My constant companions were irritability, anxiety, an unending feeling of being overwhelmed, and sadness.
Pure, shoulder-sobbing sadness. I cried a lot. Sometimes for hours on end — seemingly without reason.
I sat on my couch, in my car, in the shower, virtually anywhere — willing myself to feel better. I thought I could fix it. That I could try harder, smile more, eat healthier, get a little sleep.
I was certain I had to take care of this alone and that no one could know how horribly I was failing my children by being depressed. I thought since I was the one who was broken in the midst of so much perfection, I could not tell anyone.
I felt utterly and completely alone.
And then one day, several months after the twins were born, my partner looked me straight in my bloodshot, swollen eyes and said: “You need to talk to someone about this.”
Close to two weeks later, I met with a psychiatrist. She empathetically engaged me and offered the kindness and understanding I needed.
She heard me. She saw me. And she didn’t look away.
I rambled on and on as she looked at me intently with an empathy that spoke volumes. She held my gaze and assured me what I was thinking and feeling and saying all made perfect sense. She seemed to genuinely understand the desolation I felt, and she never assigned any judgment to it.
To read more of Jill Dabrowski's article, please click here.
Comments (0)