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Creative Nonfiction

TW: suicidal ideation


Warning: This is not a tale for children or sweet old ladies from a bygone era. I don’t know if it’s even a story, more like a blip on the line of history. But for me, it was everything. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll cut to the heart of it.


holy shit

I’m in the pit


This was my first poem about my postpartum depression- pretty epic, right?! No, I’ll be the first to admit it was completely depressing, but you’ve gotta admire its brevity and unambiguous message- I was stuck.


While my daughter cheered “Paw Patrol is on a roll!” I laid in bed silently chanting my poem like a mantra. The bitter words flowed through my veins until they seeped from my pores and funneled out my nostrils with each tedious exhalation. It was my self-fulfilling truth. My bleak reality.


I totally could have used a techy, English speaking pup to rescue me, but from what? My bed? I was more confused than Mayor Goodway, more helpless than Chickaletta. Please forgive my post recovery humor when broaching such a serious topic. I’m like a one year old with a smash cake, gorging myself on giggles and the sweet things in life. I just can’t stop.


But I’ll do it- I’ll swim against the currents of my brain to access those memories locked away in the murky depths. So cold down there… Welcome to my world.


SEPTEMBER


“I’m hungwy, Mommy!” She bounces around my head, which is already pounding with a headache, and I haven’t even opened my eyes yet. I tuck under my pillow and press it tightly against my ears, desperate to muffle her high pitched voice.


“Pwease, Mommy?”


I open my eyes and peek out. Her round blue eyes sparkle and watch me curiously. Frick. She’s so cute, but I hate her so much. I used up all my patience when she came into our bedroom six times during the night.


I drag myself out of bed like I’m an old woman- the weight of the night heavy, the drudgery of the coming day oppressive. Another day to get through. Then another tortuous night… just like every other night of the past two years.


I used to play tennis. I used to paint. I used to smile freely, especially at strangers or when I didn’t know what else to do. I was a naïve idiot.



Wall,

tell me-

Who am I?

My head still spins

from revolving roles:

teacher, nurse, referee

to the crazy blonde creatures

now sleeping in peace. Finally,

I am free to just be me, and yet-

I find myself here, staring at the wall.



OCTOBER


I sit on the bench at the end of my bed and tie my shoes. We’re going to a pumpkin patch, woohoo. Wait, what day is it? I snatch my phone from my purse and hit the home button, and the truth glows green. The anniversary of my dad’s death.


I don’t usually think about it, but today it steals my breath. I stare at my shoes and think about sitting on the front porch with him. His body was already withered from cancer, literally eaten up with it from the inside out. It will never feel fair… I took a picture of our feet together, the rolling pastures in the background. His leather loafers. My bare feet. Our matching ankles.


you left this world

and you left a hole

in my heart

(in my heart)

so I left this town

walking backward

clutching flowers

now I travel

to a new place

with this same face

(but I don’t even know who I am anymore)

these eyes look at the mirror

and they’re sure

that it’s a mask

please don’t ask

(because I don’t even know who I am anymore)

do you think I could be someone else

something new

is it true

that I’m me

cuz I’m not free

I’m walking backward

(backward)



NOVEMBER


I hobble across the bedroom, the mysterious pain slicing under my kneecap again. I grimace as I put minimal weight on it, and my husband frowns at me.


“Aren’t you meeting someone at the park for a play date today?”


“Yeah, but I just canceled. I can’t walk that far.” She won’t care; she hardly knows me. And my daughter won’t know the difference because I didn’t tell her the plan in case it fell through.


Secretly, I’m relieved. Small talk in the preschool hallways is so draining, no, painful. We moved cross country three months ago with a two year old and a three month old baby. No one else is a military family like ours, and they all know we’re moving again in less than a year so they have little incentive to be my friend. I don’t blame them.


I grieve the loss of my friends of four years in Georgia, our church, and my family that lived around the state. And all the ones in South Carolina, for that matter, where we lived for three years before that. This place feels cold and foreign. I don’t have the energy to start over.


Yesterday

or a lifetime ago?

