Often I have something I want to write about; a thought, a simple experience, a dream. But, sometimes I just get stumped. There are those things so hard to put into words.
As a PPD survivor, everything surrounding new motherhood is tainted. It still is, five years later, and even after having a healthy postpartum experience.
I think of it every time I see a pregnant woman. It's there, in the high, hard-to-reach corners of my past, tangled in cobwebs.
I still wonder how new moms appear to be so normal, so smily, just going about life like it's so wonderful.
I subconsciously assume every new mother is depressed or anxious or on the brink of crazy, and then I am shocked (really, shocked!) when they are not. And then I'm confused. Like ... how?
I often wonder if eventually, maybe when my boys are teenagers, my PPD experience will be such a distant memory, that I will actually be like those other doting "older" moms who look lovingly at swelling bellies and genuinely seem to miss the days of burping underdeveloped digestive systems. And they only remember the good parts and the normal and sweet everyday hard parts.
I guess I'll have to let you know.