Mother’s Day was last month, and the influx of posts on Facebook and Instagram about mothers and mothering got me thinking about my early days postpartum. I’ve struggled with anxiety most of my life, but postpartum anxiety, and depression, are their own, different beasts.

Some women seem to love every minute of those early days, even the parts that are difficult for them, even if they struggle with PPA or PPD. I guess what I mean is, they seem happier than I did in those situations. So does that mean I had a particularly rough level of PPA/PPD? I don’t know.

I do know one thing, those quotes that get thrown out so much, “One day you’ll look back on this hard night so fondly, so enjoy them while you can. All those long nights are worth it, one day they won’t be little anymore. The nights are long, but the days are short,” well, that’s not me. I do not miss the nights where I was so full of fear yet so irrationally angry (because, fun fact, irrational anger can be a symptom of PPD.) and I don’t look back on them fondly, even from where I stand now which is a much better place of someone who’s gotten help and isn’t deep in the dark like she was before. I don’t think I ever will. The anxiety and depression was like a wall of dark clouds, keeping me from just feeling all the love, joy, peace I should have been feeling as a mother. Wanted to be feeling.

Mothers who’ve had PPA and PPD at the same time will know the paradox – being so angry that the baby won’t sleep, but then thinking, “Well, maybe they’re not sleeping because if they were in their bed right now something would fall on them or an intruder would come into their room and I wouldn’t be here to protect them…” Those thoughts, those rotating emotions will twist you up until you’re mentally, and sometimes physically immobile. Like, I wanted to be that wife who could get up with the baby all hours of the night, so that her working husband who has to get up super early the next day and drive 45 minutes to work could sleep, so he could be safe to drive. But instead there were a lot of nights were I just couldn’t get out of the bed anymore.

I was afraid of myself. Afraid of the frustration I knew I would feel toward this sweet, little person, who was just trying to figure out how life on the outside works. I’ve never felt an emotion so persistent and irrational before. Anxiety, I knew, I had lived with it. But PPD totally sideswiped me. I hated myself.

In his two-and-a-half years of life, my son has seen me at my worst. Whether it be catching me crying because I was sad and confused and it was all too much, or seeing me yell at his father out of desperation. (Because when you’re so far down in that anxiety/depression, sometimes it’s hard to explain how deep the sadness really is.) Before I had him, when I thought of how I might handle my anxiety once I had children, I never wanted it to look like that. But I think the best way to handle it is just to be honest and humble. How many nights were spent with me rocking him to sleep as I told him I was sorry, words that were a mix of apologies and prayers.

For a long time, I couldn’t talk to anyone about the deep, dark, scary parts. The guilty parts. Even though I know plenty of mothers experience the same things. I think I was processing everything. And even though things had gotten better along the way as he grew older and I’d put several habits into place that helped, like exercising regularly and pushing myself to leave the house and go on walks more often, I was still having depressive episodes and panic attacks. A few months before my son turned two, I finally decided I had to do something more, and I began seeing a counselor. The first couple weeks were rough, but I was so willing to try, to fight. I was afraid I’d never be free of it all, but even now, things are so, so, so much better. It’s a weird moment when you go to put your kid, who has never had the easiest time getting to sleep, down for a nap and you realize you aren’t stressed at all. Like you might actually even enjoy that time with them?

So hey, the toddler years may be the ones I can look back on fondly, where mama’s out of the fog.

And now, I’m ready to talk about it. To just be honest. Not every part of motherhood is easy for me, and PPD tried to eat me alive. I can be honest about the fact that I’m glad my kid’s not a newborn anymore and that we’re out of the breastfeeding/bottle stage and that he actually sleeps through the night regularly, because I know I’m not the only mother who’s felt this way. I love my son, and I can actually experience all the joy that comes with that now that I don’t feel like I’m drowning.

So what have I learned from these first few years of motherhood? A new example of love that forgives – my son could see me lose it and the next minute give me the biggest smile and a drooly kiss on my cheek. I wonder at it. He’s seen me fail so many times yet he still desires me, chooses me for his comfort and protection. And that I wish, at that six-week postpartum check-up, when my OBGYN had asked me, “Do you feel happy?” I would have just been honest and said, “No. Please help.” And I wouldn’t have had to struggle so much for so long.

Love and blessings to you, if you’re a mother who struggles with PPA/PPD. Talk to some one. Don’t let the guilt or fear win. And if they don’t take you seriously, find someone else and tell them. Keep fighting until you get help. Don’t give up.