Beating It.

Today, I had postpartum depression.

Yesterday, I felt fine. I took Adam to the park while Avery was at preschool and played games with Avery while Adam was at kindergarten and snuggled Ben and made a vegetarian lentil dish from scratch and thought "Hey, I got this."

Today, postpartum depression sat on my chest. The kids fought and I wondered if they might be the worst kids in the world because I had ruined them. Jeff and I had a misunderstanding and I wondered if my marriage was over because I had ruined it. I looked at the baby in love and fear because surely, I would manage to stamp out the purity in his eyes. Friends? None. House? Dirty as a van down by the river. Life? Ruined, because of my influence, of course. Syrian refugee crisis? I probably had something to do with that too.

I left the hospital after having Ben with a prescription for Zoloft. I know that talking about anti-depressants makes people feel uncomfortable, but, yes, I left the hospital with a prescription for Zoloft. I didn't want to relive the summer after Avery's birth, where I briefly was suicidal. I lined up some additional help at home. I visited family and friends. I got dressed everyday and did my make up. We went on family hikes. I documented the shining moments. I went through all of the articles on how to beat postpartum depression because I was determined to do it right this time. I checked off their lists. Exercise? Faith? Sunshine? Check.

I wanted to be able to tell people that I hadn't really had postpartum depression with Ben. I wanted to beat it. I wanted the pause when I answer "Fine" after people ask me how I'm doing to be because having three kids 5 and under is like I'm the conductor of a symphony of tears and bodily fluids, not because I'm depressed. But I am depressed. Today, at least.

I never have a point when I talk about having postpartum depression, I just want to talk about it. I want to talk about it with acquaintances in the same tone of voice that I talk about the time that I got a staph infection after falling off a bike that my best friend's dad stuck a motor on. I recently sat around a table and we all talked about how we all had had abdominal surgery. I really want to find a table somewhere and talk about how we cried on the bathroom floor and how we fought, so hard, against this inexplicable darkness and how every day brings a new battle. I want that to be OK to talk about.

You see, I know I am beating it when I talk about it. I don't know how I know that, but I know it deep in my bones- I am beating it. Postpartum depression takes so much from me, it really does. I feel so upset when I think about how it sneaks away the gold from this time in our lives. I want to spin around in circles with my kids and feel their joy and wonder. I want to eat pizza because the day was busy and because I want to, not because I feel like I failed to make a better dinner. I want my body to be more exhausted than my soul is at the end of every day. I know I'll get there. Yesterday I was closer. Today, I am farther. But I know that I'm crawling in the right direction because under the smog of my mood, I can feel the echo of a thought from yesterday, "Hey, I got this." The thought is quiet, but I feel it beating inside.

I got this.