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I always knew I had both anxiety and depression growing up, and especially in my later teen years after I graduated high school. I also knew where it all came from for the most part, that was no question. I had experienced things that I wouldn’t even wish on my own enemy. As at the age of thirteen (13), the only option that I could think of to make my life better and the lives of people around me a lot better was to commit suicide.
Even though I knew I had these symptoms for a long time, I never did anything to help it. I never really went to counseling, never got diagnosed or got on any medication to hopefully make things better. I thought that even if I thought I couldn’t handle things, I would somehow make things okay and get a hold on my mental health. Of course, that never really worked for me, as it never does for most people.
When I got pregnant, my depression became a lot worse, as well as my anxiety. All I could think about was hurting myself. I wondered how in the world I was supposed to take care of another life, if I can’t even take care of myself. I can never keep a job because almost every time I get a new one, I have a panic attack and end up quitting.
I felt like the most horrible person in the world because I was creating another life, and all I could think about was ending mine, and every time I tried to talk to someone about it they just rudely told me that I don’t need to be having thoughts like that, as I have another life that I need to think about. Which I know they were not wrong, but it didn’t make anything better.
After I had my baby, I wasn’t sure what I felt. I was happy, and I knew I loved him, I just didn’t want to have anything to do with him, and I still don’t. So, every chance that I get to hand him off to the next person that wants to feed him or hold him, I will let them. I wondered how I could love this little life so much, and still want nothing to do with him. I felt guilty for all the times I always tried to get someone else to take care of him, simply because I just didn’t want to. Of course, I did when I absolutely had to. When I was alone, and there was nothing else I could do, but whenever he would cry nonstop, I didn’t feel sorry for him. I just wanted him to stop and leave me alone. I felt horrible for thinking that, and I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t if it wasn’t the simple task of either feeding, changing, burping him, or rocking him to sleep.
I never realized that that was what I was doing until I went to my six week check up and I had to fill out a questionnaire, and tested positive for both anxiety and depression. I thought my depression got better, but as I got further along of my postpartum life, I realize that all of it is still there. All the things I enjoyed doing I can’t do it anymore, because I don’t feel like doing it. So now that I have officially got diagnosed with depression, and am actually doing something about it, I will hopefully be able to love and take care of my baby like I proper mother should do, and I won’t feel guilty about anything because I won’t be trying to hand him off to the next person that is willing to feed him.