It's no secret I muddled my way through postpartum depression/psychosis. Here's the interesting part about surviving it...the aftermath sucks.
I felt like I woke up from being drunk on a neurosynaptic cluster-fuck. I disengaged from life and it had the audacity to go on without me.
Where was the fucking rewind button? Now that I was back from my sabbatical in hell, I wanted to go back and re-experience birthday parties, happy hours and anniversaries with the real me.
Through the depression, I became a shell mimicking authentic life. A copycat.
In the haze of delusions and depression, I forgot how to be me, so I became other people. A chameleon of the masses so no one would think I was different. If could I act like a normal person, then I could convince myself I was normal too. Nevermind the psychotic thoughts of death, I was laughing like other people at happy hour. If they were happy, I was happy. If they were sad, I was sad.
And trust me, it's fucking exhausting trying to be someone other than who you are. And it made me feel even more alone. Because not only was I lost in the company of other people, I lost my own self.
I've lost keys, money and shoes. But my own self? Isn't it supposed to be tucked inside our bodies for safekeeping? How did I fucking lose that?
But maybe that's what survival mode is about. Drawing into yourself to take a look around inside. Find yourself again. Repair the wiring and hit the reset button.
After all, no one can fix you, but you. Sometimes the road is a journey of one, but when you come back, it's worth it.