This is the third and final post in a series I’ve written telling the story of my lowest point in motherhood and postpartum depression. If you missed the first two installments, you can find them here and here.
This is for all the mommas who are gasping for air. The ones who are pleading with God that their children will turn out okay despite their measly best efforts. I’m here to pick you up, shed some tears together, and instill some strength for tomorrow.
Part 3: Broken
On Thursday, I hated myself for letting my anger get the best of me. On Friday, I went to counseling and addressed my issue with anger. On Saturday, I failed again.
You know the strangest thing? I can’t actually remember what happened on Saturday. Thursday is so incredibly vivid in my mind. Every detail of that day can be relived moment by moment, but Saturday? It’s just a blur.
I had gone to bed the night before, completely assured that everything I had learned in counseling was going to right all of my parenting wrongs. “I’ve got this,” was my mantra.
But then Saturday happened. Maybe I didn’t sleep well. Maybe someone said something to someone else and I got frustrated about it. Maybe it seemed like no one could hear me no matter how loud I talked. I’m not sure what caused the initial spark, but my emotions were lit on fire and I reacted.
I don’t remember what I did exactly. I just know I got mad. And as a result, I felt like I was drowning in the deepest despair.
Even with all the tools I had gained in counseling, I was still a failure. A hopeless case. My heart was gutted, for surely, my children would be better off with someone else for a mother. Anyone but me.
My husband took the girls out of the house to give everyone some space. We would all meet up later at an event we were attending.
They left, and I curled up on my bed in a heap of sorrow. The term “ugly cry” doesn’t do it justice. I didn’t know how to move forward, how to get passed this.
I’m not sure how long I stayed there, but I eventually got up and started moving. I took a shower and went through the basic motions of getting ready. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere with that weight of defeat hovering over me, but I decided it would be easier to go if only to avoid any questions of why I didn’t show up.
So, I went, and the day was kind of a fog. I wanted to be alone and cry, but it was good to be around people I loved. I didn’t say much, and I probably seemed a bit anti-social that day, but I managed to make it through.
And you know, after Saturday, things got better.
That feeling of ultimate failure? It was my low point AND my turning point. I didn’t give up, no matter how hard the enemy tried to convince me I should. Despite all the lies he threw at me, I kept doing what I knew was right.
I kept going to counseling. I wrote out my feelings. I claimed truth. I did some major spiritual warfare. I called out the depression for what it was. I became more intentional about doing things that would keep me healthy mentally and physically.
A year after that Saturday, I was a different person. Today, I can honestly say I have joy again. And my girls?
My girls are the highlight of my life. If you’ve never met them, they really are quite lovely. My oldest got baptized last month. My youngest goes around singing praises to Jesus at the top of her lungs. They are still very young, but smart, loving, respectful, and kind children. God has a great plan for each of their lives.
They are this way, despite my measly best efforts. Everything they are, is because of Jesus working in them personally and through me so I can be the momma I could never be on my own.
Friend, if the enemy is trying to convince you that you are worthless, kick that lie to the curb. You are a precious child of God. Cling to His Truth and walk in His ways - you can trust Him. Take one small step at a time. Breathe in deep and then let it all out. You are not alone, and perhaps, you were made for such a time as this.