I don’t have postpartum depression, nor do I really struggle with anxiety. Instead, my struggles began a long time before I ever became a mother. This is my story of living with clinical depression. This in no way constitutes a medical diagnosis or treatment. If you or someone you love is struggling with these issues, please contact a medical professional.
A Hurt that Wouldn’t Go Away
It wasn’t until my early twenties that I was officially diagnosed with clinical depression (that’s when I was diagnosed, my illness, however, stretches back much farther to middle school or even elementary). It was a weird, awkward, horrible time in my life, my twenties. At my worst I would cry myself to sleep each day, praying to God to allow me to just pull the covers up over my head and not wake up. This was my prayer for a long time. This is what I would literally pray to God for each day and night. Not “Our Father” or “Now I Lay Me Down”, but a prayer to allow me to die. And it’s not that I even wanted to die, it’s just that I wanted to stop hurting. Every inch of me hurt. A hollow ache that penetrated deep inside me. I couldn’t escape it. It was always there. And this hurt filled my head with such awful thoughts. Thoughts of suicide, thoughts of hurting myself, thoughts that I wasn’t loved.