I told myself that if depression found me again, I would share well from the valley. I told myself that if after Everly was born I found that the baby blues became deep, all-encompassing depression- the kind I know too well, the kind that has left me locked in the bathroom sitting on the floor in the dark, because the darkness is all I can handle- that I would speak up from that place. I told myself this because I knew that once I was there I would feel that I had no voice, no words, no strength to muster up and share myself with others. The thought of explaining what I was feeling would seem enormous and exhausting, just like every single other thing did. I knew that instead, I would numbly caption my Instagram photos with something meaningless about chubby-cheeked babies, or pithy remarks about dry shampoo to distract my Facebook friends from the hollowed-out place inside of me. I was afraid. Depression is not unfamiliar to me. It is not limited to postpartum seasons.
The ramblings of a woman, wife, mother, artist, and Christ follower.