Dark Chocolate

I didn't like Dr. Red. She was pretty, unprofessional, and impatient. Being that she was the only affordable psychiatrist in town, I didn't have a choice. The appointment was scheduled for 9:15 a.m. I arrived at the tall, beige building, just a block from my house, two minutes early. I carried my journal, as I always did, in case I spotted a Corvus brachyrhynchos—The American Crow. I had a fascination with drawing those birds. They were my favorite. No matter which direction they looked, their profile never failed to be anything less than elegant.

The waiting room was dull and quiet. A large portrait of a black football player hung next to the empty reception desk with a quote underneath that read: "We are all a little broken. But last time I checked, broken crayons still color the same." Well, this crayon is too broken to color the same. I thought. I reached for the box tucked beneath the diaper bag in the stroller's large storage basket. With no one around to judge me, I opened the freshly made six-pack of Krispy Kreme original glazed donuts I had brought along and ate every single one on the spotless brown leather couch while Emily slept.

By 9:45 a.m., a young male receptionist emerged from Dr. Red's office. Kiara? It's Khee-Ra, I corrected. He apologized for the long wait and the mispronunciation of my name. Dr. Red was late …not him. SHE should apologize.

No wonder this place was affordable.

Just before entering, a man stormed out of her office. Mr. Peeping Tom's face was flushed with desperation and shame. His eye contact was as intense and uncomfortable as the scotch that reeked and seeped from his pores. A hard guy to miss. He was ugly and had an abnormally big belly. So big, that he most likely couldn't see his penis. Life can be brutally unfair. And there I was, just another case, ready to confront my own rath of unfairness. The receptionist watched him leave and threw a side eye at me that screamed "Weirdo" as he held the door open for me to enter.

As I stepped into Dr. Red's office, she sat at her desk, with her back toward me, facing the window. She sipped from her red coffee mug, jotting down some notes in a large folder and shaking her head in dismay. Her hair was blonde and braided into a bun. Even from the back, you could see that her silhouette was perfectly formed. Her shoulders were pulled slightly back and relaxed. She didn't have a hunch, and her head sat perfectly high even while writing. Just from her posture, anyone could see she was pretty. The type of pretty you'd assume God was in a great mood while carving her.

Beside her, another portrait hung on the wall with another motivational quote by John Milton, which read "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

I am in hell. I responded to the quote.

As I sat in the chair, waiting for Dr. Red to finish her notes and acknowledge me, I opened my journal and began to write about the unprofessionalism I was witnessing. As I doodled and wrote, the small bird sketches began to twist into odd shapes. Their forms mutated into distorted, warped versions of myself doing awful things. Random bold letters rose and tried to form into something vile and incomprehensible. My spine felt like it had met with an iceberg, so cold that the gooseflesh sliced through my skin. The evil narrator controlled and tormented my days and nights. It played games that I wanted to escape. It wanted to come to life, jump out, and rip us all to pieces, all of us.

Why me?

The distress of this question reverberated through my brain in shock waves. I closed the journal, squeezed my eyes shut, and prayed that when I looked back up, it would be Dr. Red and no one else. God…help me. Please.

Dr. Red stopped writing. The cold room grew warmer, and the bright, warm rays from the early April sun seeped through the heavy curtains and fell onto Emily, glistening on her angelic features.

Emily let out a coo that most would say is adorable. For me, that coo sound was a nightmare. A reminder that she existed and that they would hear her. A reminder that they had come to torment me and harm us both. Dr. Red had then slightly swiveled her chair and glanced at the beautiful, healthy-looking 3-month-old baby girl strapped in the pink car seat beside my feet.

She closed the thick folder, pushed it to the side, and opened another. A thin file. My file. She finally faced me, but had no direct eye contact. As she skimmed the completed form, she adjusted her red glasses and chair and said,

"So, when did these symptoms begin?"

“A couple of weeks ago.”

"Have you had thoughts of harming yourself, others, or the baby since the birth?" she pressed.

“I… no… I'm not sure. I think…" My voice trembled with trepidation.

A light knock interrupted our session. The receptionist entered to inform Dr. Red of her next client's "urgent" arrival. She nodded and waved him off as she continued skimming through my file.

"OK, Leslie, I am going to write you a prescription for an antidepressant. It'll help with the postpartum depression that you are experiencing. Make an appointment with the receptionist on your way out. I would like to see you next week, OK?"

