The thief comes to steal, kill, and destroy - John 10:10

When I was pregnant with my oldest daughter, I dreamed of being the perfect mother.  I fantasized about singing her lullabies, reading stories about princesses before bed and rocking her to sleep in the glider rocker.  The room was painted perfectly with a Rainbow Fish theme.  It even glowed with the light from the aquarium where her little neon fish lived.   It was an underwater haven.  I took all of the classes and read all of the books.  I was ready.  She was not.  She was 2 weeks late and she was sitting on my sciatic nerve.  My labor was induced and she came screaming into this world.  8lbs and 12oz.  My husband was by my side and I had very nurturing nurses.  Like a "big momma" that made you feel like everything is going to be alright.  I was SO happy.  I couldn't wait to introduce her to everyone.

Weeks later, I felt different.   I knew I was sleep deprived but this was something else.  I didn't know what it was.  I didn't want anyone to know.  I cried a lot.  My daughter would be crying and I would be harmonizing with her crying.  When my husband came home from work, I would go into the bathroom and "shower" and just sit crying silently.  I knew I loved my baby but I just felt like......
Then I went back to work.  I would drive 30 minutes to work, park the car, and then call in sick.  I felt alone.  I felt like the worst mother in the world.  No one would understand.  On the outside I looked pulled together but on the inside there was a war going on.  It was not supposed to be this way.

I talked with one of my friends who is a mother of two and she shared with me about feeling depressed after having her children.  So I confided in her.  It was our secret.  I was ashamed.  Black women/mothers are supposed to strong.  We hold everything together.  We are the backbone.  The thief stole my self-esteem and my joy.  Good intentioned people in my life would say things like, "you just need to stop having a pity party" or " keep the faith".   Depression was considered  "crazy". I went to my OB/GYN and she prescribed an antidepressant.  It was our secret because I didn't want people thinking I was "crazy".  I was determined that the thief would not kill my self-esteem and joy. I began to reclaim my life.  This is my PPD story.  There is hope.