I blogged through most of my 4 years of postpartum depression. I call it postpartum depression, but really it was prenatal depression, childbirth trauma and postpartum mania, OCD and depression, but that’s way too long to write every single time.

Back to the blog. I locked it down years ago, but I can still access it because I thought someday I may repost some of the writing.

On Wednesday, I decided to take a bottle of klonapin and go to sleep. A wave of peace hit me knowing I’d finally not be living in this hell of illness I’ve been in since November 3, 2018. Then, as my son is wont to do, he ruined everything.

I pictured his face being told his mommy was dead and I couldn’t do it.

Fuck.

I reached out to my therapist and she said what only my husband has had the nerve to say to me, “if I had all the same lab work you’ve had it would probably look exactly the same.”

I couldn’t believe it. I told her I wanted to take my life and she called me a hypochondriac. Yes, I’m sure she has reactivated Epstein-Barr Virus, co-occuring infections, early stage Lupus and Hashimoto’s AND she’s running around with perfect energy.

She’s since been fired.

But I was talking about my old blog. Stay with me. I was looking for something to post about how fucking bad it was. About how much pain I was in. About how I wanted to die every single day.

But I couldn’t find anything. Every post glossed over what was really going on with me in massive solution and positivity. There’s nothing wrong with solution and positivity, but I wasn’t giving myself a chance to process the horror that was happening to me everyday being robbed of those precious early years with my son by insanity.

I wasn’t being fake. It was real. It was where I was at. I was so scared of my pain I just couldn’t put it on the page.

And that’s the problem. I realized why I’m sick. I’m sick because I haven’t dealt with the trauma of having postpartum depression for 4 years (see paragraph one for full explanation). See, I did TMS and got better and I was so scared to go anywhere near that pain again that I just moved on.

And now, 4 years after getting better, I’m absolutely crippled with illness. I am begging my friends for money for medical expenses. Most days, I do not want to be on this planet in this pain.

I am not okay.

I am not okay.

I am not okay and it’s okay. It’s more than okay. No more putting band-aids on amputated limbs. I have to face the darkness or it will kill me.

I have a little man to raise. I don’t have time for fear. I don’t have time for glossing shit over. I don’t have time to spend planning my own demise.

I have time to heal and that’s exactly what I’m about to do.