My fiancé and I were having a discussion yesterday in regards to our foster child wishes. Age, race, sex, etc. of what our child might be. We started talking about babies. Infants to be exact. And he said no.
When asked why. He gently reminded me of my Postpartum Depression (PPD) era. How difficult it was.
And then he told me he didn’t think we were going to make it back then. That we weren’t going to stay together. That I was going to leave him.
But I didn’t. And neither did he.
We didn’t give up. He didnt give up.
I didn’t give up.
My Postpartum Depression era wasn’t fun for anyone. Especially me. Most definitely me. I know it was hard on everyone. I was hard on everyone. But it was my disease. My depression. My deteriorating mind and soul.
Postpartum Depression isn’t a behavior or an attitude. It isn’t an emotion. It is hormonal. It is a disease.
Many woman feel embarrassed to talk about PPD, that they will have a scarlet letter on their chest, and that their friends, family, and community will look down on them. PPD is real. It is a disorder that cannot be controlled on your own. Whether it be with the help of medication, counseling, or both, there comes a time where you have to climb out of the darkness and be whole again.
But most importantly, the thing that gets you through the worst of times is the compassion of others. Support. Love. Understanding. Sympathy. Empathy.
Be there for your friend, your wife, your sister, your daughter. Call her. Visit her. Ask her if you can help. Just help. Just do it. Reach out to her. Be her savior. Be her sounding board.
Just be there.
As hard as it is to witness the wrath of PPD, it is even harder suffering at the hand of it’s wrath.
As for us, an infant isn’t out of the question. Things will be very different this time around both mentally and physically. This time I will not be giving birth to a baby. This time we are helping someone else. Someone else that just cannot handle it. Handle life. Handle parenting. Handle a disease.
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