The hospital I was at included discharge teaching on postpartum depression. We even got a cute little handout of the signs and symptoms to keep an eye out for. They were even really smart, and the nurse addressed my husband and said that it is often the husband that notices before the mom does.

So when I started to feel out of whack, I got my handy little paper and looked at the symptoms. Lack of joy? Not really. Feelings of inadequacy? Nope, not that either. Withdrawal from friends and family? Only because I was in nursing school and had no choice. Thoughts of harming myself of my children? Negative.

But really, it all came down to the fact that I wasn’t sad. I’ve battled depression, and this wasn’t it. So I just kept going, unprepared for the battle.

I had panic attacks on a daily basis. Flashbacks of my birth haunted me like the plague. My dreams had turned dark. I cried all the time, but not because I felt sad, but because I kept reliving those key moments of my birth where I thought I was going to die; heck, where I should have died.

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