An ode to mothers who can't get a break...

I met a woman the other day who has postpartum depression. She'd heard that I'd had a milder case of it after I gave birth to my firstborn and was given my number so she could talk to someone. She's anxious, exhausted, unable to relax. She sleeps only two to three hours a night. She second guesses every single decision she makes. She forgets everything. She remembers all too much.

She takes me way back to those horrible first few months when I felt like I was flung down from a plane into the middle of this strange place called motherhood, where the ground was parched beneath my feet and the heat and the sun bore through my skin and there was no shelter, no cover. We'd just moved to Brooklyn where I had no friends and no clue what to do with a baby. And we had no family two streets down to run to when it all got to be too much. Which happened often. Everyday. Scratch that. Every hour.

This woman asked me: "How come nobody ever talks about it? They look at me like I'm from another planet when I say it's too hard. I want to run away." I told her no one ever wants to admit that motherhood isn't all love love love. Just like hardly anyone ever says love isn't all about love love love. I told her all the soothing things you're supposed to say to someone in distress: Take care of yourself. Find one thing to celebrate. Go toward the light.

What I forgot to tell her:
• Love yourself so you can love the kids.
• If you don't love yourself, fake it and maybe it'll stick.
• Ask for help. Loudly. From anyone willing to give it. Scream "uncle!"
• Tell the censor in you to shut the fuck up for once.
• Sit down and play with the kids. They look scary but they won't bite (well, maybe occasionally). Let yourself like them.
• Cry.
• Lean on your partner. And say "thank you."
• Pray (to whatever deity you subscribe to).
• Forgive yourself for not being perfect, for not being good at this right now (whatever that means), for not being a natural (whatever that means), for not liking yourself, for not liking this gig right now.
• Tell it like it is. Don't sugarcoat the horror. Somebody else might be aching to find someone who'll talk about it.
• Rinse, lather, repeat.

I want to tell her: Save yourself. You're worth it.