I can’t reach it,

so there’s the answer.

Fragments are all that I can find.

Throw them into order,

but they scramble again.

Colors,

enough to make me smile.

Pain,

that cuts me anew.

Fragments,

floating around,

that I bump into occasionally.

Long ago won’t let go.



DECEMBER


Thin gray light slants through the blinds. I know I should get out some play dough for her or set up a tea party or something fabulous like good moms do. Instead, she’s watching tv while I lay in bed. I’ve never felt this tired in my whole life. It’s like I just ran a marathon and no one gave me a banana after. Those jerks.


The baby is napping, thank goodness. At least one of them likes to sleep. I lay here for episode after episode after episode.


she stares through the mist

motionless



JANUARY


A bit of sun peeked through this afternoon. I should have seized the opportunity to get outside with the kids. I could have pushed them in the stroller and walked to the park, but I started shaking and got dizzy as another fever came on. I keep getting infections. I’m falling apart.


The world outside,

so far from reach-

an invisible barrier between.


If I were to walk to the window

and place palm upon cool glass,

I would experience,

at least touch,

the last partition that separates me from endless motion,

from life and color and change.


But I can’t move beyond

that which holds me hostage

with cords and tethers that burn my consciousness,

searing stripes on my soul that remind me-


I am trapped

in this scorched wasteland.


The barrier is ME.



FEBRUARY


“Babe, you gotta talk to me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how,” he says. 


I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know. I don’t know.


You break the silence when you clear your throat,

shifting nervously in your chair.

I should say something,

but the words stick



in my mouth-



no, they never even made it that far.

Half ideas slowly swirl

in the dark recesses of my mind,



out of reach.



I try to look at you,

but the distance is too great,

the connection too painful.



I stare at your feet.



MARCH


Wooden blinds. Giant dressers. A soft bench at the end of the bed. They’re more real than I am. Definitely have more purpose. My life is pure misery. I just want it to stop. I don’t know what that means. But I want it to stop. I want to be gone. I want this to end. 


We’re talking in circles, you and I.

These words, conflicting words,

cut me like a knife.


I know I drew first blood, but you,

YOU thrust the blade in to the hilt

and pull it out for sport,

cheering wildly as my blood

surges onto the sand.


I’m losing it…

The arena closes in on me,

and I know I’ve lost the battle

with my mind.



APRIL


Everyone else is asleep, except me. I stare at the ceiling in terror as muscle spasms dance across my body. Toe. Cheek. Knee. Bicep. Throat. Calf. Lip. Quad. What the fuck is wrong with me? Do I have ALS or some strange degenerative disease coming on?


They say to new moms, “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” But I never sleep anymore. I just lay here and endure each incredibly long moment.


Darkness swallows light

until the full moon rises,

promising a change.



MAY


I’ve been quietly struggling to breathe for the past two hours, but now I’m scared for my life, which is ironic. I dig my fingernails into my husband’s arm as air wheezes through my constricted throat. He turns over and looks at me in alarm. My head throbs from straining to get air, and my arms hang limp and numb at my sides. He tries to help me, and together we panic.


Can I just cry now

to make it all better?

No.

The tears won’t come,

and they couldn’t cleanse my mind

of its distress, anyways.

The serrated edges of my hopelessness

have already done too much damage.

This knowledge adds another weight

to my heart.

It sags deeper within me,

inky black and constricted.

I feel the toxic bitterness

seeping out of it into

every fiber of my being.

Immobilization takes hold.

I

CAN’T

DO

THIS

ANY

MORE



JUNE


“Have you thought about harming yourself?” asks my online counselor.


We’re propped against pillows in bed, my husband sitting in on this session. I guess you could call this intervention.


I’m a coward, scared to admit the horrors that play on repeat through my mind, so I beat around the bush. “I mean, not exactly. But I don’t want to be here… I want to be somewhere else.”


But it’s enough. She says there’s no shame in getting help. She gives us numbers to call. A suicide hotline. Her number. She makes me write an escape plan so I can follow those steps when I’m thinking about IT.


