, he unfortunately is smart enough to remember this. Can’t keep a job or an apartment, can’t act like a human being, but oh he can remember my fucking birthday. Every few years he re-finds my number and calls me. I used to brush it off. I couldn’t this year. Even now? Three weeks later? I’m still having nightmares.

I am not brave enough for this. I am not strong enough for this. I want to shut this back away. This fear. This reality. I don’t want to remember. I want to forget.

I know I can’t and it sucks. I know I have to deal with it alone for awhile and it sucks. The fact that I can’t afford to send my child and I both to therapy, sucks. She comes first. Always. She is in need, she is hurting, this all I know. There is no question. I do wonder how long I can go without talking. Because talking does help.

There are people with way more problems than me. I know this. I see it every single day. I wish I had a magic wand to help, but I don’t.

I can’t even seem to help myself. I can’t stop being afraid of nothing. Logically I know that because my brother said my mom will be showing up at his house too, my dad will never tell his wife. Who won’t mention it to her children. Because really? She hates me and wouldn’t want to see me and never brings me up in conversation on purpose. Logic and fear though, don’t mix so well.

I’m afraid tonight. The fear is winning. I’m sad tonight. I’m depressed. And I can’t do a dam thing to stop it.

Maybe if you weren’t so depressed and negative all the time you’d have “real life” friends. She didn’t need to add the quotes in there for me to get that, I know she meant it by the way she said it. Real life, not Internet people. Words full of anger. Words full of hurt. More meaning behind them, then anything she has said to me in a year. This friend of mine. Supposed friend, I should say. This person who is supposed to know me. Supposed to be my friend for life. This woman who I’ve known since pre-school, isn’t really my friend anymore.

I am too negative for her. I am too depressed for her. She, like my soon to be ex-husband, wishes I could be that woman who I was before. Before miscarriages. Before depression. Before separation. Before.

The people who were supposed to be there for me forever, just want me to be someone I’m not. They want me to fake it. To pretend I am okay.

I can’t. It hurts to think that I am not enough for anyone. That I am too much to deal with. That I’m very much alone. That the people, the friends I’ve known forever, the ones I considered family, don’t really want to know me anymore. If I think about it too long, it hurts to breath. It’s more than I can comprehend.

I’m not that girl anymore, the girl she wants me to be. She no longer exists. That girl I once was is gone. In her place is a woman who is stronger than she believes she is. (Or so my best friends keep telling me. ahem.) A woman who does everything for anyone. A woman who continues to get out of bed, no matter how much she doesn’t want too. That woman is me. That girl? Isn’t.

The truth is, it’s not just her. I’ve lost most of my supposed friends in the past year. I feel like I’ve lost some readers/some friends because of what I post. I get it, I’m depressing. I’m no fun to read. It’s okay. I’ve pushed some people away I think, because I don’t have enough in me to give most day. I’m doing the best I can. My best just may not be good enough.

Real life friends. Shit. My real life friends don’t actually want to know me. Real life. Like the friends I’ve made online aren’t real. Whatever.

I don’t have to see people every day, for them to be true friends. If I’ve learned anything in the past year, it would be that. True friends don’t fit in some tiny little box. At least not in my world.

In her world? I guess they do. I guess I’ve fallen out of that box. It’s killing me. But I can’t change it. I don’t even want to change it. However, it does make me unbelievably sad.

Want to know the truth? Without the friends I’ve made online, I’d have no friends. None. In some ways, that terrifies me. In other ways, I’m comforted by the fact that I do have the greatest friends known to man. The greatest, most caring, most amazing friends I could ever hope for. Some of them…some of you are better friends than I’ve ever had. Truly.

Is it different? Yes. Is different always bad? No.

I have friends who I can text/email/IM/call any time of day. I have friends who check in on me if they haven’t seen me around. I have two of the best friends in the world.Friends who have held me together the past few months. I don’t know that I could ever repay them for it.

What I know is this: tomorrow morning I’m flying to visit friends. Amazing friends. Friends that I met online. Friends who are okay with me, as I am. Friends who love me and support me and hold my hand whenever I need it.

This is what true friendship is.

i hate having x-rays. not because it hurts in the way they want me to move, although it does. no, mostly because i’m afraid of what they might find. what other, old, not healed right things will they find.

first time it happened i was 19. i was playing street hockey on roller blades and fell. i put my arms out to save my face. logan was working, so my mom took me to the er.

broken wrist. wouldn’t have been a big deal…except for the pain, save for his next words. when did you do this before he asked? my mom said, oh she hasn’t. no, he said this is a big break right here. one that didn’t heal right. see, he said as he showed us on the x-ray.

i knew when it was from. i played it down that day. oh it wasn’t that bad. it was the summer when i was 12. the summer you took that six week seminar in seattle. the one where you left us with dad.

truth? i didn’t sleep for a month because of the pain. i tripped and fell on a vacation. my step-mom deemed me a whiner. said it wasn’t that bad…its barely bruised or swollen, she claimed. ignored me as i cried and protected it against my chest for a month.

second time was after my car accident. x-ray of my right ankle showed old injuries. two this time. mom was there then too. oh when i was nine i remember using crutches for a few weeks. you were on your honeymoon. remember that summer? we were with dad that time too.

i didn’t say that it was painful and i’d been injured by the evil step-brother. that his wrist was in a cast, because of a hockey injury or something else. that she had pain pills for her precious son, but was mean when i asked for advil. i didn’t say that they bitched about the cost of getting me crutches at the drug store. made me feel like i injured myself on purpose. like my injury was taking away or competing with her son’s injury and pain.

i remember a broken toe that she duct taped, when i kicked a wooden chair. i was 10 that time. i had to write 500 sentences about not running in the house.

i remember being told that if id lose weight i wouldn’t have broken my fat ass. that time i’d injured my tailbone, falling on the beach, trying to hit a stupid volleyball. we won’t even go into the next 4 weeks of jokes made at my expense after that. i believe i was 17 that year.

what i know is that i don’t like x-rays anymore. they make me panic. i waited four days longer than i should have to get one this time. i sat in pain for four days longer than i should, bcause i fear the x-rays.

because if i remember all of that, what have i forgotten?