Hope You Know.

{This post took me five months to write. I've decided to just put it out there. I wasn't sure if I'd ever publish it but I  think I need to. The title of the post is a reference to the conference talk by Quentin L. Cook-"Hope Ya Know, We Had a Hard Time." I couldn't bring myself to make a title containing the word "ya."]

I've been wanting to write this post for a while now, but at the same time, I've definitely been putting it off. I have things I want to say, but I'm not sure how to say them and I'm not sure I have any special insight and I really haven't drawn any conclusions. But hey, writing is therapeutic, and the longer I put off writing, the more I forget that it's a skill I have. I suppose the only reason I am sitting down and writing this is because both of my children are asleep, I'm slightly caffeinated, and I've seen all of the episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras that are On Demand. I'm really an awful person- I only like to watch the episodes where the kids are really cute or the moms are especially crazy. It's awful, but it's the truth and if there is anything that I'm good at, it's telling uncomfortable and unflattering truths about myself on the Internet. On that note, let's begin.

When I had Avery, a social worker came and talked to me in the hospital. "I understand you have a history of Postpartum Depression," she said. I was offended, I really was. The summer after having Adam was the happiest time of my life- I never felt even slightly depressed. I told her that she was mistaken and she awkwardly left some pamphlets "just in case" and left. I shot daggers at her back.

But in reality, I knew pretty soon that something was up with me. I had a period of intense baby blues, which I wrote off as normal (and maybe it was), but in my head I kept thinking, "The emotions that I'm having are so intense, so dark. Maybe I could have Postpart-" I'd cut my thoughts off. I didn't even want to go there. I didn't even want to call it Postpartum Depression- I'd call it "Postpartum Something" in my mind. It was very easy for me to publicly admit that I was at an increased risk for PPD (as are all women with a personal history of anxiety), but to really consider the idea devastated me.

Because I am a big fat hypocrite. I can pontificate for a long time on mental illnesses and how the stigma needs to be removed, but deep down, I thought that having Postpartum Depression meant that I was weak. A bad mother. If I'm being completely honest, I'm not sure that I've completely left that notion behind yet.

It took me about 4 or 5 weeks to be sure. Really, I wasn't entirely sure until I started waking up in the middle of the night (non-Avery related). I'd wake up with a crushing sense of grief- it was there as soon as I opened my eyes. I'd lay in bed and think, "There is absolutely nothing good about my life." I would categorically go through every aspect of my life and I could not think of anything positive. I felt like I brought nothing good to the world. I felt like I was ruining Jeff and the kids' lives. I started to think that dying would be such a relief, would lift such a burden on my family. One night, I found my mind specifically fantasizing about how great things would be if I were dead. (Maybe I've gone too far in admitting that. I wish that I didn't have to write that sentence. I wish you didn't have to read it. But mostly, I wish it wasn't true.)

That night was the turning point for me. I cried a lot. I prayed a lot. I woke up and made the decision to ask to be put on an anti-depressant. That was at 6 weeks Postpartum, I'm now 7 months Postpartum.

I'm not sure what to say. Sometimes life is hard. Really hard.

Today, I called my mom, angry that she hadn't called in a few days (I made her promise to call everyday when I figured out that I was depressed) and I just started sobbing. I hadn't spoken to an adult all day, hadn't left the house (the car was in the shop), the kids were testing my patience and most of all, I just felt this overwhelming sense of loneliness. I just sobbed and sobbed to her and I thought over and over again, "My life is awful."

But as much as I like to lie to myself, my life isn't awful. Sometimes it's wonderful. Today, Avery was so beautiful and loving. She took my breath away. Seriously, she is the most lovely thing I've ever seen. She didn't nap well today, but she got kind of hyper from the sleep deprivation, and I noticed that if would do this corny fake laugh, she would laugh too. She kept swatting at my nose and true story- she tried (and kinda succeeded) to French kiss me. I kept holding her close and just inhaling her sweet smell. Sometimes, I hope that some of her love and innocence will just rub off on me when I do that. Sometimes, I think it does.

Adam fills my world with joy. I love that kid so much. Today, I tried to make him watch Veggie Tales on Netflix and he just randomly hated it. He glared at the TV. We laid in my bed today and kept making triangle shapes in the air and chanting, "triangle, triangle."  He got in a large box with packing peanuts and lounged like he was taking a bubble bath. I climbed in his crib and laid down with him at bedtime and we talked about getting him glow-in-the-dark stars for his room and maybe a car bed, and when I had to go, he asked me to stay with him and I thought, "My heart might burst."

Life isn't easy. Life is frequently punctuated by periods where you look back and think, "That was awful." I know I will look back at this time and think that. But here is where life pulls a trick on you- I already have looked back on parts of the last 7 months and thought, "That was one of the best moments of my life." How does life do that??? How does it have the ability to be so many things at one time? But you know what?

We all have that ability.

I am a wife. A mother. A member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I am depressed. I am happy. I am whatever I want to be.

I am not my depression.

I don't want to be that. I am Sarah, who happens to have Postpartum Depression.

And you know what?

I like that chick.