Dear Momma, I Forgive You. Love, Momma.

After more than two and a half years, I have finally forgiven myself. For succumbing to an illness I had no control over. For wanting to leave the woman who was strong enough to love me through the hell I dragged her through. For imagining my child dead to get me through the moments I thought I couldn't bear. For planning my own death over and over again. For believing I was worthless and better dead than alive. For believing that I would never love my children the way I wanted to. For hating her for taking away the life I had before her. For hating my wife. For hating myself, the very air I breathed. For hating every movement and for completely trashing on the very essence of me.

I forgive you. Mikki - do you hear me? I forgive you.

It's real. For those of you who are not yet parents or who got through it without post partum depression, it's very, very real. It happens without reason or warning. It happens even if you spent years planning for that magical moment you become a mother. It happens when you have a loving, supportive partner. It happens when you have family who loves you. It happens when you are watching for it. It comes from no where and it is so foreign to anything you ever thought you would feel that you have no name for it. And nobody is talking about it. The real, hard shit is glossed over in a series of "yeah, but it's worth it right?" and you lose your fucking mind. What do you say when everyone is telling you what your feeling is normal and when you are too ashamed to reveal what you are really thinking? How do you own that? In between exhaustion, poop, feeding, exhaustion, fear, a complete lack of privacy and the constant, pounding screaming? What do you do when you can't even trust your thoughts to your beloved because you can't bear to see your perceived failing reflected back? Where do you turn?

I don't know why or how I survived. I don't know what stopped me from acting on my plans. Kelly loaded our gun at my urging. I told her I was afraid of not being able to protect our child. I asked her to load our gun. I lied to her. I planned my death, down to the timing. So that Bailey would only be alone for a few minutes before Kelly got home from work. I sat for hours every day staring at that gun. I dreamed about the freedom. I imagined pure darkness where I couldn't feel anything. Where my brain would stop pounding me from all sides.

I didn't do it because every time I brought Bailey upstairs at the end of the day, to put her in her crib and pull that trigger, I imagined Kelly walking in. My plan was based on knowing that Kelly could carry on without me. But I could never get past the thought that I didn't think she could survive finding me like that.

Just about a month ago, I shared this with her. That was my last real part of healing. That bright white light has been cast upon that part of my experience. And I forgive myself.

And now, I have shared it with you. Please, if you take anything from this blog, take this message: care for the women and the partners of those women in your life who have children. Really care for them. Go to their homes and do the dirty work. Do the dishes. Do the laundry. Cook. But mostly, be there to see what those people can't tell you. Exhaustion and shame are powerful covers and you can't ask for help when you are so desperate. Kelly couldn't see what was happening with me through her own process of becoming a mother. This single-family mentality has never been more dangerous for women than in the process of birth. Please, reach out to those you love. Make it a priority. Do the dirty work. And watch. You can see what new, exhausted parents cannot.