That’s why I never told anyone when I had thoughts about driving into threes.

I was afraid of that possibility, of going back to some place like that. I’ll still occasionally have a fleeting memory and will do almost anything to forget it. Immediately. And I was afraid of losing my sons if I admitted my thoughts, my fears, the true extent of my anxiety. I found myself nodding along with the article, sympathizing with Bruno’s story.

A quote from the article lodged somewhere in my throat:

“I’ve had women come in here for a session and have said, ‘All I want you to do is give me the name of an adoption agency, because there’s got to be a better mother out there for this baby than me,’” she says.

I blinked back tears.

There were nights after our older son was born, when he was crying and I couldn’t figure out how to make him stop, that I wondered if we had made a horrible mistake. If I was somehow inherently flawed, if I would never be a good enough mother. I had thought that I had worked through all of my post-relinquishment issues, but the realities of motherhood coupled with sleep-deprivation threw me right back into a swirling pit of self-doubt.

“I couldn’t do it then, what makes me think I can do it now? A husband? A stable income? Stuff? What are those things if I can’t simply be a mother? What if there’s just something in me that will never get motherhood?”

Round and round I would go. Daytime. Nighttime. All day. Everyday. Whether he was crying or not. I was a failure. Plain and simple.

I was at least self aware enough to get myself into therapy and, thankfully, she had some understanding about what postpartum depression was, how to handle it and how the grief and loss associated with relinquishment might exacerbate the issues at hand. I will be forever grateful for her insight, her patience and her ability to help me get outside of my own head.

I still worry, of course, that I can’t be honest about anything I’m thinking or feeling or dealing with at any given time. It’s not as if I feel like a perfect parent on any given day. I still struggle with that nagging self-doubt. I still wonder if I’ll ever be good enough. I still pray that somehow I’ll be able to let go of it all and just be their mom. I still worry that if I step out of line, at all, I won’t be given a fair chance because — after all — I’m one of those women who gave up a baby. I was less than, a risk, once before, so why wouldn’t I be now?

Logically, I see the flaw in these thoughts, especially the last train. But others — sometimes the ones that count the most — don’t see it differently than my illogical thought process. I wish they would and maybe someday they will, but for now that fear is a partial reality.

It is my dream, of course, that someday a clinic (or, let’s get big and say clinics — plural) will exist for mothers and fathers who have relinquished their children. For whatever reason. In whatever circumstance. We want to understand how perinatal mood disorders alter a mother’s ability to function. I want people to understand how relinquishment and (for the mothers, at least) perinatal mood disorders might also have an effect on their daily function. Forever. I know the postpartum depression clinics are needed. I see this as a move in the right direction. But I can only hope that someday the mothers who have relinquished will also be seen as worthy of mental health care.

Until then, I write in hopes that some mother won’t feel as crazy and as alone as I did.

For more about the clinic, hit up Postpartum Progress’s post on the matter.

It is not a secret that I dealt with postpartum depression after the boys. I have talked in detail about how I was totally side-swiped after our oldest son was born. I have talked less, however, of the near incapacitation after our youngest son was born.

I couldn’t talk about it while I was going through it. I physically couldn’t type the words. I could barely acknowledge what I was going through emotionally. I was simply unable to explain what I was feeling, what I was feeling in the deep recesses of my mind, my soul. It was a scary spot to be in for me, someone who is usually good with the words.

Even after the dark veil lifted and I began participating in life again, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about what I had experienced in specific detail.

Because I judged myself. And I was embarrassed. And I was scared.

The summer between my junior and senior years of college, I found myself hospitalized. My eating disorder had hit it’s lowest point, and in some still blurry string of events, too many diet pills were consumed. I spent time in the ICU before spending a week in a place that still haunts me to this day. The things I saw are not things I care to remember.

And so, when I found myself considering driving into trees after my youngest son was born, I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell my husband. I didn’t tell my mom. I didn’t tell the friends that I had met in the wake of my youngest’s birth. I didn’t even tell my therapist. No one.

But every time I drove past a tree or a pole or a brick wall, I thought about veering the vehicle off the road. Just a quick snap of the wrist and it would all be over. It would look like an accident. In an area prone to deer and other wildlife on even the most major of highways, no one would have thought differently. Maybe the car had malfunctioned. Or maybe I was distracted by a ringing phone. It would have been a mystery.

I’d like to tell you that I only had those feelings when the kids weren’t with me. Or, maybe even only when they were crying while I was driving. But it was every time I passed something solid. Every time I saw a tree, I wanted it to end. Every time I saw a roadside memorial cross, I wanted it to be mine. I just wanted it to end.

What, exactly?

