Twenty-three.
That's the stopgap I have, that's the number where it stops.
Just twenty-three.
Twenty-three is the number of pills I have left before I start to try to wean myself off of them.
I started the anti-depressants almost eight months ago, on the first of February. The postnatal depression was simply too much for me, I wasn't functioning. My depression manifested as anxiety, and unless I was with my babies in that safe cocoon where no one could touch us, I was a mess. Crying. Sleepless. Not eating. Unable to function in public. Unable to keep from shouting at everyone - except the babies - around me. Unable to stem this mountain of anger that came from somewhere, came from nowhere, anger so fierce it was palatable yet I couldn't reach it, not even to tell Angus to go to hell when I should have done. I couldn't slow down and just hold my babies, just be with them. I mourn that, I mourn those days. My children are more interested in exploring now, and now that I am calm enough to just sit on the couch and be with them they no longer want to be with me. Every day was a mental exercise of running in sticky taffy.
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Helen is the contributing editor for Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder. She also covers Postpartum Depression. She writes daily at Everyday Stranger where she also chronicles life with her twins, Nick and Nora.
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