Anyone who’s been reading my blog for a while knows that I battled postpartum depression and anxiety after my daughter was born thirteen years ago. I’ve written about it on this blog, directly or indirectly, a few times:
The thing you probably don’t know is that a couple years ago I wrote a long-form creative nonfiction piece (originally around 4,500 words) about that experience. I’ve submitted it a few places; all have been rejected except for the one that I’m currently waiting to hear back on. It’s for an anthology from the HerStories Project called Mothering Through the Darkness. I’ll know by March 15th if they accepted it. I hope so. I really do.
Regardless, those six weeks after my daughter was born, and the week or two leading up to her birthday almost every year until she was nine years old, will stay with me forever. I’ve thought all along that that’s a bad thing—that the constant hitting myself over the head with my failings as a mother is a penance I’ll have to pay for the rest of my life. But now, thirteen years later and four years after my last bout—the one that sent me as far to the edge of grief and guilt as the first—I see the good in it.