The fear. The anxiety. The black cloud of doom, worthlessness, nothingness. The self-loathing for my past choices. The all-consuming grief that left me sobbing in the shower in the middle of the night. The doubt; oh, the doubt that ate at me day and night. Every time I raised my voice to my older son, that doubt poked at my heart as a reminder. “You’re no good at this. See? No good at all.” Every time I felt touched out at the end of an all day breastfeeding frenzy when my youngest was going through a growth spurt, that doubt mocked me. “Annoyed by the touch of your own child? What kind of mom are you?” Every time I had the thought of driving into a tree… “See? Told you.”

The driving into tress phase didn’t last too long. It was the rock-bottom point of that bout of postpartum depression. I upped my therapy during that time, but I didn’t tell my therapist. I wanted to. I probably needed to. But I couldn’t.

That same doubt that poked and prodded at me kept me from seeking the full help I needed. I didn’t know if my therapist would recognize me as a sane woman experiencing severe depressive thoughts or if she would write me off and send me away. I didn’t know if being sent away would mean losing my children. Logically, I am aware that my husband would have had them in his care, but my thoughts were — obviously — not logical at the time. My biggest fear, to this day, is that I will lose my children in some way. An accident. An illness. A kidnapping. Or my having done something — or someone perceiving my having done something — that causes them to be removed. Admitting that I frequently thought of ramming my vehicle into trees didn’t seem safe.

And had my kids been taken away? I would have ended it. In seconds. I have no doubt.

I survived that dark, scary, absolutely mind-numbingly frightening time. By the grace of God and some other miracles still unknown. I have become, or, maybe rather, I always was an amazing mother to my boys. I don’t imagine that I love my children more than a mother who has not been through the depths of hell, but I do feel that I’m so very, very lucky to be here as their mom. There were days when I didn’t think I’d still be here, arguing with them over whether or not they have to finish their zucchini and re-tucking them in at night with little kisses and whispers of love. I feel so incredible grateful to be here, with them, now.

I have been writing this post for nearly two years. There are six or seven drafts of it in my account, all abandoned because of the shame, embarrassment and left over fear that still lingers when these nightmarish memories pop into my mind. I decided to schlub my way through this post, which took three days to get through, because I am honored and, dare I say, excited to be participating in a very cool thing at BlogHer ’10. Katherine Stone of Postpartum Progress and Casey of Moosh In Indy are putting together a photo of PPD survivors. I will be there. With bells on. (Okay, no bells.) And if you have survived postpartum depression, even if you didn’t dream of driving into trees, I encourage you to be there too. Let’s show the world — and maybe even me — that we have nothing to be ashamed of.

At this time, 9:35 on the third year of his birth, we were relaxing into our huge suite. My Husband was showering and I was spending some time alone with the little baby that was my newborn son. His eyes were mine. His face was mine. He was mine. I remember being overwhelmed with that concept, the concept of mine. I had gazed in eyes that were mine before but the child, herself, had not been mine in the end. And to look at him and know, without a doubt, that he was coming home with me was so amazing… and so scary… that my breath caught in my throat and my heart stopped and time stood still.

That feeling of “mine” still strikes me from time to time. I’ll be doing something very grown up and motherly and I’ll stop and think, “Wait? This is my life? These are my children? When did this happen?” In those moments, I realize that these two little boys are, in fact, mine. I am their mother, their mom, their mommy. I make the decisions. I soothe the boo-boos and hurt feelings. I plan the birthday parties and pay for the overly expensive cake. They rely on me for everything. At night I tuck them into their beds. And in the morning they wake me long before I’m ready.

It took me some time to grow into that after my oldest son was born. Perhaps it takes all parents some time to adjust to that reality even if they have never relinquished a child for adoption. I’ll never be able to personally attest to the differences because I can only live the one reality. I do believe, however, that I had more panic over someone taking him, especially while we were in the hospital. When he was taken in the morning for tests, I kept staring at the clock. I asked my nurse when he was coming back. My heart was tight in my chest. When they brought him back, I could finally breathe again. I didn’t want others to hold him (except for my Husband whom I trusted to give him back). I believe some of that fear attributed to that bout of postpartum depression. I was so fearful and anxious that something would happen to take my child away.

All the same, here I am, three years later. Another boy later. Another mine later. And I’m still caught off guard by all of it at times. I’ve been entrusted to raise these two boys. To help them learn to be great men. And the whole idea of it is so big and large that sometimes I feel just as overwhelmed as I did when I was making my decision to relinquish. What makes me think I’m a good enough parent to do any and/or all of this? I get into this cycle of self-doubt, pointing out any time I’ve lost my patience or forgotten to brush their teeth in the morning or generally dropped the ball as a parent.

And then I remember that all parents are human. We’ll raise these kids up just fine.

Somehow.

Munchkin’s Mom called me two weeks ago. Simply because it had snowed that day and she thought of me. This, in turn, warmed my heart and soul. To be thought of, by anyone, when something as magical as a snowfall occurs is quite possibly one of the biggest honors in life.

