Today, my failure comes in the form of a little blue pill. As of about 11:00 this morning, I was officially diagnosed with post-partum depression. Yay. As if the mental health diagnosis weren't enough, I also got an anti-depressant to go with it. You may be thinking to yourself, "But, Emily, weren't you on Zoloft during your pregnancy? Why is this a big deal?" and you'd be partially correct in thinking I'm making a big deal out of nothing. I was prescribed Zoloft for my pregnancy depression, but I never took it. I couldn't do it.
Now, however, this crappy, hormone-induced depression is screwing with my relationship with my son, and is making me a kind of mother and person I never wanted to be. The kind who very seriously considers never coming home from a trip to the grocery store, and the kind who would prefer to do just about anything rather than spend time with the demanding, pukey little person who will some day call me mom. So, I'm swallowing my pride along with the Zoloft. I can't go on like this and expect to survive without my husband and my son both hating me.
I know that there's no shame in taking medications to help with mental health issues. Hell, I've given that speech to friends of mine. But there's still a little part of my brain that is loudly protesting that I'm strong enough to beat this on my own, despite the fact that I've proven that part of my brain wrong over and over again.
On the plus side, my OB figured out that my depressions seem to be caused by too much progesterone and too little estrogen, so when my periods come back, my sanity should, too. This almost makes me wish I had my period again. Almost.