I Almost Killed Myself.


The above picture was taken moments after arriving safely at work, the woman in that picture appears content but there is a hint of weariness in her forced smile. Unbeknownst to her coworkers, children who double as students, and boss who is also her husband; She had just barely slipped through the clutches of a violent, self-inflicted death and narrowly missed the mark of becoming another suicide statistic caused by postpartum depression.

The following article is not for the faint of heart, but I feel that awareness is key to defeating this monster and with so many friends and family expecting their own sweet, new squishies the eagerness to warn them of a possible encounter with postpartum depression is a burden on my heart.

Postpartum depression varies differently for each individual, some mommas that I spoke  with openly about it stated that for them PPD had made their lives mundane; going about everyday tasks with no emotions, just going through the motions feeling nothing at all.{{With each of these women it was family who recognized that something was off and encouraged these mommas to seek treatment.}} For others, constant dread, a fear crippling them to accomplish even the most minuscule tasks.{{These women recognized something was abnormal and received treatment on their own.}}

However in my case I suspect it started with a bit of Antepartum Anxiety, {{though I was not clinically diagnosed, after further research after being diagnosed with PPD I related to many symptoms of AA resulting in my suspicions.}} which naturally was worsened after giving birth due to hormones really going haywire. My bout with PPD was not a constant state of dread, but rather resembled one on an early morning drive, driving through a wooded forest with an unknown river tucked silently away in its lush green foliage; every once in a while there would be a break in the treeline resulting in sunshine warming the skin causing an immense, serene happiness and in the very next instance a dense fog, caused by the unknown river and so dense that one doubted if light could ever penetrate the heavy blanket that suffocated them, triggering feelings of angst and despair, and searing the desire to live, to fight, to love. I’m normally a social person, I take enjoyment in making others laugh and brightening their day by complimenting and encouraging them. I found that desire shrinking and shriveling up like a rotting fruit, I wanted no part of others lives, not even my family’s.

I could not place a finger on what was wrong with me. People would ask after seeing me, “How are you?” and it was a sincere question desiring a sincere response, not the flippant one we throw in the direction of others as we pass them in the grocery store. My reply, “Oh, I’m just tired.” It wasn’t a lie, I was tired but it wasn’t the whole truth either but I didn’t know it at the time. The term PPD had crossed my mind since having Margo in November but when one has PPD rational thinking is irrelevant and a distant figure. Followed by the engine of PPD were the train cars of “it only happens to first time moms, you’ve already done this 3 times before.”, “Christians don’t get depression, they have continuous Joy”, and “you won’t be able to nurse the baby if you have to get on meds.”


PPD doesn’t care how many babies you’ve had, it can affect any woman who has just given birth.

No woman is immune, not even a Christian, though Christians do have unmeasurable Joy in Jesus Christ, we are still human and have the diseases of the flesh.

One can absolutely still nurse their sweet squshies while on meds to help even out hormones with no ill effect on baby.

It wasn’t until a February morning when this picture was taken did I decide to reach out, to scream it at the top of my lungs, as if I were a dragon and this fire inside of me being fueled by the suicidal thoughts and negativity could no longer be contained and would either cause self-implosion or make an escape through my mouth.

On this morning, moments before this picture the only thing that stopped me from turning the wheel to hit an oncoming F-150 and possibly ending the internal warfare and the driver of that pickup were the three precious, innocent littles bundled up in overstuffed puffer jackets and a two month old tightly swaddled in a soft light pink and white polka-dotted blanket that were oblivious to what demon their Momma was battling.

Mommas be kind to yourself. Take the help that’s extended from family and friends, who cares if they see your vulnerability, your mental and emotional health are much more important to them than any fault they may find in you or your house. Pride cometh before the fall.

Family and friends, ask the hard questions, push for answers, and have that possibly uncomfortable awkwardness with a new momma {{and I don’t mean first time momma either, any woman who just gave birth.}} it may just save her life.

I also want to personally reach out to any mommas and offer a safe, nonjudgemental place to talk, whether it be through the internet, my cell phone, or even my house with a hot cup of coffee and delicious treats.