I wrote this on Sunday and didn’t post it. I didn’t want anyone to worry — I’m feeling good, great, and thankful every day that I don’t have PPD.
But lately, I’ve been inspired by several brave women who are willing to talk about their struggles with depression. Like this one.
And I’ve been thinking how it’s amazing that someone, friend or stranger, can make a difference just by being honest.
So, here’s how I was feeling on Sunday.
Some days are perfect. They can be full of sucky things like bad sleeps and screwed up naps and diaper blow-outs and spit-up everywhere, but they are perfect because Reiden smiles or laughs or does something funny and erases everything else. Not just some days. Most.
But other days. The same smiles, laughs, the something funny but still I’m left with some kind of Sunday melancholy, trying to get back to happy.
I might just be eating too much sugar? Not enough vitamin D?
I know it’s not depression. But still, there’s a flicker. A something.
It’ll go away tomorrow, just in time for Peter to go into the office. Yay me for ruining our Sunday.
The best part about Peter is, if I ask him, he’ll say the day turned out pretty well. I think Reiden would say the same thing, if she could talk.
It’s just me who gets lost sometimes, in the little hollow in my brain. The place that stores the memories of much sadder Sundays, dreaded weekends, clock watching, loneliness.
I know I am incredibly lucky, to only have to live with memories.
For me, depression was never just in the moments I was clawing my way through the mud, but in all the memories of other dark times; everything adding up, compounding, colluding.
And always, and still, the threat that it might come back. That’s why these occasional Sunday glimmers scare me. That’s why, even when I’m feeling the opposite of sad, I make sure to remember what Peter would always say to me, when things were really bad:
“It’s not all the time, and it always passes.”
And then I remind myself, “Just because it hasn’t come back doesn’t mean it will.”
That was one of the hardest things about living with depression: even the good days were tainted because I knew there were bad days waiting to pounce.
That’s a sad way to look at life. Over the years I’ve worked hard to flip that around, to look at it like Peter does. To see that the bad days are numbered, because the good ones are waiting to pounce.
This little one sure helps.