where I was one year ago

Almost thirteen months ago, I gave birth to Aidan. About three to four days after that, I descended into hell. I didn't just visit, either. I staked a plot of land and made camp there for several months.

I don't think that I was ever fully prepared to handle post-partum depression the way it came to me. Before it happened, PPD was the three-minute clip of Kirstie Alley being rather comical in her tears while holding a crying baby and watching an overly sentimental FTD commercial. PPD was the rough couple of weeks everyone - and I mean EVERYONE - told me to expect after giving birth. PPD was like extended PMS, or so I thought. I was prepared to buy a bunch of Haagen-Daaz and Kleenex and weather the storm for a couple of weeks, max.

No one warned me, save the occasional magazine or doctor-sponsored leaflet, that it might be longer than that, that it would instead be months and months and MONTHS of clawing my way back from hell, only to find most days that I was going backward or in circles. I never thought I would gaze at my baby boy, possibly the world's most well-behaved infant, and wish he'd never been born to me, but rather to someone else much more qualified and put together. I had no idea that postpartum depression can present itself as the most blinding, agonizing, paralyzing sort of anxiety possible, where you are seriously counting how much cash you have to live off of if you run away solo to Canada because you cannot DEAL with the possibility of your son being made fun of in school - school that he won't even attend for a good five years yet. Where you beg your God to have someone either arrest you and lock you up or else put you away permanently in a mental institution because you just cannot DEAL anymore.

I had no idea any of that was coming. And even when it happened, I had no idea it would stay resident with me for months and months afterward, not just a couple of weeks. It's a kind of grieving that I can hardly understand myself: no one died, and actually, I had just been blessed with Aidan (again, the World's Easiest Baby). I understood that I would probably mourn the loss of a carefree lifestyle and relative freedom in my schedule, but this was like the atomic bomb had dropped: grief obliterated everything. Shouldn't I have just done my requisite two weeks of boo-hooing and then gotten back to life as usual?

I can hardly read the blog entries I made in the days and weeks following Aidan's birth, because it is painful to revisit those times. It's even more painful to read the entries, the lighter-hearted, jovial ones, that I made a little later, because I was trying really hard to look normal and back to myself again. Because no one wants to deal with someone who should have gotten over it already, right? That's what I thought. Very, very few people knew how hard each day was for me, even after the work scrubs came back on, the routine started to even out, and I was expected to take my role as a functioning member of society again. Even my husband, who is possibly the most understanding man in the world, once referred to my maternity leave once as "vacation", and I nearly lost it right there.

It's been a long, hard road back, one that I have a difficult time explaining to those who have not been through it or were lucky enough to only experience the garden-variety baby blues themselves. Even now, I wonder if I am back to the "old" me, the girl I was before the cloud settled over my head and distorted my view of the world. I still remember how DARK everything was, how I spent those first few weeks laying on the couch sobbing, unable to move or do anything to take care of my son, how I spent the following months operating like I was doing "so much better" but struggled constantly to find peace and rest from the anxiety, even with medication. I don't know that I will ever be the same.

What I do feel now, though, is gratitude. Gratitude for making it through, for a sweet now-toddler who appears unscathed from my experience and fills my life with joy, for being able to actually feel that joy and not be consumed with worry and dread instead.

I'm grateful for my friends and family who understood somehow that I was in basic survival mode for those many months, who weren't offended when it was just impossible for me to pick up the phone and return a phone call (and even now with my hatred of all dialing machinery), who never called me selfish or mean or greedy for refusing, then accepting help when it was offered to me and I was completely unable to reciprocate any of it or give sufficient thanks to them, who sat with me when I was scared and freaked out for what appeared to be no reason at all and they just patiently LISTENED and prayed with me. I don't recall ever hearing anyone tell me to "buck up" and deal with it, though I remember telling myself that on more than one occasion. I should probably have a lot less friends than I have now, but again, with powers and qualities I myself do not possess, so many people demonstrated true friendship to me: giving without expecting anything in return, loving on me when I was completely, totally undeserving of it. And no one was more so loving on me than my husband, who had the courage not only to stand by my side when I was horrible but intervene on my behalf and get help for me, even when I was choking on my own tears, saying I was "fine".

Jason and I want to have more children. Between the miscarriages and the postpartum depression I experienced, the idea of that terrifies me, even though I still want it. I'm afraid of finding myself back in the pit again, of being afraid of mothering my newest blessing, of losing those who carried me through such dark times because twice? Well, twice is just too much to ask. Or at least it feels that way, anyway. I warned you I might not be back to normal.

But more than anything, this year has been about trust. When the rug gets pulled out from under you, and everything you clung to for security - namely, your own self - is taken away, you have no choice but to rely wholly and completely on Abba Father. I won't say there weren't days and nights where I shook not only my fist but a certain finger at Him, asking "why me?", and begging for relief that never seemed to show up (it did, I just didn't recognize it). Each day, I recognized even the smallest little moments of joy as coming from Him, even if I also tended to blame Him for every insult and injury, too. When I sing now that my God is mighty to save, hoo boy, do I ever feel that, because I see those months now and realize I had no strength of my own, not a bit. And I cannot give the credit to my awesome family and friends, because dealing with someone with the kind of PPD I had requires more strength than the average human is capable of - I know God was at work in them, too. It was hellish that my own body had to revolt against me in that way, but God, no. He will never let me drown. He will not let me perish. And he has worked some amazing miracles out of those dark circumstances, miracles that would have never happened had I not gone through what I did. He IS mighty to save, friends.

A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
Should I stumble again
I'm caught in your grace
Everlasting, your light will shine
When all else fades...