As I whirl through revisions and get my book about postpartum depression ready for publication, I am sharing scenes that are not making the final cut because hey, does anyone want to read an 800 page tome about my adventures with postpartum mood and anxiety disorders? I thought not.
I have told you about my anxiety and compulsions. I have told you how I felt detached and numb and how I was overwhelmed by people, but that is not the entire story.
Even as the postpartum depression demons were haunting me, I still felt all sorts of good, wonderful feelings: contentment when Pippa nuzzled my neck; wonder and amazement when she kicked her feet or reached for a rattle; joy when she cooed and gooed during a diaper change. I even laughed every night with Nathan while we binge-watched The Big Bang Theory.
I felt these good, glowing feelings every day.
But I did not feel them as strongly as I could. I could never completely enjoy the joy and contentment, the wonder and love, because my nerves were always in HOLY FUCKING SHIT mode, always crouching behind a rock, hiding from a vampire, waiting for the tsunami to crash and drown the world.
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