Member-only story
The Night I Wasn’t Okay
I didn’t realize I had postpartum depression until I was searching my bedroom for something sharp
My daughter’s screams never stopped. It was dark outside, though I have no idea what time it was. I sat on the floor of the nursery I’d lovingly decorated with elephants and ruffles and held my daughter as her face turned red and her back arched. She was hungry. She needed to nurse, but she couldn’t. She screamed nearly 24 hours a day and I was powerless to help her. It would be another week before we found out she had severe reflux that required medication.
My husband opened the door and saw the two of us sitting on the floor, both our faces covered in tears. He scooped her out of my arms and wrapped her in a carrier strapped to his bare chest.
“Go, take a break,” he whispered.
“But she needs to eat,” I choked out through m sobs.
“She’ll be okay. I’ve got this. Go get yourself centered.”
I stood and dragged my sleep-deprived body to my bedroom. I shut the door, but I couldn’t shut off my brain, and my brain was doing something weird.
Why can’t I help her? I’m a failure as a mother. I haven’t cleaned the house all week. I can’t even take care of my kids properly.
