Recently, I fell off the grief wagon. Nearing the end of my pregnancy I thought I was doing fine, I thought I didn’t need my anxiety medication anymore, and I stopped taking it. I stopped going to therapy, I thought I was okay. I was wrong. I did alright for a while. In those first few fleeting weeks of the newborn glow. The time when everything is fairytale and that new baby euphoria has blocked out all the difficult stuff. But then I plateaued, and then, before I knew it, I was in the dark. Multiple daily panic attacks, feeling physically ill from the stress response to ptsd triggers. Not being able to leave my house 5/7 days a week. Grieving Sloan like the day it happened, being unfair to Phoenix by constantly worrying about her dying. Nobody would know I was struggling. I said nothing. Even those closest to me didn’t know.
I am thankful to have recognized this, and to be currently working on pulling my head back above water. We are back in grief therapy, I’ve started taking my anxiety meds again, and I’m working on improving my coping skills.
Mental health is a battle, grief is a war. Sometimes those of us suffering, forget we have to fight.