The shit-eth hath hit-eth the fan-eth.

In 2013, I had a baby. He was beautiful and perfect. My Mom, the nurses and the doctors commented on our “bond” and since dealing with pregnancy loss, he was everything I had wished for the last three years and more. Until he wasn’t. 
For 3, very long, very hard years I suffered from post partum depression. Which I now know, mixed with my BPD, was quickly pushing me over the edge. My reality was skewed, I was volitile and I was insanely over protective. But, some days I was super disconnected from my child, wishing he didn’t exist and feeling like I was trapped into a life I just plain didn’t want anymore. Somehow I thought it was all normal.
Sitting in a doctors office 3 years later and the words “you’ve got post partum depression” are rattling around my insides. Okay, I say, I suppose that makes sense. 

In 2015, my family was destroyed by my father having an affair and leaving my Mom. My anger quickly turned into rage and it wasn’t very long before I was destroying his entire existence. Granted, this ended up saving their marriage, but I didn’t care at the time. I wanted to watch his world burn. I wanted that women to feel what we felt, she was somehow maintaining her own marriage and keeping it from her kids. Why did I have to suffer and they didn’t? Why did my mother have to sit and comfort her children but she didn’t? A few months later my parents were back together and all was well.
Except that it wasn’t. Cue major mental breakdown. “You’ve got severe anxiety.” Bring in the big guns, spend the next 7 weeks in a group therapy setting, trying to understand why your anxiety is different from all the other patients. There is something wrong with me. Someone please help. 
It’s 2016 and life is fine. Except that it’s not. But I had been coping, or at least I thought I was coping. I’m not even entirely sure what I was coping with, but I was doing it. “I think this goes deeper than post partum, how was your childhood, what we’re you like 5 years ago?

I’ve lost 40 pounds, I’m exercising more, why don’t I feel better? Isn’t that the key to depression, diet and exercise? “I really think it’s time for medication”. I sit on that one a while, ultimately calling my doctor and making an appointment to discuss my options. 

Maybe I’m bipolar like my Mom. Maybe I’m like my sister. I’m still not on meds, and the therapist tosses Borderline Personality Disorder into the fire. It swirls around with my other diagnosis’. I knew there was something wrong. My brain is wrong, I’m wrong. The heaviness of that diagnosis sways my reality, I feel comforted by my anger. Hello rage, hello grief. My consciousness is aware that I’m peaking, but I let it happen. I let the gorgeous black pull over me like a child’s favourite blanket. I just want to sleep, indefinitelty. Darkness take hold and pull me under, sweep me into your undertow. Carry me far, far away from this madness. 

I’m still coping. I’m still smiling, I snuggle up to my son every morning, thanking someone’s deity I didn’t succumb to the hands clawing at my sheets. I’m okay. I’m doing fine.  


2 thoughts on “The shit-eth hath hit-eth the fan-eth.”

  1. I’m sorry you have had to deal with so much but I love your brutal honesty about everything. I wish more people could open up in such a way!

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