No One Should Sing the Baby Blues Alone

I had three children in a little less than four years. To say it wasn't easy is an understatement. But I had it easier than a lot of women do. Easier than one of my closest friends did.

My friend, Hannah, more sister than friend, was one of the ones who had it much rougher postpartum than I did.

When her daughter was born, her then-husband traveled a lot for work. She was left on her own with a toddler and a newborn, over seven hours from the village she'd hoped to have help her raise her children. I was closest to her and I was over an hour away, with young children of my own.

Hannah and I had been friends for many years at that point, long before we met our husbands or had kids. We'd seen one another through all of life's ups and downs, but who knew motherhood would bring us even closer together.

I suffered the 'baby blues', but managed to dodge my mother's family history of depression and evaded postpartum depression. Hannah, unfortunately, wasn't as lucky.

With her husband away so often, and working a lot when he was home, postpartum depression hit Hannah like a skid of diapers. She spent too much time alone with her children and not enough time on her own.

She never had a break.

I tried to visit as often as I could, but my own young family made that more difficult than it needed to be, as young families are wont to do.

Instead of in-person visits, Hannah and I shared countless tear-stained telephone conversations. Panicked moments where I listened to her struggle with breastfeeding, toddler tantrums, and the stressed life with a newborn and a toddler. Frustrations welling up and one, or the other, of us vented, ranted, and raved about what was overwhelming us at that moment in time.

I never hesitated to answer my phone. Never considered leaving her on her own as I struggled with the stress in my own life. Her number would appear on my call display and I would stop everything to talk to her.

As she did for me. We were one another's lifelines for a few years when our children were young. Then our lives diverged and we drifted apart.

It wasn't something we'd planned, but it happens. Even in the most dedicated of friendships. As always, when we reconnected after a year or so of absence, we slipped right back into our easygoing, loving sisterhood.

I'd not realized how much I missed her, missed us, until she was back in my life.

During the course of one of our conversations, she relayed a discussion she'd had with her daughter.

Her daughter, now entering puberty, had started a dialogue about mental health with Hannah and they discussed her postpartum depression during her children's early years.

I was so proud of her for not hiding what she lived through as a young mother.

It wasn't easy for Hannah to discuss her struggles, especially after having a few so-called 'friends' walk away from her because they thought she was playing it up. Playing the victim for sympathy.

Hannah never pretended any part of her illness. Her only pretense was when she put the walls up and acted like everything was okay. It wasn't.

Everyone deserves to have someone in their corner

Living so far from her parents and siblings isolated Hannah, but myself and another friend, Jillian, were her life preservers when she was drowning in her daily life. Happily so.

One thing Hannah told her daughter made my breath hitch and my eyes well up. She was open and honest about her struggles and told her daughter Jillian and I saved her family.

If it wasn't for you and Jillian, I wouldn't have my children with me and I would most likely be dead by now.

I can't even write this now, years later, without crying. Her words moved me that much. I still don't see how I made that much of an impact merely by being on the other end of the phone, but I did.

And I would do it all over again. In a heartbeat.

I understood the reference Hannah made. I remember talking her down 'off a ledge' one night, convincing her NOT to drop her two young children off at the local hospital and drive off. She was ready to abandon them because she felt ineffectual as a parent and incapable of being who they needed her to be.

I knew, even if she didn't then, that no one could love them like she did. She loved them enough to let them go. It was my job, and Jillian's, to make sure she never did.

She'd had enough, which I understood, but I also knew she'd regret it in the morning. With every fibre of her being, she'd regret it. We were on the phone for hours that night. I talked to her as she fed them and put them to bed. Then we talked some more until Jillian called her from across the country and we said goodbye so they could visit, too.

Hannah and her now-ex-husband only had two children. Her second marriage was everything the first wasn't, but they enjoyed having a blended family with older children and decided to not add to their family. Hannah told me she didn't want to slip back into that postpartum depression she'd suffered in her first marriage and I didn't blame her.

I understood.

My postpartum struggles may not have been as extreme as Hannah's, but holding her hand while she struggled showed me just a fraction of what she'd endured.

All I wanted for her was peace of mind and good mental health. There was no judgment on my part. Never had been and never would be. Only love and support as any good sister-from-another-mister would give her.

That's all any of us can ask for, isn't it? Love, support, and understanding.

Too often, mothers are judged harshly and unfairly by others. And, even more often, by other mothers. We all need to remember that every mother, since the beginning of time, has suffered a form of postpartum mental illness. Be it postpartum blues, depression or, God forbid, psychosis.

For that reason alone, we need to check in on each other and make sure we're okay. Like Hannah and I did for one another. Every day. For three years. I am honored she trusted me enough to call me when she felt like she was losing the battle and thrilled to have helped her navigate that storm.

As a mother of seven, ages three to seventeen, I am open and honest with my struggles as a woman, parent, wife, friend, sister, and writer. It is difficult to bridge all the pieces of my life together, to be everything everyone needs me to be. All I can hope for is that I can be what I need me to be, then everything else will, hopefully, fall into place.

Hopefully. It doesn't always work that way, but often enough to not make me give up.

Be the reason they survive the fire

Be understanding of other mothers. Of anyone you see struggling in life. No one knows what another goes through unless they open up to you. To accept someone, flaws and all, encourages them to open up to you. To air their difficulties and seek the help they need.

It is difficult enough to suffer through mental illness of any kind, damn near impossible when you feel as if you need to suffer in silence. Alone in a time when you need not only a village but a damn city to help shore up your defences.

Don't be the reason someone succumbs to the flames of difficulty, be the reason they survive the fire.