As I enter my obstetrician’s office, tears threaten to spill from my eyes, and dark thoughts swirl in my mind. I can’t help but question why I delayed seeking help. Why did I wait until I felt utterly lost to see the doctor who was aware of my previous struggles with depression? The same man who spoke with me during my third trimester about the possibility of postpartum depression and handed me a pamphlet with resources before my daughter was born.
I’m at a loss. The only clarity I have as I sit in the waiting room, feeling the chill of autumn creep up my spine and into my flip-flopped feet, is that choosing sandals was a poor decision. It’s cold, and I haven’t had a pedicure in ages; remnants of a once vibrant seafoam green polish cling to my toes, but I can’t muster the energy to care. I wonder why I wore these shoes and why I haven’t taken two minutes to fix my nails since getting that pedicure just before my three-month-old daughter arrived. But the truth is, I don’t care about my appearance — I don’t care about myself or my life.
Time has become distorted since my daughter’s birth. Sleep deprivation and the demands of motherhood warp my perception; some days drag on endlessly, while others slip by unnoticed. I eat, I breathe, I talk, but I’m not sure what about. I simply exist, moving from one moment to the next.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” The doctor’s voice, smooth and calming, pulls me from my thoughts. I recall my arrival, smiling at the nurse who cooed at my daughter, who was peacefully sleeping in her car seat. I remember the brief eye contact with other women in the waiting room, their bellies round with life. I recall being ushered back and awkwardly shifting on the parchment-covered exam table, my legs dangling rather than positioned appropriately. Yet, none of it feels vivid; it’s all a blur — a routine.
“Are you positively certain you’re okay?” he asks again.
I hesitate. Deep down, I know I’m not okay. But somewhere between entering the office and now, my resolve has cracked. I fear that admitting to my suicidal thoughts will lead to my daughter being taken away from me. I worry about losing my sanity, about being vulnerable, about appearing weak.
So I nod instead. I lie through my clenched teeth, convincing him and myself that everything is fine. “No, I’m good. Really.”
He gives a slight nod, placing his large hand on my shoulder and gently squeezing before excusing himself to retrieve something from his office. As he leaves, I exhale a deep breath, a release that feels good, but it’s the inhalation that frightens me — the very act of breathing in feels daunting.
I sit there, trapped in a moment that stretches painfully long. I force myself to remain seated, my eyes drifting from my ill-fitting pants to the red sharps container on the wall next to me. I sit in silence, my greatest adversary, and breathe. I promise myself that once I am in his office, I will reveal the truth; I will confess my struggles.
Yet, when he returns and we settle into his expansive leather chair, I still can’t bring myself to speak honestly. We are separated by a large mahogany desk, and I feel small and fragile in comparison. He asks again if I’m okay and if I’m having thoughts of self-harm.
Is it that obvious? I remind myself to keep it together — he will only know what I choose to share. And so, I deny my feelings, denying myself the opportunity for help, while attempting to assure him and myself of my sanity.
He offers supportive words, scribbles on his prescription pad, and arranges a referral for me. I agree to contact him if my situation worsens, or if I need someone to talk to.
But I don’t.
Despite spiraling further into despair, I do not reach out as the seasons change. I don’t call him as I trade my flip-flops for warmer socks, as I find myself fading away, stripped bare like the autumn trees, consumed by the same grey gloom as the overcast sky. I don’t call him as I feel the weather shift from chilly to brutally cold; instead, I freeze over, like the streets outside. I cry more, and I move less. I find myself wishing for an end, contemplating ways to escape my pain.