Snow, for me, is the most amazing and magical thing in the world aside from birth. It is a birth itself, or, rather, a rebirth. Every winter, the world is washed clean from the brown, ugliness of leaf-stripped autumn. The world once again sparkles with hope and even as adults we find ourselves believing in what might happen as opposed to wallowing in what never does.

The magic of this season comes at a time when I fully feel myself finally exiting the emotional cave of this past year. I’ll knock on wood as I type this sentence but I feel that my last journey with postpartum depression is drawing to an end. I am not always patient with my children but I have so much more patience than six months, four months or even two months ago. My thoughts have returned to their normal anxious state instead of their overly panicked and paranoid state. And, shock of all shocks, I can honestly say that I feel happy right now. I could use a nap, sure, but, folks, I said happy!

Is it merely the season? I think not.

Or…

I hope not.

This is where I am regarding PPD right now. I’ve got my daytime anxiety basically in check, if you will. I have moments where the elephant on my chest won’t really move. But, nights are hard. I want to sleep. And stay asleep. And get rested up for the day.

What ranks as the worst night time internal drama is when the memories of relinquishment come back to haunt. I don’t even bother going back to sleep. I don’t think about those days when I’m in my busy, wakeful hours. But at night, they come to me, in vivid detail. Wallpaper on the walls. How the clock would make this noise in the minute before a new hour. That smell. While I’m glad that I can remember, right now I don’t need to remember. I need to focus on being healthy and complete… and remembering everything I have lost by placing my daughter for adoption makes me feel everything but complete.

Sleep. I miss it.

I find it so hard to write in a paper journal. Not just physically, but mentally. It is hard to write for “just me.” As a teen, my Mom found one of my (umpteen) journals and used stuff that I had written against me. From that point on, I began censoring what I wrote in my journals. And what’s the point in that? If you can’t be honest in your most personal of spaces, what is the ultimate point? It won’t be a true reflection of what you felt or what you went through so why bother?

And for years, I didn’t bother.

I’ve been writing online for years and years. And years. And some more years. Once truly open with my words, I’ve been censoring more and more. In part because of the unethical actions of my agency, in part because I don’t want the world to see me struggle and in part out of respect for other parties. But censoring gets old. It’s hard to write, even in generalities, when you have to debate every other word, whether it will be used against you in a negative fashion or if you will hurt someone’s feelings. Quite honestly, not many people extend me the same sort of respect for my feelings and it feels cumbersome to always to the same for the world at large and just not those whom are important in my day-to-day life.

But writing in a paper journal again has been a challenge. My voice on the internet, though chronicling my/our journey/journeys, is an outward voice. I often talk to my readers. (HI READERS!) As I said, I do censor myself to some degree online, more and more these days. So when I opened that journal and stared at the blank page, I didn’t know what to write. How honest did I want to be? How deep into the details did I want to get? What if someone read it? Of course, the only persons with actual access to such a thing are my Husband who a) respects my privacy and b ) already knows everything I’ve written (thus far). I mean, my kids could find it but their reading comprehension at this point is rather low unless it’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Beyond that, depending on future contents, thus far I would have no problem sharing my struggles with my children. They need to learn what Mommy has been through in order to learn their own stories.

But it’s so hard to be raw sometimes. The words I use are words I don’t want to think about or admit to the general public. No, not foul words. Big words. Like depression. And anger. And hopelessness. Yeah, didn’t know that, now did you? I should be free to write since it’s just me, my own eyes, reading the pages. But what if I don’t want to know for certain how I feel? As long as it isn’t in black and white on a page, it isn’t real, right? As long as I can’t see the words, the problem doesn’t exist, right?

But it was cathartic all the same. I needed to get a lot of stuff out before my therapy appointment this afternoon or I wasn’t going to be able to say any of it out loud. In fact, I’m not quite sure I can say it all out loud even now and so the journal is taking a trip with me to the therapist’s office this afternoon. She can read it while I nurse the little one and gear up for her myriad of questions. So much has changed since my last appointment. My world is crumbling and I’m trying to claw my way out of the rubble.

I see some spots of light but just can’t reach…

Perhaps soon I’ll form some more coherent thoughts on this and write a stellar post. But for now, this is my train of thought:

1. Subsequent pregnancies were emotionally triggering for me. I was constantly awash in memories and flashbacks with both pregnancies after placement.

2. I’m very, very hard on myself with relation to my mothering and parenting abilities and I attribute this to the guilt and anger I have with myself regarding placement. This lack of wiggle room for mistakes really leads to a generally depressed state of being.

3. That said, I’m also a pretty awesome mother and that realization often makes me kick myself in the butt.

4. Cuddling little babies, mine or someone else’s, inevitably brings up emotions. And not always warm fuzzy ones.

5. I’m always on super-alert-aware-mode that she’s not here. It’s really never been “this” bad. It could be other stuff going on in my life as well. I don’t know.

