In Remembrance

I had a moment just now.

I was looking through some old Facebook pictures, and I realized I could pick out each and every picture that was taken while I was really struggling with PPD. My face looks different. I hear people talk about this sort of thing, but usually what I hear about is the eyes. My eyes do look particularly blah in those pics, but it's more than that. It's my whole face. My whole face looks pale and tired and like there's something underneath it covered up by a smile that doesn't look right.

It's on my mind right now, because what I'm supposed to be doing instead of blogging is working on an article for a local mag about PPD. I didn't realize how uncomfortable this process would be. I've thought for a long time that PPD was an important part of my experience as a mother, but it's really much easier to put it in a little box in the corner of my mind and let it collect dust, saying every once in a while, "Yep, I have that box somewhere..." So, here's my conclusion. I don't like dredging it up. It doesn't hurt. But it does make me about as squirmy as my 4-year-old in the grocery store.

I didn't think I'd be like that. I don't think I should, actually. I need to pull the box out, dust it off, and study what's in it from time to time. It forces me to remember how awful it was, and how far I've come--and yet how easy it would be to go back to that place if I slipped into my old habits. It needs to be remembered.

So, old dusty box of nasty PPD...I will never forget you, but only so I can keep you right where you are--put away.