I’m raging inside,

but my lips press tightly shut.

Breaking News: DAM BROKE.

The words spill forth rapidly

til energy ebbs to peace.



JULY


I flop on the most comfortable bed in the whole world and let out a gusty sigh. I can’t believe it. I made it out of the psych ward in one piece. It felt like jail for irresponsible, albeit mentally disturbed children, but they gave me medicine. I can already feel it working. It flows through my veins and smoothes the rough edges of my mind. My room is warm and quiet. I know I will sleep in peace.


Gray ash flutters past,

enticed to dance on the breeze.

There’s hope in motion.



AUGUST


“Good morning, Mommy!” a little voice chirps. I peek up at her and smile. What a beautiful little munchkin. I climb out of bed and follow her to the window where she’s watching a flock of black birds in our yard.


The coolness of the glass seeps into my palms, and I relish the sensation. “Should we go out and chase them?”


She squeals with delight, and for the first time in ages, I leave the bedroom willingly.


What once was trapped beneath the doughy mud

for winter upon winter until eons passed,

has been unearthed with utmost care.

Experts consulted and plotted the course,

giving delicate attention with pick and brush

until a Mammoth emerged,

tusks raised to the sky.

She trumpeted FREEDOM!

Glorious freedom at last

and filled her lungs with fluid air

that gave and gave, oh generous Mother Earth.

Unwilling to waste another moment,

she shook off the crusty mud

and trotted across a verdant land

where others of her kind laid entombed.




*Author’s Note: I wasn’t instantly “fixed,” but I began to climb a positive, incline slope toward a healthier me. With the exception of the first poem, the rest were all written in the months following my time in the psych ward, when the words came back to me. It felt incredibly cathartic to write about what I couldn’t express while trapped within my mind, so I decided to share them on my blog, Evening Poetry, to help others as well. 


My turning point came when I gave up control, threw up my hands, and said “I can’t do this anymore!” I had tried so hard to be okay, but my chemically imbalanced brain needed medicine. With Zoloft and the patience of my family, I made it through to the other side.


My hope for those of you out there who struggle with depression is that you will also push through the darkness and into the light by seeking help. It was a scary step for me, but it made all the difference. I realize that medicine is not the answer for everyone, and it could be as simple as sharing your struggles with a friend who can help shoulder the burden. Don’t give up the fight. 

March 11, 2021 14:03

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24 comments

14:34 Mar 11, 2021

Thank you for your bravery in sharing your struggles with postpartum depression. I completely relate, having had 3 children in 4 years. This made me remember some very dark days, made even darker by society telling you how happy you should be having a new baby (storks, showers, snuggles, pink and blue fairies). I remember reading Margaret Lucas Cavendish, one of the first British female writers from the 1600's, who recorded her experience with postpartum psychosis. She was raw and unapologetic about it. Sometimes being the mom sucks, and I f...

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Holly Fister
15:29 Mar 11, 2021

Ooo I’ll have to read what Cavendish had to say about it. That’s awesome she wrote about such an intense topic back when female writers weren’t taken seriously. Yeah, I was pretty scared and ashamed of what I was feeling, so my hope when I share my story is that it sheds light on postpartum depression and maybe helps someone feel less alone. Thanks for reading it, Deidra!

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16:51 Mar 11, 2021

Actually, I meant Margery Kempe from the 14th century. (Sorry. Been that kind of day.) Here's the excerpt (she was the first British female autobiographer!) https://www.chisd.net/cms/lib5/TX01917715/Centricity/Domain/1124/Margery%20Kempe-%20Text.pdf

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Holly Fister
16:53 Mar 11, 2021

Thank you so much for sharing that!

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Michael Boquet
18:39 Mar 11, 2021

Great opening! I love the voice you write in. Both authoritative and conversational at the same time. It really held my attention and sucked me into your narrative. A very inspiring story. Powerfully written. Thank you for sharing it.

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Holly Fister
18:43 Mar 11, 2021

Thank you, Michael!