All this said, yeah, I’ve got some bummed out feelings that I’m dealing with in private. (Read: with my therapist!) I don’t know if one has caused the other or if they’re just semi-related or not at all. I don’t really have any answers. All I know is that this adjustment has been really, really hard on me. I’ve been left feeling like a failure and I can’t shake that feeling. It has negatively affected my entire life, even things that you wouldn’t think would be touched by either PPD or adoption issues.

I’m thankful for my Husband though. He has been so patient, so encouraging and so loving through all of this muck. Without him… well… let’s not go there today.

I should really form coherent thoughts on the subject. But I think I need to get through it first. And then. Maybe.

But oh, oh, did I try to be brave. I only cried in the privacy of my room or with TheHusbandMan. I attempted to do things like have a normal Christmas with family members. I put on a smile during these social outings, smiling politely when people commented on how quickly my body had bounced back. They didn’t see the stretch marks hidden underneath winter clothes; permanent reminders to everything that I had lost.

I do, however, remember hitting my own breaking point. I don’t remember the actual trigger. I don’t remember the actual length of time. (However, I would assume it was within three months of her birth because it was before I was working.) I hit a wall. I couldn’t function anymore. I hadn’t been leaving our apartment. I hadn’t been showering. Or eating. And it all just came to a head. I ended up doing something that I’m not proud of and feel rather sheepish in admitting. But hey, I’ve written a lot of personal stuff here and those who are going to judge me are going to judge me no matter what I write. So, what the heck. I ended up resorting to an old (poor) coping technique and cutting my arms. Thankfully, TheHusbandMan was a nosy one, even then, and intervened. While I did not seek professional help, TheHusbandMan and I began taking long walks during which we talked about the issues that were bothering me.

Looking back, I feel some anger mixed with my confusion. What, exactly, fell under the heading of normal postpartum emotional fluctuation? What fell under the heading of normal adoption grief and loss? And what fell under the heading of “too far” or “too much?” What should have been a red flag? Should my denial of emotion, shown by the brave face I was putting on for family and friends, been a sign of things to come? Or do all birth mothers go through some sort of denial phase? I can’t answer any of these questions. Why? That’s where the anger comes in. I can’t answer any of these questions about what was normal and what was too much and when it crossed the line… because I wasn’t counseled in anything involving postpartum mood disorders, normal postpartum fluctuations or anything about adoption grief and loss. Okay, I lied. I was told, “You’ll be sad for awhile but then you’ll “move on.”" What good did that do me? Shouldn’t I have been given information? By someone? The agency? My doctors?

Shouldn’t someone have said, “These are the warning signs for something more than normal. Please call if you are experiencing anything.” Instead, my agency dropped off the planet as soon as I signed the Termination of Parental Rights. Having called on a weekly basis and twice while I was in the hospital, I was shocked by their sudden lack of interest. The only thing my doctor at the hospital discussed with me was birth control. (You know, because all mothers who relinquish are whores!) I was left to figure it all out of myself. I didn’t do a good job.

And so, I share this story, however, embarrassing it is to out myself, so that other birth mothers might know some things, might know more than I did when I went into the whole experience, blind and naive. Today, on the BlogHer Blog Act for Mothers Act Blog Day, I share this story so that mothers who are considering relinquishment might have a resource. I didn’t have any clue what to expect. I didn’t know anyone who had placed. I didn’t have the internet at that time. I had an agency who didn’t care a lick about me once the child was placed. I had a doctor that didn’t know what to do with me and just wanted me gone.

The truth is, if I had been honest with myself, I would have seen myself heading down a road that wasn’t normal, no matter what experiences or hormonal imbalances I had just gone through. Instead, I didn’t want people to know I was suffering inside. The agency had told me that I would just “move on.” I wasn’t moving on so I thought something was wrong with me. Instead, the agency did me a huge disservice by minimizing the pain that birth mothers experience as a result of placement. Because I was experiencing something different than what they had said I would, I felt like a failure. And I don’t like to feel like a failure. Ever.

I want all expectant mothers and new birth mothers who are reading this to know that if something doesn’t feel right, you need to call someone. If your agency has dropped off the face of the Earth and your doctor doesn’t know how to handle you, please reach out to other birth mothers, even via the internet. Someone can help you find resources and talk you through your emotions while you wait for an appointment with a qualified therapist. You do not have to do this alone. Mothers who have been there and done this would be more than willing to help you. I promise.

For birth mothers who are considering building their families (by parenting another child), I encourage you to read my post over on the birth/first parent blog on the subject today. BigBrother’s birth threw me for an even bigger loop.

Also, I encourage other first mothers to share their stories today as it is the BlogHers Act Blog Day for Mothers Act. Be sure to tag everything with Mothers Act so you can be found by all types of mothers!