I nodded an uncomfortable yes.

As Dr. Red turned to write the prescription, the grotesque face appeared again, contorting and twisting on the back of her shirt. It whispered wicked things, narrating dreadful steps I should take to rid myself of that beautiful baby and myself. She handed me the prescription with a cold politeness and sent me off with a “Have a good day," while welcoming her next desperate client.

I walked out of that place feeling emptier and more lost than I had walked in. Why do I need this medication? Why was this happening to me? I wanted the pregnancy. I was happy and had a normal and healthy labor. Yet, there I was, parked in front of the pharmacy, ready to pick up the meds while fighting for the strength to pick my daughter up without feeling terrified by her presence.

The antidepressant came with an uninviting warning label listing every possible "symptom" I would likely be experiencing in the next couple of weeks. Two nights in, and the side effects disabled me. I had locked myself in the bathroom, trembling with an unbearable urge to commit unspeakable acts.

I wanted, no, needed to slam my head into the wall, but couldn't. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but wouldn't. I was convinced that a monster had grown inside me. It wanted out, and I was the only one fighting to keep it contained. I promised my Emily that no matter what, I would keep her safe. I couldn't promise that I would be able to keep myself safe. If ridding myself entirely meant killing that monster, then so be it. As long as she was safe. That was all I wanted.

The following month consisted of an ongoing battle with intrusive thoughts and unwelcome and mortifying urges. It reached a point where everything was a blur. What and who was real, and what wasn't? Was I me? Or that thing? Was I crazy? I thought I was. Was I going to make it? Or was I going to end up like Lina, a sweet classmate of mine back in college who left her eight-month-old with nothing but a suicide letter. A mother who suffered from Postpartum Psychosis.

The pills that Dr. Red had prescribed to me didn't work. I felt they had made it worse. Dr. Red was no help. My family was no help. My husband worked too much to even notice something was off. Growing up Hispanic, topics like depression, anxiety, or therapy were taboo, dismissed as weaknesses, and ignored as irrelevant.

One pouring night, after rocking Emily to sleep on my breast. I found myself in the bathroom and completely disconnected from reality. I couldn't remember how I had even gotten there. I raced towards Emily's crib to ensure she was OK and found her safe and sound asleep. Feeling relieved from seeing her safe, I still crumbled inside, knowing I had reached the lowest point. That thing inside of me was stronger, and soon it would take over me.

I jumped in the car and contemplated the idea of driving that monster off into the abyss, where it would drown with all of its evil. But then, my journal caught my eye, lying there on the passenger-side floor. Finally, a normal thought. I needed to prove that I was real. I needed to write to myself before it was too late,

I opened and flipped through the first few pages, mostly scribbled drawings and quotes. Then I saw it, proof of the monster that lived and lurked in the crevices of my soul. My handwriting used as a mask to express its distorted and disgusting ideas. Despite the horror, I found a page with a message I had WRITTEN TO MYSELF IN ALL CAPS. A way to distinguish who I was and to help me get back to reality and beat what was haunting me. Beneath the message to myself was a drawing of the Corvus brachyrhynchos. The best drawing I have done thus far. This one was the only one with the American crow flying high, its wings spread wide.

I jolted back inside the house, hopped on my laptop, and researched and wrote out every natural remedy I could find for postpartum depression in bold, capital letters. In a matter of days, I searched for how to increase serotonin and endorphins. I learned and discovered that eliminating processed sugars, exercising daily, support, and seeking proper therapy as a combination all helped with mental illness. With this information, I prepared a thirty-day experiment in which I filled my kitchen with foods that boosted mental health. Black coffee, blueberries, sardines, and my favorite, Dark Chocolate. I exercised for an hour every day and slowly cut off the antidepressant under the supervision of a kindhearted therapist who specialized in postpartum.

After about 34 days, the darkness that warped around my mind had significantly lessened, having continued this routine for eight months. I felt healed. I was myself and happy again. Since then, I have had two more daughters and never again experienced postpartum depression with any of them. I never saw that grotesque face again. I no longer heard a narration of unspeakable things or felt any horrible urges. All I hear and feel now are the beautiful and serene sounds of all three of my daughters loud and whimsical waves of laughter and their whispers of love and affection. And today, the drawing of the American Crow flying high is now a portrait mounted on my living room wall, accompanied by one of my favorite quotes underneath it.

"Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."

-Confucius