I have debated writing this post.

You might as well know that it makes me nervous.

I have gnawed my fingernails over it, attempted to write it before, deleted, written, deleted, written, only to know that I was not strong enough yet.   But I think I’m strong enough now.  I feel, down in my soul, that it is the right thing to do.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned through this blogging adventure, it’s the power of “me too.”  Y’all have seen me evolve this year.  You’ve seen me fall into depths that nobody should experience, & you’ve seen me fight my way out of it, for better or worse.  I’m not ashamed of the things I have written or experienced.  I’m not ashamed to be my own personal evolution.

Something huge, life-altering, & soul-changing happened to me this year.  & let me be the first to thank you, the entire community, for allowing (& encouraging…sometimes demanding) me to deal with it privately when I needed to.  For being polite enough to not ask questions to the things I have alluded to & for putting up with me as I worked my way through it.

This is the hard part.  The rest is easier to tell, easier to read, & easier to understand.  I have always been willing to share this over email & in person.  But I’m ready to share publicly, & whether you agree or not, I need to share.

More or less to prove that I am, in fact, much crazier than you could ever hope to be.  & to confirm that I certifiably went off my rocker this past spring.

Or simply to raise awareness that PPD is real, it can be terrifying but at its darkest, it can still be beat.  There is always hope. & as you read, please remember that this story has a happy ending.

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I knew I was slipping.  I knew I wasn’t where I should be.  I had  confidence in my psychiatrist, but I was beginning to feel unhinged.  Isolated.  Completely off my effing rocker, to put it bluntly.  The antidepressants should have been working, but it felt like every week, we just kept upping the dosage to combat a new level of anxiety & despair until I was taking double the recommended dosage.

Every day, I searched desperately for some shred of the old Blair until I was forcing it, becoming manic in my quest.  I was so determined to be the “old me” that I threw myself into life with no rest – I was convinced that if I could keep a clean house, lose weight, & maintain a successful blog, that motherhood would fall into place.  I stopped sleeping.  Weight fell off me.  I blogged more than ever & you could literally lick my floors without fear.  If I could do everything else, why couldn’t I do motherhood?

(Because, I realize now, I could simply succeed like a robot with everything except motherhood.  Everything else was surface.)

I learned of a local support group for mother’s with postpartum mood disorders.  The night of the meeting, I almost did not go.  As much as I yearned for someone to understand me, for peers to hold my hand, I was absolutely TERRIFIED.  I walked into the meeting, ears pounding with my heartbeat.  I sat down in a circle of chairs & introduced myself to the two leaders & one other girl there.  I sipped out of my Nalgene nervously as a few other girls came in & took their seats.  Slowly, they began to talk.  They were all familiar with each other, but I kept reassuring myself that soon, I would be familiar with them, too.  They updated each other on their weeks & I took comfort in their openness.

(side note: I think support groups are wonderful.  I am a huge fan of face-to-face peer support & could write raving novels about the ladies that provide it for me.)

The door opened, & in walked two women.  One woman was older.  The other held a newborn in her arms.  A fresh, out-of-the-oven newborn.  I quaked inside – this was supposed to be my safe place away from babies!  What was happening?  As the mother took her seat next to me, baby in arms, I swallowed hard.  NO! my brain screamed.  NO.

I could not bear to be that close to a baby.  I could not stand it.  My skin crawled & I felt trapped, but it was my turn to  share my story.  I began to speak, slowly.  Describing Harrison’s reflux & the screams that would not end.  I talked about nights full of tears, my inability to feed him at night.  I described what it was like to hear a baby crying, constantly, even when he wasn’t.

& the baby next to me began to cry.

My trigger.  The blood rushed into my head, vomit rose in my throat, & I bit my tongue to keep from screaming.  I looked over at the baby.  & I saw a demon staring back at me.

(I’ll pause now to allow you a giant, “OH MY GOD, Blair.  Dubbya Tee Eff.”  If you’re uncomfortable or feeling like an asshole, I welcome you to exit this blog.)

When I describe that moment, a lot of people ask me, “Are you sure it wasn’t just a really ugly baby?”  Maybe it was.  Maybe to a sane, rational person, it was just an ugly baby.  To me, I saw black eyes staring at me.    I felt rage & despair looking at this tiny baby.  I wanted to run screaming from the room.  I wanted to sob.  I wanted to throw up.  I wanted to protect myself.  But I was frozen.  Terrified.  Horrified.  In my heart, I knew this baby wasn’t a demon.  But I could not make my mind reconcile it.  & that scared me even more.

I was officially sailing off the deep end.  I was slowly recognizing psychosis brewing in me & I felt helpless.

I do not remember many of the details that followed.  I don’t remember who I called or how I got home that night.  I remember woodenly speaking to my psychiatrist over the phone, agreeing to be hospitalized.  I don’t remember packing my bags.  I remember, ever-the-lady, dropping the f-bomb in front of my parents for the first time.

On Monday morning, I was admitted to UNC’s perinatal inpatient program.  & I met a doctor that would save & change my life.