I’m quite reluctant to blog about this, it is actually the reason why I haven’t been updating my blog since the entry before last. But then again I thought, if I hide it (as I am doing), then I am quite a hypocrite for telling others to understand mental health issues and not look at it as a taboo. So here I am, a second post about my dumbass depression that I hate very much, and I also very much hate to talk about it.

I’m not going to write when it started, or when I was treated. In fact, throughout my inpatient stay, I have been posting on social media as if I was home. I didn’t want to worry my family (especially my poor mom who always worries too much), I didn’t want to worry my friends. So if you’re one of them and are reading this feeling shocked; know that you’re not alone.

As much as I hate to take medication, I have been taking them. ALL of them. EVERY. DAY. So why does this darkness still plagues me? I have no answer. I knew I was deteriorating. I mentioned it to Mojujuju. “But don’t worry, I have a review with the care coordinator (a replacement) end of this week,” I wasn’t sure who I was trying to reassure; him or myself.

“You’re doing great!” said the care coordinator.

“But I—“

“You’re just tired. It is not easy taking care of a newborn AND having a toddler at the same time.”

“I really felt like screaming at everybody on the street while I’m walking, it’s just not me,” I insisted.

“I think you just want to scream at your husband but you can’t so you just want to scream at everybody else,” she said while writing notes on her notepad.

Not knowing how to respond to that, I kept quiet. If a healthcare professional is telling me that I’m doing well, I must be right? So I continued. I push myself a little bit more each day. With every step feeling like I’m dragging myself through the mud, I managed. I managed too well. I was crumbling from within, but no one could see it, because I was ‘functional’. I was cooking lunch and dinner everyday. I took care of the kids’ every need. But I was not bonding with Lil’ Tuesday. She was there, she exists, I am there to care for her. There was just something lacking. I told my care coordinator but she told me not to compare with my bond with Mr. Monday. “It is all different. Afterall, this is your second time.”

3 weeks later, I was completely shattered. I yelled at Mr. Monday, which is unlike me. Then the guilt, and every storm that has been brewing in me started to take over. It’s as if every light in the world has gone off. I could hear nor see anything. I wanted to die. I tried to find comfort in Mojujuju, but each time it ends with an argument. I was erratic, my mind was everywhere. Mojujuju kept shouting at me: “What is wrong with you?”.  What is wrong with me? WHAT is wrong with me? Those words kept ringing in my head.

“But— but the psychiatric team said I was doing well,” I wailed from my bed while looking down on my palms filled with my tears. Made to believe that it isn’t my depression that is bringing me down, I could not find the source of my anguish. This pained me even more. “What is wrong with you?” Mojujuju words continued to echo. Me. If it isn’t my mental health, then it must be me. I am what’s wrong. I am wrong. Wrong. WRONG.

WRONG.

WRONG.

WRONG.

I AM.

WRONG.

My eyes wandered around the room and fixed on the ceiling lights. My full body silk robe was hanging behind the door. I could feel my pupils dilate. My inner voice continued to scream  at me— “WRONG. WRONG. WRONG”. My hands held onto the silk and I clenched my other fist. I am going to hang myself.

I was going to die.

Then the voice of Mr. Monday from downstairs speaking to his father echoed. My heart choked me. “What if Mr. Monday found me hanging?”.

Mortified by my thoughts, I called the suicide hotline. Paramedics was sent to ensure my safety.

A day after, another episode happened. This time, I ran out of the house so that Mr. Monday would not ‘see’. It felt like I had nowhere to go. I wanted to throw myself in front of the bus, but it was late. It was evening. The busses had their lights turned on, on the inside. I could see people, I could see children. I could see the driver. I can’t— I shouldn’t. I don’t want to involve anyone else.

In my moments of desperation, I called the crisis team of my psychiatric team. “Save me, please. Save—“ I could barely complete my sentences without letting out painful wails. “From— from myself,” my hands trembled as I watch my breath forms in the winter cold. At that moment, I could hear screams from inside. It’s like a beast, and she’s trying to tear herself out. It’s as if she was going to turn me inside out. There were moments it felt as if I was the one trapped inside, trying to claw my way out, and the only way for me to free myself, was to….. too grim to say. Too grim to talk about. Then there are moments where it felt like I was containing something in me, it isn’t me, but it’s trying to take over me.

Where were Mojujuju when I needed him? Was he there? Honestly I don’t know. It’s as if my vision is so tunneled, I couldn’t hear or see anyone else. I was drowning inside my own mind. What I know is that he’s utterly shocked at what happened. He thought I was ‘okay’, because my care coordinator said I was okay. Because I was functioning. Unlike my first episode of depression that he witnessed 4 years ago, I wasn’t incapacitated. I was eating, drinking, sleeping, doing all chores. But in reality, I was one step from losing it all.

Now that I’m recovering, I can finally feel that bond with Lil’ Tuesday. And I can confidently say that the bond was definitely NOT there. Now I’m so besotted with her every actions. She’s like a baby Yoda to me. But before this, it wasn’t like what my care coordinator said. It wasn’t because she was not my first born. It was, and it definitely was my postnatal depression.

TLDR: Should have trusted my own instinct.