I am laying at the bottom of the stairs. My body is motionless. My neck is slightly bent, indicating just how I died. Unfolded clothes and shrieking children surround me, an empty laundry basket askew on the stairs. I can see it in my head. It flashes in my mind, a cloud of darkness to follow.
I have been putting off writing this post. Those who follow my blog have probably noticed the long absence. I just couldn't bring myself to think about it. But it was laid on my heart to share, and I am far enough on the other side of it that I can. Now.
Back in December, I gave birth to a beautiful & healthy baby boy. He has been a glorious reminder of God's love for me and quite a blessing. I would not trade him for the world. But, I came home with more than a little bundle of joy. The dark cloud of PPD (postpartum depression) accompanied us from the hospital. I have had five live births and the fifth is the first time that I have had more than the baby blues. I knew what to expect with the baby blues and was well versed in the hormonal changes a woman endures during the postpartum period. The changes in mood that follow and the uncontrollable emotions that could swallow a mom alive if left unchecked usually occur within those first few weeks home with a newborn. I had prepared myself for that and knew it was only a matter of time before I could be myself again. I could get past it because it was just a purging, a flush of the extra hormones that were no longer needed.
I had not prepared myself for the dark, gripping cloud that snatched me up about two weeks into my baby's life. It was a feeling that seemed to steal the very breath from me and my turned thoughts into negativity and anger. Rage built beneath the surface and oozed out onto those around me until they steered clear. My children knew something was wrong with mom. I would scream at them one minute over something spilled then cry because I felt ashamed at lashing out. I would burst into tears at any moment. Crying over nothing. Really. Nothing. They would try to console me with a hug or a kiss, but I just laughed through the tears. I could not convince them that everything was okay. I am not a person who cries very often so it was extremely frustrating to suddenly become a watering can! The cross examinations on safety measures made my kids wary. "Do you know what to do if something happened to me?" I would ask them fiercely. "What do you dial in an emergency?" "What is our address?" "What is our phone number?" "Do you know how to get in contact with your dad?" They could tell by the urgency in my voice and the randomness of my asking that something was up with mom. Isaac would laugh and say, "Mom, you will be fine. Nothing is going to happen."
But he was not seeing the things I was seeing.
Slice. Slice. Slice. I chopped the carrot, cutting though the hardness. Chop. Chop. Chop. The butcher knife was large and sharp. My hand shook unsteadily as I wielded it to mince the bits. It slid suddenly, puncturing my flesh, sending an arcing spray of crimson across the kitchen counter. The bleeding was wild and uncontrollable. I grabbed my wrist but the blood ran through the seams of my fingers. I could not stop it. A rusty smell invaded my nose and a metallic taste smothered my tongue. I was drowning in blood. I can see it in my head. It flashes in my mind, a cloud of darkness to follow.
The logical part of me told myself that this would pass. Things would get better. It would be okay and I would live to see another day. And if things didn't improve, then I could go to my doctor and have a prescription written up for some meds. It was considered quite normal nowadays and people didn't immediately assume you were Susan Smith. I didn't want to go on medication though. That would probably make matters worse. Antidepressants and Tiffany do not mix! I had been there before. In my senior year of high school I overdosed on Prozac and Tylenol, taking so much that I spent a week in the ICU and several more in the psych ward (but that, my friends, is another long, crazy story.) I am usually an even keeled person (minus that stint the fall of my senior year.) I am the stable one. The normal one. The person people look at and say, "That gal has got it together!" And that is what I tried to tell myself. Over and over again. But, that logical gal got smothered with a pillow about three weeks postpartum. The darkness descended.
The water was warm, close to hot, and soaked into my skin, soothing the aches of the day. The piano solo was playing on the radio and calming the anxiety that had built up from a list of endless tasks. Relaxation set in, causing my eyelids to droop. The bathtub sloped in a restful angle, allowing my back to fall naturally and encouraging a sleepy state. I fell into the depths of slumber, my body slowly sinking in the water. The bubbles filled my nose as I breathed in the warm liquid, a nightcap to end the day. I could not breathe. My lungs were filling up quickly. I could see the water rising, as though my lungs were a measuring cup. I can see it in my head. It flashes in my mind, a cloud of darkness to follow.
Though it may be disputed by those who know me, I am not crazy. I knew I needed help. I was suffering from PPD. Depression is a sinking ship but there is a life raft. It was not thrown to me though. It had been there all the time, wrapped around my waist, holding me up above the surface even when I stopped treading water. God. My glorious, wonderful God. He had not abandoned me! He was holding me in His magnificent hands, saving me from the murky depths of darkness. He heard my prayers, murmured softly at first then becoming a raging plea for shelter from the black abyss. And He calmed me. The light was there, giving me an immediate steadiness. I knew I could conquer this. It would not consume me. I promised myself that I would not need medication. I could fight this with Christ. Christ is my healer. He would shepherd me through the despair and rage I felt. When angst surfaced, I prayed. When a hint of darkness emerged, I sang worship songs. Praise God! When a negative thought tried to explode into my life, I read Scripture. Daily devotions, sermon podcasts, and biblical commentaries followed. God is sovereign! God is victorious! I enlisted the prayers of others and soon had an army of prayer warriors. Romans 8 was a balm for my soul, the word of God spoken directly to my heart: 26 Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. Almighty God knew of my need before I could stutter out a single syllable. My Lord was at work when I had not known there was even work to be done: 28 And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose. The struggles I had been going through may have been difficult for me to handle. But they were not for God. And God has my back: 38 For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, 39 nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. WOO HOO! Amazing! Hallelujah! AWESOME!
THE END.
At least that is the way I should end it. Because it was the end. The end of the hurt, the darkness, the anger, the rage, and the end of the DEATH THREATS. It took much courage for me to write this. I am an introvert. I like to keep my private life private. But I am also called by Christ to share my testimony. I haven't always done so. Lately, God has called for me to do so more than ever. I pray that this post helps someone who is going through any type of depression. Or any struggle. The life raft --the Giver of Life--is there.
The End.
(for real this time!) ;-D
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