Trigger Warning: Suicidal Thoughts
It’s 3 a.m., and despair wraps around me like a thick fog. I find myself imagining the unthinkable—a gun pressed to my mouth, the sound of a trigger clicking, a bullet spiraling through my mind. Or perhaps a gentler exit—stepping into the garage, firing up the leaf blower, inhaling the acrid scent of gasoline until I drift away, slowly, into a forever sleep. The thought of escaping my turmoil is tantalizing.
I picture hanging from a rope attached to the ceiling fan. Would it hold my weight? Would I slip into unconsciousness before crashing down, a heap of humiliation and failure? My gaze drifts to the newborn cradled in my arms, who’s just begun to doze off with a bottle nestled in his mouth. A gentle nudge revives him momentarily, and he resumes sucking.
He isn’t the cause of my anguish. He’s the reason I feel so lost.
It’s not the late-night feedings or the exhaustion. It’s not the trauma that my body endured to bring him into the world. It’s not the overwhelming transition to motherhood. It’s all about me.
I scroll through endless articles on attachment, fretting over whether I’m nurturing him properly or setting him up for emotional disaster. The cries of my baby pierce through my foggy brain as I wake from a brief power nap, and I panic, wondering how long he had been waiting for me. Was I neglecting him?
Am I doing enough to nourish him? Is he spitting up too much? Should I have persevered through breastfeeding? Will he be as healthy or as clever as those babies who are? I feel guilty for being too selfish to try harder, convinced I’ve already failed him at just a few days old.
I obsess over feeding and nap schedules, stressing if I’m being too strict. Am I rushing him to grow up too fast? I cringe as I tally how many times I lost my cool, self-justifying that I’m not as bad as those other mothers I read about. At least I didn’t hurt him. I delve into Google searches about “yelling at baby” and “maternal anger,” scanning the NIH slides on “postpartum rage” and “postpartum depression.”
Is this me? No, I’m attentive. I talk, read, and sing to him. I change him more often than I can count. We do skin-to-skin bonding and tummy time. I’m doing everything right. But still, he cries. I feel helpless and convinced I’m failing as a mother.
I look down at my beautiful, peaceful baby in my arms. Wouldn’t he be better off without me?
Fast forward to now—my lovely bundle of joy is a snaggle-toothed 7-month-old. I still gaze at him fondly before bed, but my thoughts have shifted to the overwhelming love I feel and the sweet baby scent that fills the air. I no longer contemplate self-harm; instead, I reflect on my healing, likening it to a heavy fog gradually lifting.
The turning point came during a post-op appointment with my OB-GYN. As I wiped away tears, I feared being labeled as “crazy.” When the doctor looked into my eyes and said, “I think you have postpartum depression,” I felt seen for the first time. He reassured me that it didn’t mean I was unfit or would need medication forever—just that I needed a little help to get through. I left with a Zoloft prescription I initially hesitated to fill.
That night, I shared my worries with my friend, Sarah. I was convinced I didn’t have postpartum depression. I wasn’t like those mothers who harmed their children. But Sarah challenged me, reminding me that many women experience PPD without it leading to drastic actions.
I started to research postpartum depression, checking off symptoms that resonated with me. “Feeling sad, hopeless, empty”—check. “Crying more often than usual”—check. “Eating too little”—check. A realization hit: I needed to be honest with myself, and after texting Sarah to admit my struggles, I filled the prescription the next day.
As I explored more resources, I found solace in shared experiences through blogs and message boards. It was reassuring to learn that postpartum depression is common, affecting over three million women annually in the U.S. While healing isn’t instantaneous, I began to notice improvements shortly after starting medication. Therapy sessions helped immensely, and the unwavering support from my husband and family provided a safe space to express my feelings.
Over time, my confidence grew as I witnessed signs that my son was happy and healthy. Now, he’s a giggly little joy, showering me with baby kisses and laughter. I know in my heart that I am the best mom for him.
If you or someone you know is grappling with postpartum depression, anxiety, or suicidal thoughts, remember that help is available. You are not alone, and there are many resources out there for support. For more information, check out this helpful resource on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, my journey through postpartum depression was dark, but with support and the right resources, I found my way back to light and love. Healing is possible—even when it feels out of reach.