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Postpartum Depression: Waiting to Breathe Again
As I step into my OB-GYN’s office, I fight to hold back tears and stifling thoughts that race through my mind. Why did I wait this long? Why did it take me reaching the brink of despair to seek help from the doctor who knew my history with depression? The one who had discussed postpartum depression during my third trimester and handed me a pamphlet with a list of support groups before my daughter arrived.
I’m not sure why; honestly, I feel lost. The only thing I know, as I sit in the waiting room with a chill creeping down my spine, is that wearing flip-flops was a terrible decision. It’s cold, and my feet are in dire need of a pedicure. The remnants of a seafoam green polish cling to my nails — a chip on my big toe and a couple of flakes on the middle one. I can’t help but question my footwear choice and why I haven’t taken two minutes to remove that pregnancy pedicure, the one I got just days before my little one made her grand entrance. But honestly, I realize I don’t care about my feet, my nails, or even myself because I feel utterly detached from life.
Time feels distorted since my daughter was born. Sleep deprivation and the whirlwind of motherhood have made some days stretch endlessly while others blur together. I move, I eat, I breathe, I talk, yet I feel like I’m drifting from one moment to the next without purpose.
“Are you sure?” The soothing voice of Dr. Harris pulls me back to reality. I remember arriving at his office, smiling at the nurse who cooed at my sleeping baby in her car seat, and exchanging looks with other women (and their baby bumps) in the waiting area. But the details of the visit are a blur, a habitual ritual that feels instinctual but lacks clarity.
“Are you absolutely certain you’re okay?” he asks again.
I hesitate. Deep down, I know I’m not okay, but somewhere between arriving and now, my courage has evaporated. I fear that admitting to suicidal thoughts — sharing that I’ve made concrete plans — might lead to losing my daughter. I’m scared of seeming vulnerable, of showing fear.
So instead of being honest, I nod and lie through clenched teeth, forcing a smile, “No, I’m fine. Really.”
Dr. Harris gives a slight nod, placing his hand on my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room. Once he’s gone, I exhale a long, shaky breath. Exhaling is easy; inhaling feels like a monumental task.
I sit for what feels like an eternity and a mere second all at once, forcing myself to remain there. My gaze shifts from my ill-fitting pants to the red sharps container on the wall beside me. I sit in silence, my greatest adversary, and just breathe. I promise myself that when I get to his office, I’ll finally admit I’m not okay; I’ll reveal the truth.
But when I sink into an oversized leather chair across from him, the reality of my situation feels overwhelming. He asks again if I’m okay, if I have thoughts of harming myself.
Is it that obvious? I must keep it together. He’ll only know what I tell him. So I deny everything — the dark thoughts, my need for help — reassuring him and myself of my sanity.
He offers support, scribbles down a referral, and prescribes Wellbutrin to help me through the rough patch. He reminds me to call if things worsen or if I need to talk.
I didn’t.
Sure, I spiraled even deeper, but the seasons changed, and I didn’t reach out. I traded my flip-flops for fuzzy socks as winter arrived, and I found myself becoming more isolated, like the barren trees outside. I cried more, moved less, and began plotting ways to escape my own existence.