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K. Antonio
14:45 Mar 11, 2021

What a brave and unapologetic piece of writing. I enjoyed this creative and poetic organization of the story. I'm not a women so I have no idea what it must be physically like to have postpartum depression. My mother though having 3 children knows it well. I was 22 when she last got pregnant and living with her for some time I noticed a lot of her struggle. I thought the piece to be well done, unique and had a wide display of raw emotions.

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Holly Fister
15:23 Mar 11, 2021

Thank you so much. I love sharing my story to help others because I didn’t understand what I was going through, and I think it should be talked about more. Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Zelda C. Thorne
07:52 Mar 17, 2021

Well done writing this, it must have been so difficult to express but you did it brilliantly. The mix of poetry and prose was very powerful.

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Holly Fister
12:03 Mar 17, 2021

Thank you Rachel! When I was writing the prose, I actually started twitching again 😯 so I guess I tapped into that anxiety through my memories. They stopped once I finished though!! Thanks for reading it!

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Zelda C. Thorne
13:22 Mar 17, 2021

I'm not surprised, glad the anxiety stopped! Bless you. I've found writing down my feelings in difficult moments cathartic, painful yes but it releases some of the inner tension.

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Holly Fister
13:59 Mar 17, 2021

I agree, it’s a healthy way to process stuff!

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Ellie Yu
14:51 Mar 14, 2021

You are such a brave person - both for having to go through this, and then sharing it in such beautiful writing. I’m so glad to know you’re doing better now, and I hope to see more of your gorgeous pieces in the future!

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Holly Fister
15:09 Mar 14, 2021

Thank you Ellie! I’m so thankful to be healthy now and glad I can share my experience with others. Thank you for reading it!

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Courtney C
00:49 Mar 13, 2021

I absolutely loved this. The raw emotions, the desolation and despair! Expertly captured, and you really cut to the bone on this story. The level of contrast and juxtaposition in this was really powerful, from the sparkly eyed child to the bleak mother, and the flowing prose to the direct, unapologetic poetry. Honestly, I have no real criticisms. A suggestion might using parentheses in your poem that repeats to give it more of an e.e. cumming's vibe, but overall: flawless.

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Holly Fister
01:07 Mar 13, 2021

YES I love it when people encourage me to read and learn from the masters of writing! I wasn’t familiar with his work, but after looking him up, I see how parentheses could work in that poem. I might do that. Thanks for commenting!

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Holly Fister
04:20 Mar 13, 2021

And thank you so much for your kind words! I should have said that first. ❤️

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Holly Fister
17:59 Mar 13, 2021

I couldn’t decide whether to include the parentheses at first since the poem was not originally written as a nod to e.e. Cummings, just my uneducated ramblings. But after reading his work, I think the parentheses really fit that poem and give it even more of a backward feel somehow. Thank you for the suggestion! How does it look to you?

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Courtney C
18:04 Mar 13, 2021

I really like it! I think it add something to the poem, having those repetitive echoes structured like that. Also, I know it's early days but I hope your story wins this week! I really loved it. Good luck

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Holly Fister
18:39 Mar 13, 2021

I like the term echoes, as you called them. And thank you, that would be really cool! I’ve never shortlisted before.

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Amanda Fox
20:42 Mar 12, 2021

This is so powerful! I can't imagine how difficult it is to have children in the first place - all that responsibility - and deal with your brain trying to sabotage you on top of that. Thank you for sharing - I'm delighted to know that this story - and YOUR story - have a happy ending.

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Holly Fister
21:18 Mar 12, 2021

Thank you Fawn! Looking back on that time (I got help 2.5 years ago) it doesn’t even seem real to me now. My thought patterns and physical state were so different than what they are now, and it makes me all the more thankful to be healthy. I love using perspective to keep a good attitude!

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H L McQuaid
09:12 Mar 12, 2021

The poetry was real and gritty and beautiful. The October poem had a lovely, sad cadence. But each had a powerful message. Thanks so much for sharing.

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Holly Fister
12:57 Mar 12, 2021

Thank you Heather! I’ll have to admit, I didn’t like revisiting the memories while writing this, but I’m glad I did.

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