My baby boy turns two years old in less than a month. Now when I look at my son, I smile, but it also takes me back to a place of deep darkness and chaos. March of 2020 was a roller coaster. That whole year was a roller coaster of emotions.

My son was born just days before the pandemic shut down the country and just hours after my mom passed away. Talk about a perfect storm for postpartum depression and anxiety. Fluctuating hormones, isolation, and a deep profound grief.

My life was in turmoil. I was grieving the loss of my mom. I was trying to breastfeed. I was trying to play with my toddler. I was trying to cook and clean. I was trying to get on with normal life. The truth is nothing about that time felt normal. It was chaos. Pure chaos.

I remember having a full-blown meltdown over a St. Patrick’s Day photo. It needed to be perfect. My life was literally in pieces, but I needed that perfect photo of me with my kids all dressed in green. I don’t know if focusing on that picture made me think less about my mom’s funeral I just attended or if I just wanted to pretend, I was okay. Regardless of the reason, that photo I think was the beginning stages of my postpartum depression.

Postpartum depression was a nightmare. My experience with postpartum depression changed who I am. I’ve been depressed before, but this was different. It was a new form of hell. The thoughts I had were constant.

“I can’t do this.” “The kids would be better off without me.” “I don’t deserve this picture-perfect life.” “My husband and kids both deserve better.” “I am a failure. “Why did I think I could handle two kids? I can barely get myself to shower never mind bathe my kids and feed them.” As the days, weeks and months went by the thoughts became darker and more persistent.

 The thought of making food just threw me over the edge.  I had multiple fits of rage over making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My son’s cluster feeding needed to stop. I couldn’t stand to have him on my boob for one second longer.

I remember sitting in bed with my husband one night just telling him I can’t do this anymore. Everything was just so hard. He was very supportive. He tried to help in any way he could. Together we decided that supplementing with formula was the best solution for my mental health.

I think I was in denial of my own reality. My reality was my mom died and my son was born twenty-four hours later. I was grieving. I was hormonal. I was depressed. I was drowning. I was drowning, but the pandemic also hid how hard I was trying to stay afloat.

I kept saying positive things like how thankful I was my son was born when he was. I spoke about the beautiful timing of my mom’s death and son’s birth. But it still sucked. Losing a loved one sucks. Having a baby is beautiful, but hard. Having those two things happen simultaneously was life altering.

Behind the positive thoughts and smiling faces on social media was a girl who was traumatized by what happened to her. Desperate to figure out why. Wanting to love my son but couldn’t stand looking at him. Looking at him brought my mom back. Looking at him brought me back to March 2020. Looking at my son brought up the traumatizing reality that one life ended, and another began. It is forever time stamped. It is forever bittersweet.

 I had a huge amount of guilt for not wanting to look at my son. He would gaze up at me with these big blue eyes and all I could do was cry. Or worse, I’d get really angry. I’d need to put him down because my anger was too strong. Every new milestone he went through was another timestamp of what my mom missed and how long she’d been gone.

Taking monthly photos was also traumatizing to me. Yet, I felt the need to do it month after month. I’d keep trying to get my son to sit still and the lighting just right. Yet, every month I’d feel like a failure.

My postpartum depression was intermingled with grief. The stages of my son’s life are like the passing of time without my mom here on earth. Time went on for people. But I was still living the deep raw emotions of grief.  I still had a toddler and newborn to take care of.

For well over a year, I could not get through the book “I’ll Love You Forever” without crying. I’d hear my toddler ask me “Mommy why are you crying?” She’d also tell me after fits of rage, “You’re a good Mommy. You’re not a bad Mommy.”

That first year of my son’s life was beyond challenging. I suffered in silence for many months before admitting to myself and others that I needed help. When he was about four months old, I was almost hospitalized. I had reoccurring thoughts of just driving away and never coming back. Sometimes, I thought I’d just drive off a cliff, other times I would just think I’ll leave, my family will be better off without me. I never wanted to hurt my children, but I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to end it all.

Life was hard. Every day was a struggle. Every day I felt alone. Every day I felt like someone was asking something of me but no one was giving me what I needed. No one was coming to watch the kids. No one was coming and giving me hugs. It felt like no one wanted to hear the actual truth about how I was doing.

Some days I was drowning only gasping for air, other days I was swimming upstream. Sometimes I felt like I was a spectator for my own life; just watching it slip away. It has taken me a long time to come to terms with my reality. I still have days where my depression and grief are paralyzing. I still have days when I look at my son and I just start to cry. Yes, I still have bad days, but everyday I keep showing up.